Bedazzled

2008

2007-12-28T20:08:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-22T16:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-12T16:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-03T03:48:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-09-26T21:28:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-09-11T21:29:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-04T20:51:00.001-05:00

"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...

2007-06-20T12:55:00.001-05:00

...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

2007-05-31T14:58:00.001-05:00

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

2007-05-28T20:08:00.001-05:00

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

2007-05-24T10:50:00.001-05:00

"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?

2007-05-20T16:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-16T15:04:00.000-05:00

Q & A

2007-05-08T13:24:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-04-30T19:37:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-27T15:49:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-19T19:40:00.000-05:00

(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

2007-04-11T03:20:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-03T22:13:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-28T17:16:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-03-19T02:54:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-14T07:14:00.000-05:00

EYE ROLL EARNERS

2007-03-06T04:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-01T03:13:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-25T22:18:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-20T04:24:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-16T17:31:00.000-05:00

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::

2007-02-13T04:30:00.000-05:00

STONE COLD HEART

2007-02-10T16:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-08T16:38:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-05T14:55:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-01T20:37:00.000-05:00

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)

2007-01-29T14:52:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-26T23:16:00.001-05:00

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

2007-01-23T17:46:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-21T17:07:00.000-05:00

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

THE BATH

2007-01-18T19:48:00.000-05:00

Torrents of rapture
weave through my thirsty body
liquid heat embrace

~Nikki~

I so do love a nice, hot bath. Preferably with fragrant bubbles. Submerging myself so I can feel the weight of the water pressing on me. Low lighting, perhaps only with lit candles. Soothing moments spent in an environment where nothing matters and nothing troubles. Sheer delight.

"The Temple of Diana is in the vicinity of the fountain, which has given rise to the conjecture that it originally constituted a portion of the ancient baths." ~Marguerite Gardiner

REJUVENATED

2007-01-16T00:46:00.000-05:00

Whether or not this painting o'mine I just completed is any good is almost unimportant to me. Two reasons why that is the case. First one being that I had never before done a landscape scene using pastels instead of acrylics or watercolors. This was like a test for me to see how I would go about creating one. The second is where my thoughts took me while painting it.

I believe I have figured out how to use the pastels when painting a landscape. I am eager to attempt a completely different type of one soon. Maybe one with trees and a stream. Maybe a field of flowers. Maybe one more contemporary and far less structured. I will have to see where my imagination takes me.

As for my thoughts during the creation of this painting, I loved what I was thinking. Most of the paintings I do usually have so much "more" to them than anyone else can see or than I am capable of expressing with whichever medium I use. What I kept thinking over and over is that even though something is timeworn and perhaps appearing somewhat decrepit (in this case that would be the barns), there is life brought to it with the emergence of something new (the hollyhocks). Before I painted the flowers, the barns stood out as being dilapidated but still sturdy enough to be useful. The cracks and holes in the wood were very prominent. Yet once the hollyhocks began to be added, a softness crept into the scene. They seemed to revitalize the barns with their freshness. I envisioned a farmer's wife planting those flower seeds. Perhaps she wanted to add a touch of beauty to the plain view of the barns and the overgrown grass. Still, it was the way the barns became transformed with the addition of new life that stayed with me.

It made me realize that no matter how old people become and how their ages might show in their faces or in the way they move, there is always some source of beauty that can come to them in any number of ways and rejuvenate them. Restore their energy and sense of purpose and soften the passage of time.

Ah, I think I think too much sometimes.

"We must always change, renew, rejuvenate ourselves; otherwise we harden." ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

THE WINDOW

2007-01-07T20:18:00.000-05:00

Above my kitchen sink is a window. At no time am I ever at the sink when I do not look through that window. Be it early morning or the dead of nite, I look. Sometimes there is specifically something I am hoping to see. Other times, I simply gaze at my backyard and the sky. No homes are behind us, so it is rare that I ever see people when I look.

About a month or so ago, I noticed a crack had appeared in the right side of the window. It was quite small...perhaps an inch long. I immediately pondered how it had happened. They are double glass windows, and the tiny crack is on the inside pane of glass. We had had a very short period of time when the weather was frigid. I wondered if my penchant for sliding open the window a wee bit to always allow fresh air to enter my home had somehow been too much for the glass to handle on those bitterly cold days.

Instead of checking into having the glass repaired, I let it go. It was such a small blemish, after all.

During these past weeks, I have watched the crack grow. It is stretching across the right side of the window. The line is not straight; it has angles to it. Zigzagging across the pane.

I touch it to find out if it is in danger of shattering. It seems sturdy. There are no protruding edges on the crooked line. It quietly reaches farther and farther up and across my window. It does not distort the view I have of the trees I have planted in my yard, nor does it interfere with my view of the grass and the sky.

It simply is.

And it makes me think.

Maybe we are a lot like that cracked glass. We experience times when we feel a little broken. A chink in our armor, so to speak. Other life events take place, and some cause us to break slightly more. We may stay even for a time, then another episode of concern or worry or pain occurs, and our fragility causes the crack to expand. Our emotions may seem jagged, much like the uneven line on the pane of glass. We fret. We wring our hands wondering what we should do to "fix" ourselves.

Meanwhile, life goes on and the crack seems to stop growing. It is still there, but remains static. We feel sturdy, strong once again. We might even convince ourselves that it will pose no problems for us. Until the day arrives when something catastrophic takes place. Suddenly, we are surrounded by shards of broken glass. Shattered beyond repair. It might take years for that moment to come. Or it might never come.

We never really know, do we?

"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." ~Anton Chekhov

MINUTIAE

2007-01-06T01:05:00.000-05:00

I have been robbed. This is winter. Have I seen the snowfall that winter is supposed to bring? Nope. Sure, there has been a dusting or two here and there, but I have been subjected to ::gasp:: RAIN way too often. I despise the rain when temperatures are cool or cold. It is annoying, and it sends unpleasant chills through me that cannot be relieved until I soak in a hot bubble bath. It rained on Christmas Day. It rained on New Year's Eve. Where is my snow? I want blizzards (sans deaths related to said blizzards). I want my world to come to a screeching halt because of the snow. No cars on the roads. Schools and businesses closed. I want to be the first one to leave footprints in my yard. I want to pelt my hubby and kids with snowballs. I want to look outside and see white covering everything for days on end. Now, is that too much to ask? Methinks not, and what I think is what counts. ::smile::

I just completed a portrait unlike any I have previously done. This one is of a child. A young child. I had painted older kids, but never one who still had baby teeth. It was quite a challenge to capture the innocence present in the face of such a beautiful little boy. I do not think I have done a stellar job expressing that quality of his, but my hubby likes the portrait, thinks it looks like the child, and has told me he thinks I should go ahead and give it to the couple who requested that I paint the little boy. (I told them I absolutely was not going to do it. No way. I knew I would attempt it, but I did not want THEM to know it. That way, there was no pressure on me except what I put on myself.) What I discovered is that the very young have no defining aspects to their faces. There is a genuine softness...almost a blur to their features. The lines and sharper characteristics will come with time. Probably around the time they lose some of their pure innocence.

My poochie was cremated. I wanted her ashes. I could not bear to think of her being discarded or buried in the ground. Not my baby. I went to the funeral home to pick up her remains. She was in a small wood box with a latch. It was a nice box, I suppose. Yet, it was too plain and common for my liking. Like most people who have had a pet for many years, I felt she was special. I asked the gentleman who assisted me if they had any other containers I could buy to replace the wood box. They did. A curio cabinet full of them. And I found the one I wanted in the blink of an eye. It is a cloisonne urn. I have long thought cloisonne to be an amazing art technique. This urn is absolutely beautiful. It is unique. Then and there I bought it. He transferred her ashes to it (out of my sight, of course), and I asked him to please glue on the lid. Now she rests on my bookcase. I look at her often. But not as often as I feel her absence. I miss her. And I cry.

Ah, but I laugh, too. My son (age 23) and some of his buddies played in a flag football league for fun. The name of their team was The Nads. Their team cheer? GO NADS! Geez, I cracked up hearing that. His sense of humor is brilliant at times.

We are in the process of redecorating our daughter's bedroom (age 20). After the Bobcat cleared out the piles of junk that had made walking through it an impossibility, the painting of the walls began. She is delighted in many ways about the transformation. I had her choose the bedspread, curtains, pillows, and wall color. She is also getting a new mattress. Queen-sized to boot. Hell, she is not a very big girl...weight or height, so she will be able to do somersaults across it. I have warned her that if she trashes her room in ANY way that she will be forced to sleep in the basement. ::grin:: She is petrified of the basement. It is a miracle to get her to go down there to retrieve something from the freezer. And when she does venture down those steps, she has to have on the light and leave the door open. That is when my sadistic streak surfaces. I quickly flick off the light, shriek, and shut the door. She cries and literally flies up the steps. And she tells me what a sicko I am. She is correct. But it IS funny.

That just reminded me of something I am still laughing about. No one ever helps me decorate the Christmas trees except for my daughter. Well, this year she was not here the nite I decided to do it. I asked the hubby if he would at least come into the living room to talk to me while I hung the lights and ornaments. He did. Ultimately, he actually got up and helped me string the lights. When the first set of 100 lights had been placed on the tree, he grabbed the next strand. Just as he was plugging it into the first strand, I screamed. The man jumped like a little girl. I went into quite a laughing fit that went on for the next few hours. Big tough guy was scared to death. He SAID he was not expecting it. Then he said he thought I had been shocked. Let's get real. I know and he knows that I scared him. Haha.

And a giant bravo to Coach Knight for becoming the winningest men's college basketball coach in NCAA history. 880 wins. 80% of his players also receive their college degrees. That is TWICE the national average for men's basketball players. You rock, Coach, and I love you...even though you call me Noisy. ::grin::

Today is a day I am thinking about my father. January 6. A date I will never look at in quite the same way again. You are in my thoughts, Daddy. I am making sure I recall the funny tales and escapades of yours along with the heartwarming ones. A beautiful mix of what comprised so much of who you were. Missing and loving you. ~Your ornery #3 daughter

"The beauty of the world...has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder." ~Virginia Woolf

FIVE YEARS

2007-01-03T02:09:00.000-05:00

That, that is one of the many things I miss so very much about you. On Saturday, it will have been five years ago that I held your hand for the last time. Or were you holding mine? I gained so much strength from and through you. And you also brought out an inner strength that I never realized I possessed.

Oh, to hold your hand one more time...just one more time.

Missing you today and for always.

"God has given us two hands, one to receive with and the other to give with." ~Billy Graham

2007

2006-12-29T23:30:00.000-05:00

IT WAS

2006-12-26T01:09:00.000-05:00

It was...

...started by attending a wedding and reception on Friday, December 22. The bride, the groom, and the moments were beautiful. Both had been divorced, single parents for about 20 years before finally finding each other. Happily entangled in love, they are now Mr. and Mrs.

...last minute wrapping of gifts as a few items I had had personalized were delivered.

...a Christmas Eve service that was full of warmth and harmony, with a message embraced by those in attendance. The reason for the season.

...watching and listening to my husband and daughter and two others sing O Holy Night with only piano accompaniment during the candlelite portion of the service. Feeling the tingles course through me and my eyes becoming misty.

...returning home and exchanging the gifts we had bought for each other. An annual tradition we turned to when we felt that those gifts were lost amidst the ones Santa brought.

...going to sleep and trying to contain the excitement the morning would be offering.

...awakening before the kids did and grinning at each other, as well as enjoying the quiet that was sure to be the last for most of the rest of the day.

...giggling seeing two sleepy-headed young adults come down the stairs and be summoned to the living room to open their gifts from Santa.

...feeling a tremendous sense of pride noting their appreciation, surprise, and gratitiude for each and every gift Santa had left for them. Glancing at my husband and knowing he was feeling exactly the way I felt.

...a short drive to my mother's house and being greeted with "Merry Christmases" and hugs and kisses from my nieces, nephews, sisters, brothers-in-law, and mother.

...decadent how we all literally flooded Mom's house with presents.

...deeply moving when Mom gave each person a completely unexpected and selfless gift, aside from her other carefully chosen presents. It brought tears to more than a few of us.

...hours and hours of laughter, silliness, conversation, and the most scrumptious meal.

...love.

...Christmas of 2006.

And it was perfect.

"For we all seem to give our lives away
Searching for things that we think we must own
Until on this evening
When the year is leaving
We all try to find our way home." ~from Find Our Way Home by Trans-Siberian Orchestra

FAREWELL TO OUR COMPANION

2006-12-21T11:40:00.000-05:00

"My little dog - a heartbeat at my feet." ~Edith Wharton

And that loving heart has now ceased beating. You were the perfect dog to help teach us more about patience, compassion, unconditional love, and joy. Our house will feel a little less like a home without you.

Rest in blessed peace, sweet poochie o' ours.

HOME

2006-12-16T14:29:00.000-05:00

*****

BLUE

2006-12-14T14:26:00.000-05:00

My Christmas is a blue one. No, not blue as in depressed. Blue as in the color. It happened largely by accident, and what a lovely accident it has been.

I am always very particular about the gift wrap I use each year. Probably far too particular, and I spend a ridiculous amount of time finding the one that makes me ooh and ahh when I see it. After searching and searching for that special kind, I came across it. It is in beautiful shades of blue with white snowflakes scattered all over it. Yay! I snatched up mega rolls of it.

The Christmas cards I mailed depict a blue snow scene taken from a picture I had painted in watercolors. (Winkflash.com does a smashing good job of turning a picture of your choice into Christmas cards~as well as other cards~, and you can write your own greeting inside.) After I had painted the picture, I thought it would be a good one to use on cards. See, more blue!

I designed and printed my return address labels, and I was able to miniaturize the image I used for my cards to put on those labels. Even the postage stamps I used had blue on them...snowflakes!

The other significant blue item is something I have done for my son. He is colorblind. Greens and reds appear as shades of gray to him. Green is particularly difficult for him to distinguish. He has never cared for white lights on a tree, and I can understand why. How pretty is it to look at a gray tree with white on it? In the past, I have used multicolored lights on the kids' tree and white ones on the formal tree. His favorite color and one he appreciates the most is blue. And because of that, I decided it was high time that I made the tree ultra special for him. I bought hundreds of blue lights for it. No other colors, solely blue. (::grin:: Sounds like a K-Mart blue light special, doesn't it?) It fits in so well with my unintentional blue theme.

I am grateful the "bad kind" of blue has not crept into my mood this holiday season. I have had moments when I have done battle with the seasonal blues, but I have triumphed over them. Ah, I do so hope that is an ongoing trend.

Peace and contentment is what I wish for. Maybe these blues will help fulfill that wish. ::smile::

"Blue oblivion, largely lit, smiled and smiled at me." ~William R. Benet

SANTA'S HO...HO HO~Self-Portrait Challenge, December, Week 2

2006-12-11T22:52:00.000-05:00

Soooo, this month's theme for the December Self-Portrait Challenge is RED. A great color, to be sure. And one that is impossibly easy to incorporate into ideas for our self-portraits.

The image I have selected was taken of me this past Christmas Eve. Santa got more than a bit waylaid {pun intended} here at my house. Sorry if your presents arrived a little late. My fault. ::grins wickedly:: And you know what? It is, to me, the perfect example to show that you need not be young or beautiful to have a jolly good time. What is that line from one of my favorite Christmas movies, It's A Wonderful Life? "Youth is wasted on the young." ::chuckle:: Oh so true at times!

HIS CHRISTMAS SPRITES

2006-12-10T00:41:00.000-05:00

I giggled and smiled a good amount while painting the just-completed picture above. It is simplistic, but it brought back so many fond memories while I worked on it. During the hustle and bustle of this season, I HAVE to have a painting in progress at all times to find the doses of tranquility I need.

Backing up a minute, I received a gift bag at my birthday dinner. The contents of the bag contained things that I love love love. But before I even peeked inside, I was struck by the picture on the front and back of the bag. It depicted four faeries fluttering beside a Christmas tree. I said aloud, "I am going to paint this picture." And I meant it.

You see, I automatically associated the four faeries (which I have called sprites) with me and my three sisters. We are as close as can be. We are best friends. We have our own circles of friends we go out with and entertain, but we also include each other in whatever parties we throw. I suppose to some it is unusual to see siblings who genuinely enjoy and appreciate one another as much as we do. To us, it is simply normal. And it is the way I wish it was for all siblings.

And then my mind quickly took me to thoughts of my father. Yes, I know I talk about him endlessly, but how can I not? To me, he is the epitome of what and how a father should be. His passing affected me deeply, and I cannot push him out of my thoughts. And why would I want to anyway?

So, there we were gathered to celebrate my birthday. My sisters, their husbands, my husband, and my mother. The only person missing was Daddy. Yet, I knew he was really there. Probably shaking his head and rolling his eyes while I gave one of my brothers-in-law a very tame and fully clothed lapdance...yet grinning that crooked grin of his seeing I have not changed one bit. I do know he is proud of all of us. Proud that we have remained so close and include our much-loved Mom in our gatherings.

All of that combined made me think of him when I saw the gift bag picture. Daddy was Santa for many years. He pretended he hated the holiday. He uttered, "Bah humbug!" more than once each season. Uh huh. He disliked it so much that he shopped and shopped hunting for the perfect gifts for each of us girls. He freely spent his hard-earned money on us. He was so excited on Christmas Eve that he could not sleep. Yes, even when we were grown and married, he was pacing the house (according to Mom) waiting for all of us and our children to arrive there on Christmas morning at 11:00. And his smile erupted when the first of us arrived and never left his face until we had all returned to our homes. Bah humbug, indeed.

Anywhooooo, this painting was oodles of fun to paint. I was determined to make it a three-dimensional picture. I used watercolors first. To try something different, I painted on rice paper that had threads of gold through it. An interesting surface on which to paint. Then when all was painted, I glued tiny clear glass beads on the wings of the sprites and colored glass ones on the garland wrapping itself around the tree. Gold glass bugle beads made up the star at the top with little gold balls at the tip of each of the points. To finish it, I glued on crumpled colored tissue paper to make up the skirts of each of the sprites.

My son took one look at it, and he identified via color each one of my sisters. My eldest sister is the yellow one. My elder sister is the blue one. My little sister is the pink one. And moi is the red one. Perfect! I told my mother she is the star shining at the top of the tree. ::smile::

The name of this painting? His Christmas Sprites. Yes, I bet he is grinning once again recalling all of our Christmases...and laughing out a Bah humbug!

"Wherever is love and loyalty, great purposes and lofty souls, even though in a hovel or a mine, there is fairyland." ~Charles Kingsley

EXTRAVAGANZA

2006-12-07T02:37:00.000-05:00

Finally. FINALLY. I purchased the tickets in mid-September. I waited none too patiently for the show. Counting down the months, weeks, days. And it finally arrived. And it was absolutely the finest, most spectacular concert/show I have ever seen...bar none. Broadway shows have not wowed me like this concert did. The Rolling Stones concert pales in comparison. Jesus Christ Superstar runs a pretty close second, yet I am still going to have to say that Trans-Siberian Orchestra performs a show that is second to none.

It was men performing wearing tuxes with tails on stage. Women vocalists in black, slinky dresses. Nonstop fog covering the stage floor. A laser light show. A drum solo that was its own Fourth of July fireworks. Voices that were pure and hit every note. Keyboards that sang. Guitars that were electrifyingly played. A violin that was sheer magic. Flames of many colors that shot upward and then dimmed, only to flare skyward once again. A fountain of flames. It was loud. It was soft. It was shattering. It had substance. The songs had meaning. The storyteller's deep voice set the scene for each upcoming song during the show's first half. It was mesmerizing. Sensory stimulation was overwhelming and heavenly.

It was an extraordinary extravaganza. Never will I forget this evening. Never. And I cannot stop smiling.

KICKING UP MY HEELS~Self-Portrait Challenge, December, Week 1

2006-12-04T20:56:00.000-05:00

I LOVE my red shoes. And when I wear these, I don't want to go home. ::grin::

December's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is : "So Red - go forth and show us what you have - have a little fun - its the holiday season after all."

ANOTHER CANDLE

2006-11-29T12:12:00.000-05:00

(Please do not leave any comments. Thank you.)

FRAMED GLAM~Self-Portrait Challenge, November, Week 4

2006-11-27T18:27:00.000-05:00

I am not sorry to see this month's theme come to an end. Portraying myself as glamorous or in glamorous ways is simply not who I am. It is a stretch for me to even view myself in that manner. Yes, I can don the glitter and sparkles and be charming when I am out on the town, but i do not like to think of that as trying to achieve a look of glamour. I view it as only trying to look the best I can.

Hubby just threw a birthday dinner party for me at a swanky restaurant. Because of my dislike to be center stage, he acquiesced to my wishes and only invited my sisters, their husbands, and my mother. We had a private room with every fabulous touch down to the smallest of details taken care of. It was wonderful. It was fun. It was scrumptious.

My mother and I are friends. The best of friends. She had all four of us girls later in life after suffering three miscarriages. Our age difference means nothing and does not interfere with the friendship we have developed over the years. She is a lovely woman who also happens to have manners that would put Emily Post to shame.

And I love her to smithereens. SHE is what glamour is all about, to me. Hers is a quiet glamour. It is not derived from the jewelry or clothing or money she possesses. No, it comes from her being confident enough to wear whatever she wishes regardless of whether or not others will perceive her as looking "so last year" or "frumpy" or any other derogatory adjectives. It comes from the softness of her voice and the kindness she shows others. It comes from her beautiful complexion that is natural and not purchased from a cosmetics department or a plastic surgeon. Her quiet glamour cannot be overlooked BECAUSE of its elegant understatement.

How proud I am that she is my mother. I think you can see that pride in this portrait taken of the two of us at my birthday party, which I framed.

November's Self-Portrait Challenge is: "Lets ditch those imperfections and go all out GLAM. Yes lets glam it up with some disco, diamonds and glitter. I suggest some gorgeous shots - really overdo it on the posing and makeup and dressups and show us the extrovert you. The sexy mama in the kitchen with the peek-a-boo apron or how about some diamontes on those dungarees, stillettos, feathers and lycra. Looking for ideas then go no further than Glam Rock as your inspiration, KISS, David Bowie, and Queen and Garry Glitter. Glam means dressing androgynously in make up and glittery, florid costumes such as David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Get Glam everyone!"

CHARMED, I'M SURE

2006-11-25T05:10:00.000-05:00

"People will believe you when you point out negative things about yourself, but they will not believe you when you mention your positives."

It was several weeks ago that my husband took in my car for an oil change. The following day when I got in and flipped on the music to listen to my CDs, I discovered that he had it set to radio. Because I was trying to navigate the car, I could not fiddle around with the settings to determine how to get it back to CD mode. So, I just decided to listen to the radio for a change.

I was not gone long, but just long enough to know that what I heard on that radio station would at some point become a topic in this journal. A fellow was speaking. The statement he made was the quote above.

It is true, you know. And because of that, I have thought about that sentence ever since that day. Granted, it is a sweeping statement, but a very valid one that is right on the money as it pertains to the majority of people. Such a simple statement that encompasses so much.

How and why do people choose to think you truthful when it comes to your less-than-desirable attributes? Does it make them feel superior for that moment in time? Do they temporarily forget that they have little demons of their own that they continuously battle? Is it because admitting that you have faults allows those you tell to feel important that you confided in them? Does it level the playing field in their eyes? ::Newsflash:: The playing field is never going to be level. It just is not. We are all playing the same game, but the rules for it differ, as do the talents, abilities, and determination of the players.

And just why is it that the good things about people are usually punted aside and deemed lies? Tsk, tsk. Not a very admirable trait. Are people so miserable that hearing something good about someone sends them into a tailspin? Do bitterness and jealousy and insecurity dip their ugly faces into the picture? I think so. After all, when somebody strives to get/be/do something and fails and another person tries and succeeds, then the word "loser" pops into the brain of the unsuccessful. No one shouted out LOSER. It was the one who cannot seem to attain that which he wants who calls himself that name.

It is truly a sad way to live one's life. Why in the world is it so difficult to be happy for others? Why must all the good spoken be called lies?

Let me just put it this way. I have said numerous times in this journal that I have lived and continue to live what I consider to be a charmed life. A fairy tale in a way. And it is the truth. The honest-to-God truth. (See, no lightning has struck me after having said that!) At times, I have even been a little bit embarrassed that my world is full of wonderful people, places, and things. I am loved dearly. That, in itself, is a huge blessing. I have never said that my life has been free of major struggles. But maybe, just maybe, my perception of those struggles is that they have made my life the delicious one that it is right now. My "happily ever after" does not mean there are going to be no worries, crises, or other unpleasantness in my future. It just means that I exist in a real world where I choose to see and revel in the goodness that surrounds me, and I will deal with the worrisome problems as they arise.

If you take a moment to think about the popular fairy tales read over and over again to children, you will realize that almost all of them have good characters who go through difficult times. Their lives are imperfect and often in turmoil. You will also note that there are always dark characters in the story...the ones who wish to destroy happiness for the others. But in the end, the light prevails and the dark is left to fend miserably for itself. Looking at it that way sure makes it seem less like a fairy tale and more like how life really is.

I am who and how I am. The good and the bad. I have some of both. Most people do. I am aware of the bad, and I discuss it. Yet, there is the positive in me that far outweighs any of the negatives. What I share in this journal and with my friends is honest. There are those who cannot be genuinely happy for the good I either possess or receive. For them, it is much, much easier to twist things to make it seem like a fairy tale gone awry. Ah, but that is untrue. And their skewed beliefs only perpetuate their own misery.

I spoke to a friend early in the day. One who has known me for going on three years, I believe. An online friend. One who probably knows more about me than anyone else online. I was talking about the quote at the top of this entry. We chatted a bit about it. I mentioned that at times I am naive, which I thought odd considering I am not naive about human sexuality. This friend said that not only was I naive, but that I was also wise in a lot of ways. An interesting combination, he said. I have to say I was flattered. Being called wise is a compliment, in my opinion. Ah, to be wise all the time and not fall prey to idiocy would be bliss!

When my father was mere months away from death and confined completely to a bed with no ability to lift his head or even move his feet, he was being interviewed. A question was asked about his life. His reply was that he has "lived a charmed life." Sink that into your brain for just a few moments. The man was severely crippled from a ruptured brain aneurysm, had trauma-induced Parkinson's disease from the rupture, was diabetic to some extent, was being fed via a tube in his stomach, fought pneumonia and UTIs regularly, had lost much of his short-term memory, and he was confined to a nursing home and a hospital for just shy of six years. That question was asked, and he smiled and said his life was charmed.

Yes, it is all about perception.

THANKSGIVING

2006-11-22T03:25:00.000-05:00

Warm wishes for a safe, loving, and joyful Thanksgiving Day.

Nikki

IT'S IN THE BAG~Self-Portrait Challenge, November, Week 3

2006-11-20T11:44:00.000-05:00

Dressed in that perfect little black dress with high heels on my feet and my hair and makeup done just so, these are the final two things I pick up before my nite out on the town. After all, what more does a woman need to take with her than a small handbag and a tube of lipstick?

November's Self-Portrait Challenge theme: "Let's ditch those imperfections and go all out GLAM for November. Yes let's glam it up with some disco, diamonds and glitter. I suggest some gorgeous shots - really over do it on the posing and makeup and dressups and show us the extrovert you. The sexy mama in the kitchen with the peek-a-boo apron or how about some diamontes on those dungarees, stillettos, feathers and lycra. Looking for ideas then go no further than Glam Rock as your inspiration, KISS, David Bowie, and Queen and Garry Glitter. Glam means dressing androgynously in make up and glittery, florid costumes such as David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Get Glam everyone!"

100 YEARS

2006-11-16T01:07:00.000-05:00

Lately, my journaling has taken a back seat to a myriad of activities I have been engaging in. I have a million things to write about, yet nothing to say.

My birthday is Saturday. During the whirlwind of these past weeks, I have found myself thinking a lot about my life. The ups and downs and in-betweens that comprise it. There is little, if anything, I would change about any of it. This "middle time" of my days on earth finds me grateful for all of the small and large events that have occurred and the people who have come into my world. Be they fleeting visits or long-term ones, they are appreciated.

I am neither 15 years old nor 100 years old. At times, I rest somewhat uncomfortably right where I am. Other times, I am at great ease in this particular place I find myself. Empowered in many ways, vulnerable in others. Ah, life.

The lyrics to the following song sum up very well my conflicting emotions:

100 Years by Five For Fighting

I'm 15 for a moment
Caught in between 10 and 20
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

I'm 22 for a moment
And she feels better than ever
And we're on fire
Making our way back from Mars

15, there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

I'm 33 for a moment
Still the man, but you see I'm a they
A kid on the way, babe
A family on my mind

I'm 45 for a moment
The sea is high
And I'm heading into a crisis
Chasing the years of my life

15, there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to lose yourself
Within a morning star

15, I'm all right with you
15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

Half time goes by
Suddenly you’re wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
The sun is getting high
We're moving on...

I'm 99 for a moment
Dying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are

15, there's still time for you
22, I feel her too
33, you’re on your way
Every day's a new day...

15, there's still time for you
Time to buy and time to choose
Hey, 15, there's never a wish better than this
When you only got 100 years to live

"A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun. Enjoy the trip." ~Author Unknown

PRINCESS GLAM~Self-Portrait Challenge, November, Week 2

2006-11-13T22:08:00.000-05:00

Ah, there are just those times when you feel exactly like a storybook princess. I have been fortunate enough to have had many such times in my life. It is an adventure into long ago and faraway. And all is right with the world.

The following picture depicts one of those magical evenings. (I have recreated it by donning the same dress, jewelry, and wearing my hair swept up and back.) We had a party to attend. A lavish party. A glamorous party. This was not a time to be dressed suggestively, however. It was important to be attired in clothing and jewelry that presented a more proper look. Many people would be in attendance.

My earrings and necklace are rhinestones, yet they fooled people left and right. Never one to pretend something is what it is not, I immediately thanked them and then informed them that they were not real diamonds. Maybe I should have let it go, but it feels right to me not to leave anyone with a false impression. Anyway, I loved how the necklace followed the neckline of the dress.

That evening was most assuredly a gathering of princesses and handsome princes. The only thing missing was a tiara atop my head. ::grin::

And because I am a sucker for making graphics that glitter and sparkle, I have also posted the same picture after I animated it using my animation program.

November's Self-Portrait Challenge theme: "Let's ditch those imperfections and go all out GLAM for November. Yes let's glam it up with some disco, diamonds and glitter. I suggest some gorgeous shots - really over do it on the posing and makeup and dressups and show us the extrovert you. The sexy mama in the kitchen with the peek-a-boo apron or how about some diamontes on those dungarees, stillettos, feathers and lycra. Looking for ideas then go no further than Glam Rock as your inspiration, KISS, David Bowie, and Queen and Garry Glitter. Glam means dressing androgynously in make up and glittery, florid costumes such as David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Get Glam everyone!"

BALANCING ACT

2006-11-09T15:00:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I want and need to be reminded that even the seemingly impossible is possible.

Thank you to my mysterious and good friend for the permission to post this photograph.

Balanced Rock was exposed more than 60 million years ago when the existing Rocky Mountains rose. To make its current shape, the soft bottom layer of shale eroded much faster than the harder sandstone and conglomerate above. Amazingly, the pedestal supporting Balanced Rock has held the 700 ton weight for thousands of years. (Information from The Garden of The Gods Park plaque.)

"Yes, you can be a dreamer and a doer too, if you will remove one word from your vocabulary: impossible." ~Robert Schuller

DRESSED IN SHIRT & TIE...KINDA~Self-Portrait Challenge, November~Week 1

2006-11-06T03:54:00.000-05:00

November's Self-Portrait Challenge theme: "Lets ditch those imperfections and go all out GLAM. Yes lets glam it up with some disco, diamonds and glitter. I suggest some gorgeous shots - really over do it on the posing and makeup and dressups and show us the extrovert you. The sexy mama in the kitchen with the peek-a-boo apron or how about some diamontes on those dungarees, stillettos, feathers and lycra. Looking for ideas then go no further than Glam Rock as your inspiration, KISS, David Bowie, and Queen and Garry Glitter. Glam means dressing androgynously in make up and glittery, florid costumes such as David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Get Glam everyone!"

I laughed while posing for this week's self-portrait. I felt about as dippy as I did when I shut the car door on my head. Bad part is that the latter was accidental; the former was intentional. Ah, the things I do. No telling what will be next on the list.

After reading this month's theme, the following went through my mind: first, I am so not androgynous; second, I do not pile on make up...ever; and third, glam is not particularly a look I have ever tried to achieve.

My mind went completely blank coming up with a single idea, and I thought I might have to skip this month's challenge. Then, I realized how much I do love the comfort of a man's dress shirt. I adore wearing a nice, crisp white dress shirt with skinny jeans or only the shirt...barely buttoned. And from that thought, I came up with this androgynous...kinda...pose. The hubby loved it. He reallllly loved it. ::grin::

This is not glam nor am I wearing any makeup except bright red lipstick and nail polish (which I retained in this black and white shot through the wonders of PSP), but it is my nod to androgony and as close to androgynous as I get. Besides, David Bowie's Ziggy will never be equaled by anyone. A true genius resides within that talented man.

THE REAL BOTCHED JOKE

2006-11-02T10:45:00.000-05:00

''You know, education, if you make the most of it, you study hard, you do your homework and you make an effort to be smart, you can do well. If you don't, you get stuck in Iraq.''~Senator John Kerry

He called it "a botched joke." Yeah, right. He scrambled, as well he should have to cover that ketchup covered mouth of his. At first he proclaimed that it was merely a jab at President Bush that he had messed up. The written "joke" was apparently quite a lengthy one. I read the entire joke as it was originally written. It was posted in the news. He left out not only one word or two. No, he left out more than an entire sentence. A good bit more.

Now, oddly enough, his claim is he only left out the word "us." Uh huh. The spin doctors (Kerry's aides) have said he was supposed to say, "...you get US stuck in Iraq." How curious that his original claim was that the joke was longer, but he messed it up. And suddenly now it was just a one-word blooper. Pfffft.

Liar.

The troops deserve better than that. Far better. And apparently the group of military men pictured above made sure everyone knew how they felt about Kerry's little joke in what is a brilliant "biting" photograph. Bravo!

The only joke in this particular mess is John Kerry. And not even a funny one.

THE SOCKS

2006-10-30T22:39:00.000-05:00

I have been wrapping Christmas gifts. Yes, I got an early start this year, and I am thrilled to see the hefty pile of gifts all neatly wrapped. It was while I was sitting on the floor among the presents, scissors, and tape that the following "incident" came to mind.

This is a true and personal story.

Once upon a time there lived a very poor boy. His parents were loving ones, but wages in his father's line of work were quite meager. They had no extra pennies for even the little extra pleasures most people were able to buy. It mattered not to the young boy. He was happy.

One particular Christmas, his family gathered together with two sets of aunts and uncles for a celebration. Also there was his cousin, who was his age. Gifts were distributed. The poor boy opened his gift from the wealthy aunt and uncle. Inside the package was a pair of socks. One pair. The boy was pleased to have new ones, and he expressed a sincere thank you. Next, it was his cousin's turn to open his gift from this same aunt and uncle. His gift? A typewriter.

Socks versus a typewriter. The boy wondered why his aunt and uncle would give gifts of such disparity. Had he displeased them in some way? Did they love him less than his cousin? While it did not make sense to him and he lacked understanding, he refused to let his wonderings taint his Christmas Day.

The young boy grew into the finest of men. He married and had children and grandchildren. And he always...ALWAYS...made certain that all the gifts he gave were of equal value. He had never forgotten the feelings he experienced from that Christmas of long ago, and he made a point of seeing to it that no one else would ever feel the same way because of his actions. Fairness was one of the hallmarks of this good man, and his fairness extended far beyond only the giving of presents to others.

Now, I am sure there are those who read that story and thought, "Hey, the kid was dirt poor and could use the socks. He should be grateful he got any gift at all." Ah, but he was grateful. But if that is your take on it, then I suggest you put yourself, your child, or grandchild in that very same situation. The giving of a typewriter to a cousin while YOUR loved one receives one pair of socks is a slap in the face. No matter how thankful one is, the disparity between those two gifts is bound to cause hurt when the presents are dispensed in a group situation. Of course, that was the intention. It was many years later that the boy found out that the rich aunt and uncle were snobs. They looked down on the boy's parents because of their lack of money. And it manifested itself, in one way, in the giving of a lone pair of socks to a child. I think I almost feel sorrier for the wealthy aunt and uncle than I do for the young boy.

Life does not always seem fair. We all know that. The only thing we can do is to think about the consequences of what we do. The effect we have on others. We do have the power to be fair in many ways. And in being so, we can make life just a bit kinder for others. A bit easier. A lot nicer. That is the gift all of us should be giving.

"I've always felt that when I do something in the name of fairness, it's not just for me--it's for everybody." ~Janet Peckinpaugh

UNDERSTAND

2006-10-26T01:40:00.000-05:00

"Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once, just once…understand." ~Sara Ohotto

During the course of my time on AOL, I have varied the quotations I have used on my member profile. Each one has held a special significance that I can relate to easily. Not all of them pertain specifically to me or my life experiences, but the messages are powerful or are take-your-breath-away beautiful ones.

The quotation listed above is one I used for a very long time before I moved on to a new one. I recently edited my member profile and once again restored this beauty of a quote to it. Sometimes I think it should have been written by me, but I am incapable of writing with such passion and perfect expression.

How many times have all of us wished that others could climb into our beings and understand what it is like to be us? I know rare is the day that I do not wish for that to be possible.

Very, very few people have a solid grasp of who and how I am. People who can nod with at least a partial understanding of what makes me the person I am. No one, save my late father, has ever been able to see my complexities and commonalties and come away with a deeper appreciation of all that comprises me. People guess. People assume. They let their biases color their views. But, in doing so, they come no closer to discovering the me who is very real.

At times, I want to scream out in frustration. All I ask is to be recognized as who I genuinely am, not who someone wants me to be or expects me to be or thinks me to be.

I want to be able to read something that stuns me with its magnificence and have others understand why it has astounded me. To know firsthand why it has affected me so deeply.

I want my feelings to be felt and absorbed by others. Let them know the intensity of my pain and joy and love.

I want my beliefs to creep into others, so they can have a true understanding of all that has gone into the formation of those beliefs. The small and large bits of life coming together to create the philosophy by which I exist.

And, oh, for others to experience all I have would be grand. Yes, the oft enchanted life I have lived has been colorful and blessed, but it has not been without its hardships. There are many events that have shaped the woman I have become.

It would be sheer madness to wish for everyone to be exactly like me. Who wants a world filled with people of like minds? There would be no diversity to stir and inspire this melting pot of human beings.

No, all I want is but a few moments of people running their fingers through my soul and coming away with knowledge of who I am and why I am.

IMPERFECT FOLLOWER~Self-Portrait Challenge, October, Week 4

2006-10-24T00:10:00.000-05:00

I do not like a lot of rules. I do not follow them all the time, either. It would be fair to say that I am prone to intentionally flout them at times. If someone tells me I cannot do something, it pretty much guarantees that I will immediately want to do it or consider doing it. I am a bit of a brat that way. More than anything or anybody else, my conscience is my guide. I prefer to follow it, and I trust it.

Granted, my brattiness plays a role in many of the rules I choose to disobey. If I see no harm to anyone or to myself, then I will do as I please...not as I am told. No arbitrarily set rules created by those who are not in a position to make them will be followed by me. That is a "take it to the bank" promise from me.

Yes, I have gone through a red light AFTER stopping and seeing no traffic or cars anywhere within eyesight. And, yes, there was a police officer in hiding who pulled me over for it. It was late at nite, I was tired, and I simply wanted to get home. I pointed out to the officer that I was very careful and treated the red light more like a stop sign due to my desire to be on my way to my bed. He acknowledged that he saw me stop and look in all directions before proceeding. He also told me I would be quite a bit closer to home had I just waited for the light to turn green and not had to deal with him. I told him he was right. He then sent me on my way. Nope, I did not get a ticket. Now, I do not do that often. But I cannot say in all honesty that I would never do it again.

Having spent years at hospitals visiting my father, I began to resent the difficulty sometimes encountered finding a parking space. It is bad enough that patients' families get bilked having to pay to park to visit an ill loved one. Compound insult to injury by making me hike six miles from where I am forced to park, and I seethe. So, I began to park in the doctors' parking lots. It drove my mother nuts when she was with me. She fretted about my car getting towed. Eh. There was a decal on my front window that was an Emeritus sticker, and I figured that would pretty much cause my vehicle to be overlooked by the greedy ticket writers on the premises. It worked. Not once was I ticketed during the many, many, many times I did that. AND I got to park steps away from the front door of the hospital.

I am all for rules that provide for the safety and welfare of everybody. I really am. But, every once in a while, some of the rules are just begging to be broken, and I am the gal to do it. And I can and will and do.

So, my picture for this month's Self-Portrait Challenge does not really suit the theme. My written words do, but the photograph does not. I am breaking the "rule" for this challenge. I am posting one of my all-time favorite pictures of me as a child. It captures my personality. Completely! And, well, my personality is imperfect, but it is mine. Like it or not, it is who I am. Besides, I was a cute little brat back then. ::grin::

(October's Self-Portrait Challenge weekly theme is: "Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!")

MARBLES

2006-10-19T18:49:00.000-05:00

Yep, I have lost my marbles. I feel sure they have been scattered all over the place and rolled into dark recesses everywhere I have been, never to be found again. Years and years of losing them here and there.

That thought crossed my mind yet again today as I was once again playing "gotcha last" with my daughter. This is an ongoing game we play. Need I tell you that my daughter is 20? We play this game at the oddest times. And both of us are relentless in our desire to win. I swear, I will be on my death bed unable to lift my eyelids, let alone a hand, and my daughter will be proclaiming victory after she touches me. The final words I will probably hear before dying are, "Gotcha last!"

Then there was the day I decided I would not pronounce any "L's" or "R's" correctly. It began out of nowhere when the hubster and I were running errands. All of a sudden I began to say things such as, "Wooks wike we awe gonna have wain today." The hubby turned to "wook" ::grin:: at me with a priceless face. I, in my newly developed mode of speech, told him I now planned to go the entire day talking like that. He thinks I am weird. He is right.

One of my sisters and I talk on the telephone regularly. And we talk for way too long. It drives me nuts, and it shoots a hefty chunk of my day (two hours seems to be about the average length the conversations last, and we only live several miles from each other). But I love it anyway. My thing with her is that when I hear our phone announce the caller~we have those computerized phones that talk and tell you who is calling~is to answer the phone but not speak. I will sit there in total silence until she finally says something. Usually she calls me a word that starts with a "B." Ha! Like that is going to hurt my feelings!

I sing campy versions of Happy Birthday to friends and family.

I moon my kids...and my mother.

I sometimes stuff a portion of a Kleenex in a nostril and leave it hanging from there while asking my children to give me a kiss.

During my father's illness, my marbles really started to disappear. I did many things in an attempt to keep him smiling. One of which was to enlarge a photo of myself and write "Daddy's favorite daughter" across the bottom of it, and then tape it to the ceiling above his bed...right next to the Sports Illustrated swimsuit centerfold that I superimposed Mom's face onto.

I whisper things into my children's ears while we are in church. Things to make them laugh when they should not be. I do not laugh, but they do. Hubby glares at me.

When I am in the mood to discuss politics with this fascinating male family friend who is more than three decades older than I am, I tell him I will nibble on his ear if we can change our current topic of conversation to politics. (He, by the way, is currently in the process of having a book published. I will be pimping it here big time when all is finalized!)

There are countless other marble-less things I do on a frequent basis. Enough so to say that it has been a long time since I had any marbles at all. But, yanno what? I like being this way. So, if you happen to locate my marbles, just keep them. ::smile::

"I've lost my marbles." ~Toodles, from the movie Hook

IMPERFECT SPEAKER~Self-Portrait Challenge, October, Week 3

2006-10-17T20:08:00.000-05:00

Anyone who looks at me in my real world sees a confident and exuberant woman who is easily able to converse with anybody and everybody. I think I carry myself well, and I am genuinely delighted when I can make people smile or laugh and gab to me.

But lurking beneath that overtly outgoing and sometimes outspoken exterior is someone who is positively terrified of public speaking. It sends me into a minor panic if I think I will find myself in a situation requiring me to speak before a group of people, however large or small.

Because of my dreaded fear, I have successfully gotten myself out of being a PTO president, a guest on two television news shows, speaking at an awards presentation, and the chairman of a local children's hospital benefit group (although I chaired the annual bazaar for our group, because minimal public speaking was involved), among various other functions.

I hid my reason for turning down those requests to all except the school principal. He was stunned to learn that I trembled even thinking about addressing a group of people. He pointed out that I had always offerred suggestions, cracked jokes, added needed information, etc., at PTO meetings, so he was puzzled by my fear.

And that is the problem. I do very well voicing my opinion when I feel it is necessary. I take risks (as far as potentially embarrassing myself) by making jokes to large or small crowds of people. Maybe the critical difference is that I speak when I choose to, not when the time is chosen FOR me.

In high school when speech class was a required course, I was a mess leading up to my turn to stand before my peers and speak. Yet, I got an A in that class. One speech I recall as if it happened but yesterday. Our assignment was to present a persuasion speech about any topic we wished. We were being graded on many different aspects, not solely the content of the speech. The teacher had a legal-sized grading sheet she was using to check off whether or not we met each requirement. I gave my speech, complete with the feeling that I was going to be sick. After it was over, the teacher handed me that long form. No check marks were on it. All that was written diagonally across the entire page was, "A+...WOW."

I have given telephone interviews without batting an eye. Ah, but over the phone is so very much easier. My throat does not clutch while I speak during those times. I have written speeches for others to read. And they do. My words are not a problem. I am the problem. I am so afraid. I just hide the fear from others. And I do not think I can ever get past my fear. I know I CAN do it, but I do not want to. No, I do not want to.

(October's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is: "Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!")

THE JARS

2006-10-15T15:36:00.000-05:00

A trip to the beach. Small souvenirs stored in jars. Kept displayed on a shelf, a dresser top, or a table. Little reminders of some moments in time. Your moments.

Guests to your home might take notice of your souvenirs and say nothing. Or they may question what particular beach you visited. Your response would probably be a simple one, and the conversation would change to another topic.

Alone, gazing at the little sand-filled glass jars, your mind tumbles into the past. Clearly seeing vivid images of waves crashing onto the shore, bringing with them little treasures for you to scoop up. Gently touching the wide variety of shells, taking in their texture with a lone finger. Hearing the oddly comforting sounds of the power and fury of the ocean. Smelling the unmistakable sea air wafting in the breeze that licks at your face. Feeling your feet sink into the grains of sand and wiggling your toes to revel in the tickle they create. The tip of your tongue slipping across your lips to moisten them after a day spent being kissed by the sun, tasting a hint of salt. A sense of calm surrounding your very being, pulling you into an oasis of blue.

Yes, just shells in jars to others. To you, mementos of a time that can be forever recalled within the beauty of your mind.

"Women need real moments of solitude and self-reflection to balance out how much of ourselves we give away." ~Barbara De Angelis

BABY STEPS

2006-10-10T17:16:00.000-05:00

It is on a seemingly constant basis that I must remind myself to take small steps. I tend to want to run, run, runnnnn in an effort to keep pace with my mind and its rapid-fire ideas and thoughts. And when I run that fast, I am bound to stumble and fall...and fail.

In all areas of my life, I throw myself into whatever I am doing. What I do not always take into consideration is that there are times when I am not particularly prepared to tackle the task at hand. Maybe I am setting myself up to fail. Who knows?

I am not an artist. I pretend to be one. I like how I feel while I am painting. I like music playing in the background while I wield my brushes and paints. And I try to run. Fast like the wind. Sometimes I am lucky, and I create a painting that pleases me a great deal. Other times, I shake my head and file the painting inside my giant "WTF is this" folder.

I sprinted into acrylics painting after having taken watercolor classes. Surely I could handle that medium, even though they are two VASTLY different ones. Never mind that I have not attended any classes or workshops to learn how to use acrylics. Eh, I never was all that great paying attention in classes anyway. I blindly ran with the thick paint and canvas~neither of which is used for watercolors.

I realize now I do need to get some sort of acrylics paint instruction. Preferably a one-day workshop. It did not take me too long to determine that while I was working on this swan painting. Surprisingly, the picture is just 4" x 5", but more time-consuming than I have spent on larger paintings...be they pastels, acrylics, or watercolors. Maybe it is because smaller ones are more tedious.

Although I got frustrated painting this, I still got pleasure from it. Odd, isn't it? And I do like it. I just do not love it. I call it Serenity. Mmhmm. Swans bring to mind a beautiful gracefulness, and a secluded pond with lush foliage and sprinklings of blossoms is my idea of pure serenity. A place I would like to be.

Sometimes I take photos of a painting as it progresses. I did that with this one. A record of baby steps to remind me that I must not always run.

"Life is a series of steps. Things are done gradually. Once in a while there is a giant step, but most of the time we are taking small, seemingly insignificant steps on the stairway of life." ~Ralph Ransom

IMPERFECT OBSERVER~Self-Portrait Challenge, October, Week 2

2006-10-09T13:22:00.000-05:00

In contrast to my previous week's SPC entry, this one is lighter. Yay. Sometimes I can take myself far too seriously. Not this time, though!

I am a bona fide gaper. I love to stare at people. In my mind, I guess what their occupations might be and if they look like they are happy. I note how they walk, any obvious or even subtle mannerisms, their clothing, neatness level, their physique, their hands, and I decide if they are attractive or unattractive. I am judging books by their covers, in a way. Sometimes those covers are gorgeous.

Because odd lighting inside buildings can occasionally trigger a migraine, I tend to wear my sunglasses not only outdoors, but also when indoors in places with funky lights. Although the lenses appear quite dark, there is virtually no color distortion when looking through them. They just take away the glare that drives me nuts. That said, I can get away with staring and staring and staring at people. They cannot see my eyes well at all. I am a stealth gaper hiding behind my sunglasses.

The problem? There are two. I dislike the fact that I am essentially judging people based solely on appearance. Even though it is fairly harmless and means nothing to them because they would never know what I was thinking, the fact that not always positive thoughts run through my mind bothers me. The plus side is that I am totally aware that appearances can be, and often are, very deceiving. The other problem is that I sometimes get so caught up in perusing an individual that I do not realize my intent stare has not gone unnoticed. It just happened to me at the grocery store the other day. Hot dude standing at the end of the aisle, and I was approaching that area. I gave him the definite up and down eyeing him without moving my head at all, and he could not see my eyes. All was well, right? Nope. My mistake was that I wanted just one more peek at him. And after I passed him, I turned around. He had also turned around. Busted.

A job with the CIA would obviously not be well-suited for me.

Usually my hubby selects the picture I post for the SPC, but he could not decide between these two. I liked the black and white; he liked both. So, I am posting two.

October's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is: Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!

Z IS FOR...

2006-10-09T01:31:00.000-05:00

...ZERO! Yep, this entry is about nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had forgotten that I never got around to completing my alphabetical entries, having left off at Y. Now, I am finished with that whole concept. Go me!

I just might be posting a regular entry soon. Okaaaaaaay, Mary? ::smooch:: As long as you expect nothing profound, I can oblige you. My muse is still in absentia, but it is taunting me by giving me fleeting glimpses of it before it runs off again. Pffft.

"The best measure of a man's honesty isn't his income tax return. It's the zero adjust on his bathroom scale." ~Arthur C. Clarke

IMPERFECT SOLITUDE~Self-Portrait Challenge, October Week 1

2006-10-02T20:47:00.000-05:00

October's Self-Portrait Challenge theme is: "Look beyond the surface of your life, dig into your imperfect self and reveal it to us. I want to see the down and dirty you, the messy, gross and ugly you, the side of yourself that you always try to hide, give us some insight into your dreadful secrets. This can be your physical self or your personal space or within your wider life. Be not afraid!"

Imperfection? I suppose I could come up with quite a list detailing the many ways in which I am imperfect; however, not each "flaw" is one I try or even wish to hide. And as with most things, imperfection is so very subjective.

This self-portrait depicts what I consider to be my most significant imperfection. It is ugly only in that it pushes people away from me at a time when their wishes are to comfort me. I will not allow them to do so. I grow distant. I want no words of sympathy or understanding spoken to me, nor do I want to be physically touched by them. Should they do either, I would dissolve into tears. Perhaps wracking sobs. I cannot let anyone see me like that. And THAT is what I hide from them.

Example. My father passed away while we were in the room with him. I knew it was coming. We all did. His legs had grown mottled that day. A sure indicator that death was at hand. I turned away from my mother and sisters so that I was facing the corner. My eyes had welled up, and I did not want them to see me in tears. After regaining my composure, I tried to be stoic. After Daddy took his final breath, I leaned down and pulled up his lifeless body so that I could give him a hug and just hold him for a bit longer. Then, I laid him back down and with trembling fingers, I gently slid closed his eyelids. I told my family I would go get the nurses. I did not sob. I did not cry. I gave hugs. I gave words of support. But I let no one hug me. I phoned my husband to let him know of Daddy's passing. No crying from me while I spoke. I came home a couple of hours later, and I would not allow my husband to hug or hold me. No one was to touch me. I wanted to be alone. They understood, because they know me all too well. And yet I saw a flicker of pain on their faces when I kept them at arm's length.

Yes, tears flow at unexpected times, and I sometimes get "caught" by family and friends. But, that is rare. I fight fiercely within myself to be the one who keeps up the spirits of others, and what good would I be to anyone if I was huddled in a corner while keening?

It is ugly and maybe even hurtful that I possess this trait. I shut out those who love me during my times of pain or stress. I will gladly help them through rocky times...even those very ones that also send me reeling, but I refuse their offers to reciprocate.

I need to work on freeing myself of feeling somehow inadequate if I show the darker, sadder side of my being.

(This pose is like the angel I use as my icon on this blog. I have always been strangely attracted to this almost hauntingly sad image. And I have given instructions to my family that she is to be carved on my headstone after I die.)

BREAK

2006-10-01T14:13:00.000-05:00

My muse appears to have run off with Dot (see YO-YO entry regarding her); both leaving me in the lurch. With their absences, I am reduced to a quiet woman without a creative bone in her body. My paintings reflect it, and my unusual semi-silence on the keyboard is further proof of it.

Also, I am very far behind reading the journals of others, and I feel terrible about it. I cannot seem to get in a good block of time so I can catch up on the words of those people for whom I have great admiration and respect.

I do not recall ever taking a break from blogging, except when I have gone out of town. I do believe the time is right for me to step away from this blog. It is pointless to write merely to fulfill some self-imposed rule that I post entries at least two to three times a week. I see no sense in that. I will, however, continue to enter my weekly posts for the Self-Portrait Challenge, unless my lack of creativity makes that an impossibility, too.

Perhaps if I no longer have my own journal to tend to, I will be able to make the rounds to those wonderful blogs and read what is going on in those worlds. I would like that very much. There is truly something about the people whose journals are saved in my favorites that makes me feel balanced. I gain new insights and perspectives, which I believe is a vital part of life...looking at everything through the eyes of others. Be it in my real world or this virtual one.

I also need to work through some things, and I am hopeful I can do just that within a short period of time. I could be back to posting regularly in a week or a month. We shall see.

Finding myself in a museless place is not where I was meant to be. And I have no intention of staying there for a long time.

Be well.

INNOCENCE

2006-09-28T13:49:00.000-05:00

I was running errands today, and I had a CD mix playing in the car. The following song, which I happen to love, came on. I think my biggest draw to the song is the lyrics. Rare is the time when I hear them and am not left thinking about them as they apply to me, others, and life in general.

"Holy Water" by Big & Rich

Somewhere there's a stolen halo
I used to watch her wear it well
Everything would shine wherever she would go
But looking at her now you'd never tell

Someone ran away with her innocence
A memory she can't get out of her head
I can only imagine what she's feeling
When she's praying
Kneeling at the edge of her bed

And she says take me away
And take me farther
Surround me now
And hold, hold, hold me like holy water
Holy water

She wants someone to call her angel
Someone to put the light back in her eyes
She's looking through the faces
And unfamiliar places
She needs someone to hear her when she cries

And she says take me away
And take me farther
Surround me now
And hold, hold, hold me like holy water
Holy water

She just needs a little help
To wash away the pain she's felt
She wants to feel the healing hands
Of someone who understands

And she says take me away
And take me farther
Surround me now
And hold, hold, hold me
And she says take me away
And take me farther
Surround me now
And hold, hold, hold me like holy water
Holy water

Granted, we all have our own takes on music and what particular songs mean. That is one of the many beauties of it. We know how it affects us. Much like a painting, each person sees (in this instance, hears) for himself.

So, I thought about the overall gist of this song. Innocence. Lost innocence. I am a little too old to always be able to look at life through the eyes of a child. I am not oblivious to the suffering and incomprehensible tragedies that take place day in and day out all around the world. I do not want to stick my head in the sand and ignore the woes of the world. What I can do, however, is find the good and decency and kindness that most assuredly does exist. I can then spend moments of time in innocence. Those precious seconds that once again give me the purity of a child who only sees the wonders surrounding him.

Ah, innocence. I do believe we have it, lose it, regain it, lose it, and so on time after time. We cannot help but experience pain at the hands of someone else, an event, or an illness. Such is life. And frequently, our innocence is stripped from us because of it. Oftentimes in the blink of an eye, it is taken. We feel we will never be the same again. We feel jaded. Cold. At least on the exterior. Inside, we are dying bit by bit until that time when we are once again reunited with our stolen innocence. And most of us finally make it through relatively unscathed and hopefully a bit wiser. Until the next time it happens. And the cycle continues.

I want to always remain as a child in certain ways. I hope I am resilient enough to make that hope become a reality.

"Innocence dwells with wisdom, but never with ignorance." ~William Blake

YO-YO

2006-09-26T17:12:00.000-05:00

Gah! The fall continues to affect me in sometimes unpredictable ways. Not all of which are necessarily good.

On the positive side, during the past few weeks, I have won THREE contests (good things happen in threes...not only bad things). First, Debbie at My Big Fat Greek Life held a writing contest to win a Greek bracelet or ring. I won a bracelet for a poem I wrote. Yay! The bracelet arrived today, and it is beautiful. I love it, Debbie. THANK YOU! Second, Jodi at Looking Beyond The Cracked Window had a contest to see who the first person was to guess the five lies she inserted into an autobiographical post in her blog. I won! And I won a painting of hers. My choice of paintings, too. Yahoo! I chose one that reminds me of her amazing creative mind. I cannot wait until it arrives! THANK YOU, Jodi! And third, I won a $300 Best Buy gift card at my hubby's annual company dinner. WOOT! He gave it to me to use. Yes, the number three has been kind to me many times during my life.

Downside? I was working on a painting I felt had great potential. I eagerly sat at my drafting table working the watercolors just the way I envisioned them when I sketched the scene. Unfortunately and frustratingly, the painting is now hideous. I am at a loss to determine whether or not I can salvage the mess I created. I was so upset that I carried it into my dining room and left it there. I do not want to look at it for days. Needless to say, we will be dining in the kitchen until I can decide if I should throw away that ugliness my hand and brushes made.

Upside? I bought five pairs of jeans yesterday. Yes, five. Blacks, indigos, and grays. They are skinny leg jeans, and I wanted to replace my old ones anyway. Men's dress shirts do look very nice and are comfy to wear with that style of jeans for casual running around or just wearing in the house. Throw in the new boots I also purchased, and I am one happy camper. Curious to see how the hubby reacts. He shakes his head when he takes a gander at my boot collection, as well as all of the jeans I own. ::shrug::

Downside? Dot is late. She makes me very weepy when she does not appear on time. Either that or I go into fits of laughter that are uncontrollable. I also tend to retreat into myself more often. Dot, where are you? (Dot is my period. Get it? Dot. Period.)

Upside? I have discovered the most fabulous band from Finland. Stratovarius. Oh my! I am obsessed listening to them. The singer's voice is intense, and his range is unbelievable. Perfect lyrics accompany the songs. I am in sheer heaven listening to them.

Downside? I have developed a new addiction. Glass beads. I spent a good couple of hours choosing the ones I wanted. I am already thinking about all the ways I can use them. As if I have time for yet another artsy project. It will cause me to put even more pressure on myself to accomplish something worth keeping or giving to others.

Upside? I am going to get some blue topaz earrings. I am. Not the ones I saw at Macy's when I was recently there, but ones at my usual jeweler's. I have decided if my mood is going to bounce up and down like a yo-yo, I might as well have pretty earrings on my earlobes so at least I sparkle while I bounce. ::grin::

Is it winter yet?

"Life is a train of moods like a string of beads; and as we pass through them they prove to be many colored lenses, which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its own focus." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

WITH MY MOMMY, SPC~September, Week 4

2006-09-25T11:22:00.000-05:00

She is my mother, my friend, my voice of reason, my shoulder and ear when I am in need, and my source of inspiration to help me find the inner calm that she possesses.

There are many times I think I could not possibly be her child. She is the most gentle, kind, and soft-spoken woman I think I have ever known. Her voice is soothing, quite lovely. Should she ever be tempted to raise it in anger, it is still but a slight notch above her normal tone. She has the most impeccable manners. Proper etiquette was a mainstay of her upbringing, and I would suspect she wonders how it was lost on me. ::smile::

She refers to me as her "ornery" daughter. Example. During her last hospital stay, I arrived to take her home. I was helping her get dressed after the nurse had removed the round, adhesive patches with the metal tips in the center that heart monitors connect to. While the nurse was preparing to remove Mom's IV, I noticed there was one of those patches still stuck on her chest. I asked the nurse if I could remove it, and she said I could...that she had not realized she had missed one. I said, "It's okay, I'll just take it off. That way I won't be tempted to start calling her Triple Nipple." Mom immediately told the laughing nurse that I was ornery. Uh huh. I am. And Mom knows she loves it. I like to make Mom laugh. She has the most precious giggle. If I time my stealth move just perfectly, I can reach under her chin and tickle her. Ohhhh, how I love the nonstop high-pitched giggle that causes. And when I am walking behind her, I love to pinch her bottom. She used to leap when I did it and tell me to stop it. Now, she is used to it and keeps on walking.

She is 5' 2", and I am 5' 8", and I love to wear heels. So, when we are together, she almost fits under my arm. I hug her lots and call her my little pocket parent.

She is a very, very strong woman. She has dealt with some horrendously tragic events during her life, but she has that ability to accept things as they are. The pain of those things never completely goes away, but she has made peace with them.

My mother. I think I will keep her. In my pocket. ::grin::

(The SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE theme for September is ‘with someone‘ month - that means you must include someone else in your self portrait. Someone meaningful to your life or to the moment or to a specific event that you wish to document. Guidelines: 1. each week in the month use a different person in your self portait. 2. either talk about that person or illustrate in the photograph why you have included them and how they are meaningful.)

SIGNS OF THE SEASON

2006-09-21T22:42:00.000-05:00

During the past few weeks, I have looked at cottages for sale in the woods and hills about an hour's drive from our house. I imagine myself spending weekends surrounded by quiet and beauty. The hubby has not ruled out the possibility of purchasing a weekend place, but he did say he would do it more as an investment. ::sigh:: That means he would rent it to others. And that would dictate when I could stay there. I do not want restrictions placed on my comings and goings.

I have also talked to him about moving to a new home. Perhaps buying a piece of property and building a sprawling ranch house. We no longer feel we have to stay in this community for their excellent school system. Yet, I saw a stone house in my neighborhood that is for sale, and I adore it. "Can we buy it?" I asked. That was countered with a response of, "But I thought you said you wanted to build a house?" My eyes roll, and I told him that was last week that I wanted to do that. "Well, what about the old historical homes you say you want?" Geez, he just cannot keep up with my weekly whims. Unfortunately, neither can I. And there is always that brick Georgian townhouse minutes from here that I lust after. It would strictly be a "for me" place, though. I do not count it as a family home. It would be my oasis. Just how many homes DO you want he usually asks. How do I know? It depends on the day. I really do not want to move. My home is perfect for us. And the idea of packing up all we own is enough to throw me into hysteria.

I went to Macy's yesterday to buy a new chain for a pendant I have. It was the only reason I went there. Before I knew what was happening, my arm had a suede jacket draped over it, along with a matching top, and I had made my way to the jewelry counter. Yes, must get a gold chain. This is why I am here. Uh huh. So explain why my face was poised over the blue topaz earrings that were gazing up at me through the glass and winking at me, seducing me with their Swiss blue color and rampant sparkles. And do tell me who uttered the following words aloud to the salesgirl, "I want those earrings right there"? Mmmm. Oh yeah, the gold chain. I set the clothing to the side while I perused their offerings. I found the perfect length and link style I wanted for my pendant. I asked if I could also purchase the clothing there at the jewelry counter. No, must buy them in that particular section of the store. Not a problem. And as she began to box the earrings and chain for me, I had a brief moment of clarity. What in the hell was I doing? I only wanted a chain, and here I had turned into a shopping slut. Ewww. I quickly told the gal not to bother with the earrings; that I would not be buying them. Just the chain, please. She was pleasant about my sudden change of mind. I meandered back to the clothing department and hung the jacket and top back on the rack. I needed neither one.

I left the store only to spot a nifty convertible sports car. I want that car. Never mind that I have no idea what kind it is or that I already have a convertible with ridiculously low mileage on it. I shook my head to clear it. I love my car. Why do I want a different one?

Finally, I returned home. The hubby called and asked me how my day was going and if I had any plans. We chatted for a bit while I told him that I was going to try to finish going through the mountain of paperwork that needs filed. As of this moment, the papers are still piled on the coffee table, because I spent a ridiculous amount of time matting and framing four paintings instead of doing what I said I would be doing.

Yes, fall is making its appearance. Not only in the drop in temperature and the earlier sunset, but also in the way it messes with me. It is a beautiful time of the year, yet it gives me a restlessness, a need for change, and an inability to focus my attention on those things that require it.

Eh, I will grow accustomed to it. Just not sure which house I will be living in when that happens. ::grin::

"To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, but life without meaning is the torture of restlessness and vague desire-it is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid." ~Edgar Lee Masters

WITH HIM BEFORE LOSING HIM~September SPC, Week 3

2006-09-18T12:21:00.000-05:00

This self-portrait of me with "someone" is incredibly difficult for me. It is the last photograph that was taken of me with him before his death. He passed away 12 days later. My father. The very first man who ever loved me. Unconditionally and profoundly.

The celebration was Christmas Day, 2001. He was in a nursing home, and I had made arrangements for a special type of bed/chair to bring him to their lovely dining room that had been so festively decorated. On Christmas Eve, I laid out the clothing for the aides to dress him in the following day. Navy blue pants. White turtleneck. White sweater with navy blue woven around the v-neck.

Come Christmas Day, Daddy was brought into that beautiful dining room. A fire was burning in the fireplace, snow was falling and could be seen through the windows of the French doors. All four of us daughters, our husbands and children, and Mom were gathered there. We knew it would be his final Christmas; hospice had said his death was mere days away. Our hope was for him to be a part of the holiday he so very much loved. He had been Father Christmas to all of us for countless years.

We brought in a sea of gifts. We wore smiles when we really felt like wearing tears. He was greeted with hugs and kisses and more hugs and kisses. The lone words he spoke the entire time were, "Is it, honey?" when my sister pointed to the windows and said it was snowing. We had to open the gifts for him. We had to do all the talking. We wanted it to feel like Christmases of the past. To bring a bit of the holiday magic to him. And then, when the last of the packages had been unwrapped, fatigue overtook him, and the aides returned him to his room to rest his failing body.

The film in my camera (I had no digital camera back then) was developed soon afterward, but I refused to look at the pictures until earlier this year when one of my sisters begged me to scan them and email them to her. Grief riddled my body as I looked at each one. A much-loved man so close to death. It was impossibly painful to see impending death hovering over his features. There was one photo of my mother kissing him on the lips, and I dissolved into wracking sobs upon seeing it.

Daddy was, is, and always will be my hero. No man will ever be able to affect me with the same magnitude that he did. His brilliance was not only in his intelligence, integrity, and kindness, but also in his ability to make all those around him better people. He was simply the best of the best. And I continue to love and miss him with each passing day, season, and event.

And so, I submit this final portrait of Daddy and me. It has been altered with a filter to not only protect his privacy...but also to preserve his dignity. He deserves that.

(The SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE theme for September is ‘with someone‘ month - that means you must include someone else in your self portrait. Someone meaningful to your life or to the moment or to a specific event that you wish to document.

Guidelines: 1. each week in the month use a different person in your self portait. 2. either talk about that person or illustrate in the photograph why you have included them and how they are meaningful.)

THE FLAME

2006-09-17T22:26:00.000-05:00

Ordinary to the casual eye
blending with the others
going about their mundane lives

A second glance not worthy
of one so plain and simple
already forgotten by the passersby

These are but constant moments
in her vast sea of time
overlooked and deemed inadequate

Her lips curve in a knowing smile
what seems to be and what is
two opposites of the extreme

Holding within her a complexity
of burgeoning passions
only she recognizes and embraces

The flame rages in its dwelling
threatening to burn through
to bring forth the reality of her substance

She quells the blaze to avoid notice
mediocrity her preferred appearance
one among many

Alone
she lets the fire engulf her
and she soars

*~Nikki~*

PLEASE, NO MORE LEMONS

2006-09-15T17:24:00.000-05:00

This past week has thrown more than a few lemons my way, and I am fiercely trying to make lemonade from them. I think I am winning the battle though, for now.

It began when my daughter's friend was killed in a motorcycle accident. Helmet on. Oil patch on the road the culprit in the loss of control of his motorcycle. Head trauma death. ::sad sigh:: 22 years young. My daughter, who is younger than that, was so traumatized by the news. She clutched me and just sobbed and sobbed on my shoulder. She garnered enough strength to attend the calling hours, the funeral, and the burial service. She is tearing up at odd times. She said she misses his smile. And I miss hers when she is sad like that.

My 14-year-old diabetic dog began behaving strangely. A trip to the vet did not result in any good news. Her diabetes is almost out of control, and the vet cannot determine the exact reason for it. Tests need done. One was already performed, but it came back negative for Cushing's disease. Like the vet said, it would have been almost "nice" had that test been positive, because it can be treated. Now, we have to begin the hunt for cancer or a tumor.

I took my mother to the cardiologist for what was supposed to be a routine visit. Instead, it discovered that her heart has again gone out of rhythm, and she needs to go back into the hospital for her fourth cardioversion (shocking of the heart). She was very stunned and looked defeated as she stepped out of his office.

And, of course, there are also the small lemons that come at you all the time, but you are able to easily dodge them. This time, I guess I was a bit slow, because they hit me and accumulated.

I had to do some laborious squeezing to make lemonade from all of these lemons. I think I am making some headway...

I had my daughter give our four college football tickets for a game Saturday to the cousin (and best friend) of the young man who was killed. He is a huge fan of the team, and I am hopeful it brings some happiness to him for at least a short period of time.

I found out a band I love, Trans-Siberian Orchestra, is going to be playing here in town. Rock opera at its finest from that group. I immediately ordered tickets. Great seats in the area of the arena that I wanted. Four of them. It will be a family affair with hubby, me, and our kids. That was a plus.

Saturday evening will be an enjoyable nite out. Hubby's company has an annual outing at a racetrack...harness racing. Outstanding food, good people, and betting! I choose all the winners, and the hubster places the bets. I do not read anything about the odds, I am unfamiliar with all harness racing, so I just go by the horses' names. We never come away winning or losing a lot. The important thing is that a good time is had.

I have no painting in the works. I intend to find something that interests me and begin a sketch over the weekend.

The weather has been utterly perfect. Slightly cool breeze, lower temperatures, and no need for air-conditioning. Open windows to allow the fresh air to sweep through our home and rejuvenate it.

See? I am trying so very hard to fill up the pitcher with lemonade.

“Huge lemons, cut in slices, would sink like setting suns into the dusky sea, softly illuminating it with their radiating membranes, and its clear, smooth surface aquiver from the rising bitter essence.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke

ME WITH A G

2006-09-12T00:16:00.000-05:00

It was over the weekend that I began this watercolor painting. The photograph from which I worked is of an online friend of mine. Her body is perfection, and I hope I captured at least some of that beauty in this painting. She has an equally beautiful face, and eyes that are full of life, intelligence, joy, and a sprinkling of mischief. She also has a man in her real-time world who is the embodiment of masculinity and all that is good in a human being.

Her name is Meg. Me with a g. I came to know her through her poetry. One poem in particular literally swept my breath from me, and I knew I had to find out more about her.

We have become friends. I learn from her, and I would like to think she learns from me. Her interests are wide and varied, and she fascinates me. I love to send her music. Sometimes I hit the mark, and she enjoys the songs. Most of them are sent for reasons that only she would know. They "fit" a person or situation.

And so, with time, I have grown to know much about her. She is a very sensual woman, and that sensuality surrounds her like an aura, which is evident in her writings and looks. I finally asked if I could paint this picture of her. The shadows playing across her splendid body intrigued me, as did the artistic pose. I am heterosexual, but I certainly can and do recognize and appreciate beauty. I wanted to give a go at attempting to capture it with my watercolors. With her permission, I painted it, then I asked for permission to post it. She granted it. ::smile::

Thank you, Me with a g. It is my hope you are pleased with this rendering of you.

"The portrait is one of the most curious art forms. It demands special qualities in the artist, and an almost total kinship with the model." ~Henri Matisse

WITH THE OWNERS OF MY HEART~SPC, September, Week 2

2006-09-11T19:27:00.000-05:00

They not only hold my hands, but they hold my heart for all of time. My son. My daughter.

Two unique beings created from love and unconditionally loved by me. They are bits of me and bits of my husband and bits of their ancestors. And they bring their own individual traits into this world.

I see in them the past, the present, and the future. It is with tremendous pride I call them my children. Beauties, both, in every way.

(Self-Portrait Challenge Theme: September is ‘with someone‘ month - that means you must include someone else in your self portrait. Someone meaningful to your life or to the moment or to a specific event that you wish to document.

Guidelines: 1. each week in the month use a different person in your self portait. 2. either talk about that person or illustrate in the photograph why you have included them and how they are meaningful.)

9/11 TRIBUTE TO MASARU OSE

2006-09-07T20:18:00.000-05:00

On September 11, 2001, at 9:03 a.m., a man named Masaru Ose was killed. Are you familiar with his name? My guess is no, not at all. Yet, he is a genuine hero by virtually any definition. A hero the likes about whom movies are made or books written.

This is my tribute to an unsung hero. Please take a few moments to read about his all-too-brief life, and his selflessness in making the ultimate sacrifice for others.

Ose was a Japanese man who lived in Fort Lee, New Jersey. He worked for a company called Mizuho Capital Markets Corporation. Its location was on the 80th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City. He was one of the managers of the approximately 150 employees.

Countless searches for a record of his official obituary and a picture of him produced no results. I wish I had a face to put on this man, but maybe in some ways it is better that he remain faceless, so he could be you or me. Or could he?

On that September 11th morning five years ago, Ose was at work when American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The President of Mizuho and three employees, Ose being one of them, worked together to successfully evacuate every employee from their offices on the 80th floor. And then. Then. United Airlines Flight 175 hit the South Tower. Ose perished, as did the other three.

150 lives were saved because of those four men. 150 people whose families did not have to grieve for them. 150 people who were given the chance to live because someone had the presence of mind to see to their safety before it was too late. 150 people who undoubtedly realize the heroic actions of Ose and three co-workers. And 150 people who were the recipients of the highest form of selflessness.

Ose was a mere 36 years old at the time of his death. So very young. Yet so very, very full of decency, kindness, and compassion. So much so that he gave his life to save others. And just how many people do you know who would be willing to give their lives for fellow employees?

Ah, the world lost a good and honorable man at 9:03 a.m., September 11, 2001.

Yes, Masaru Ose, you are, indeed, a hero. And I am proud to honor your life here in this journal and in my heart.

"What is a hero without love for mankind?" ~Doris Lessing

This is part of a project D. Challener Roe began, and includes over 3,000 bloggers paying tribute to those 2,996 men and women who were lost on that horrifically tragic day in 2001. Click HERE to view the other tributes.

REKINDLED

2006-09-06T00:25:00.000-05:00

Last year I was going through an unpleasant time dealing with some online nonsense. It was ongoing, and it was stifling. I made the difficult decision to move on. To get away from all of it. I closed my beloved journal, changed my screen name, and left behind all that was familiar. And it is here that I have blossomed. I have always said that from bad comes good. I have discovered more of the good in myself, and I have definitely found it in others whom I have been blessed to get to know. My decision turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me. It has even added to the happiness I find in my "real" world. I am grateful for all of that.

Just prior to departing from "that other" place, I had long talks with a good soul with whom I had always been close. He knew I was contemplating a change. He knew of my frustration. Better yet, he understood. He was supportive. He and I had a unique relationship. There is a disparity in our ages, yet I do believe he is an old soul in a younger man's body. Like he said, perhaps we knew each other in a previous life, because we have always had a connection. From the moment we met online, there was that spark of feeling like I had met my kindred spirit. He is also the most curious person I have ever known. His mind wants to absorb and explore all that is the world. And his artistic ability is staggering. He never failed to impress me with his artwork and creativity. He, himself, was in the process of making his own online changes. He made a new screen name he intended to use. A fresh start to go with some real life newness. He told me that name. He asked that we stay in touch. I promised we would. And then, he sent me the following poem. Written just for me on the spur of the moment. He never considered himself a poet and did not even write poetry. Yet, he produced this:

I Wish You Didn't Have To Leave

"I wish you didn't have to leave,"
So said the jay bird to the summer wind
"Your gentle warmth beneath my wing is all I need
This departure I wish you would rescind."

Then the jay bird keened his ear
For the sailing summer breeze speaks light
And only those who truly seek her voice can hear
Her voice of beauty, sharp as night

"Young jay bird, fret yourself a little less,"
Said her voice, drifting cool across the meadow
"For though I go, there is something I must impress
And that is this, dear little fellow:

Life moves as a cycle, turning in seasons
Time has an ebb and flow like the sea
It tells not why, and gives no reasons
It simply turns, like the leaves of your tree."

Jay bird twittered in protest
And quite nearly missed the most important part
"Hush now, child," said the wind brushing softly on the nest
"There is one more thing I wish you to take to heart:

My nature is spirit, and so is yours
Not physical, matter is so inconsequential
I am still and always beneath you as you soar,
Because we met, which was not coincidental

Let not our friendship be marred
And no more woe, you were meant to fly!"
With a mighty gust she nudged him hard
And the smilin' jay bird rose into the sky.

Is that not impossibly beautiful? How I cried when I read it (and find myself still welling up). He knew of my love for the wind. He expressed through that poem the anguish I was feeling, but also the hope that comes with change. And he assured me through those lovely words that we would always remain friends.

I closed my old screen name. And then the awful happened. I could not remember his new screen name. I had apparently not transferred it when I made my change. Countless times I thought about him. Wondering how he was doing. If his life was going well. If his own fresh start was mimicking that of his real world. It literally pained me to be unable to reach him. To check on him. To catch up on his world. To know that he was happy.

Kindred spirits seemingly find each other. It was but days ago that he contacted me. How he was able to do so was even indicative of just how our friendship transcends supposed boundaries. I was elated! It was pure joy to be able to talk to him again. He continues to fascinate me. Enlighten me. And God knows, he is my friend in all ways. When I told him that I had recently read this poem again and wished to place it here in my journal, he said, "It is your poem to do with whatever you wish." Oh, and how I wanted it in here. For others to see and feel the words of this special man.

Sweet Seb? I adore you. For always. And thank you for encouraging me to fly.

IN THE SHOWER~Self-Portrait Challenge, #1 September

2006-09-04T11:11:00.000-05:00

He prefers showers; I prefer baths. He is somewhat inhibited; I am a bit of an exhibitionist. He is quiet; I am often loud. He is Italian, Irish, and Slovak; I am a WASP. He is brilliant with numbers; I still count on my fingers at times. He plays guitar; I play with paints. He watches television; I watch the stars. He grew up in a small town; I grew up in a big city. He has brothers; I have sisters. He appears calm; I appear ready to dial 9-1-1. He laughs with a smile; I laugh out loud. He keeps most of his thoughts to himself; I blog mine. He sees the black and white; I see the gray.

And he is the man with whom I chose to spend the rest of my life. My husband. He loves me; I love him.

(Self-Portrait Challenge Theme: September is ‘with someone‘ month - that means you must include someone else in your self portrait. Someone meaningful to your life or to the moment or to a specific event that you wish to document.

Guidelines:1. each week in the month use a different person in your self portait.2. either talk about that person or illustrate in the photograph why you have included them and how they are meaningful.)

MESS O' MINE

2006-09-02T15:02:00.000-05:00

I have gotten myself into a fine mess now. A literal mess. Here in my study. Why is it that in trying to restore some semblance of tidiness to a room, it must first look as though a tornado has had its way with the room? Maybe my A.D.D. tendencies in conjunction with my packrat trait have conspired to drive me into a panic.

What began as a simple, "I will rearrange the furniture in this room" has evolved into discovering paintings I have done and shrieking when I see how godawful they are. It was much nicer when they were crammed into portfolios or stashed behind desks (yes, I have two desks in here, as well as a drafting table and chair and an overstuffed chair, and cabinets. ::sigh::).

So, with the room torn apart, I stopped to fix one of the paintings that has always bothered me. I knew the distant hills were wrong, wrong, wrong. Watercolors are about the least forgiving medium in which to work, and that added to my frustration. I do think I corrected those hills, though. Now, I look at it and think I should have done the water along the shoreline differently. It should not be in such a straight line. Should it? Yet, the waves are going horizontally, not rushing onto the shore. Still, I am pretty sure there should be some variation in the line. Ugh. I am not sure I can fix that. I will try. (Top painting is the "corrected" one, bottom painting is the former one.)

And should I really even be diving into painting when I still have "things" strewn all over the room? Wouldn't it be better to finish putting everything into place first and THEN retrieving old paintings to alter more to my liking?

Eh, I have never taken the easy and most frequently traveled path. Looks like I will be painting today. ::smile:: But when I DO get to sorting through these piles of papers and objects, I am going to be ruthless. Sentimentalism is going to be squashed, and I am throwing or giving away a lot. I think. God, I hope.

"His study was a total mess, like the results of an explosion in a public library." ~Douglas Adams

Y IS FOR YULE

2006-09-01T11:33:00.000-05:00

Summer is beginning to sputter here and brief hours of the cooler fall temperatures to come have actually occurred during a few late evenings. The daytime highs remain in the high 60s and 70s, and yet I find myself just itching to have a fire blazing in the fireplace.

I do not like to wish time away. It passes far too quickly as it is. I can wait for the cold days and nites to have that raging fire going. But, it does not mean that I will not be repeatedly glancing at our fireplace and feeling the excitement of knowing it will be all too soon when it will be glowing and spreading its warmth throughout the family room.

Such an odd entry, it may seem. Let's blame it on my husband. Why? Because I don't want it to be my fault. ::grin:: Here's the deal. I was pretty sick for a good week with a fever, double ear infection, and pain that was unbearable at times. After the antibiotics, steroids, and painkillers worked their magic, I was antsy. I am not used to being sick, nor am I used to being unable to run around and do all I want to do. I had much pent-up energy that needed expended. So, I did what I do every year at just about this time. I rearranged my family room furniture. The hubby hates it when I do that. Despises it. Tough. I do it anyway. (This really is leading to YULE!)

At first I was chilling while I pushed and pulled the sofa across the room. I knew my fever had kicked up again, but I didn't care. Hubby sat in his recliner watching television. And avoiding eye contact with me. Uh huh. One look over at me struggling with the sofa would have guilted him into feeling obligated to help. I chuckled to myself. I can so read that man like a book.

I figured I would mess with his mind just a bit. I knew the following day was to reach temperatures in the nineties. I mentioned to him that I was chilling, and then I said, "Wouldn't it be neat to get a nice fire going in the fireplace tonite?" His voice took on an edgy tone when he responded with, "Well, I'm not going to stay in this room if you start a fire." I began to laugh the maniacal laughter of the feverish. I asked him if maybe he thought I was just yanking his chain seeing as how it was going to be in the friggin' nineties the next day.

He never did help me move any of the furniture. And by the time I had dragged the overstuffed chair to its new spot, I began stripping. I had gotten so hot. Even without a fire going. ::grin:: Eye contact was made during the disrobing. Just not eye-to-eye contact. Eye-to-body was what he made. I ignored him knowing it was driving him nuts. Such fun to be a tease with him. He is so easy.

Now my family room is beautiful. Everything is immaculate and newly placed. Our blind dog was led through the new arrangement to help her get her bearings, and she is already accustomed to the furniture placement. And I know it will be in the blink of an eye when I will watch the snowflakes dance from the clouds to the ground while I am ensconced on my sofa enjoying the warmth of a fire playing in the fireplace.

Did I mention I know exactly where I will be putting our Christmas tree in that room? I do. I made sure I left the perfect spot when I planned the placement of all the furniture. With the removal of a couple pieces of small furniture beside the fireplace, the tree will stand there in all its glory. I also made certain that I will be able to photograph the kids opening their gifts without anything obstructing the view.

You see, winter is my favorite season. It invigorates me. Rejuvenates everything in and about me. And Christmas is my favorite holiday. It is all incredibly special, even magical, in countless ways. It is not just the memories I have accumulated that add to its magic; it is also the new memories we are making each year. And the warmth of the yule season extends far beyond that which emanates from the hearth. It reaches far deeper into our hearts and minds. And we are the better for it.

"Shall we liken Christmas to the web in a loom? There are many weavers, who work into the pattern the experience of their lives. When one generation goes, another comes to take up the weft where it has been dropped. The pattern changes as the mind changes, yet never begins quite anew. At first, we are not sure that we discern the pattern, but at last we see that, unknown to the weavers themselves, something has taken shape before our eyes, and that they have made something very beautiful, something which compels our understanding." ~Earl W. Count

KEEPING A PROMISE

2006-08-30T05:29:00.000-05:00

Quite some time ago, I made a promise to my dear photographer friend. I said I would one day paint a picture using one of the photographs he has taken and sent to me. Truthfully, I kept delaying it, because I was afraid. I feared I would be unable to do justice to any of his photos. He is a wizard with his camera, and that caused further nervousness on my part. Heck, if his photos were ugly, any painting I did from one would not look too bad in comparison.

And so, I painted this, that, and the other from other photographs. Always intending to keep my promise to him...sooner or later. More later than sooner.

Well, the promise has been kept. I chose one of his iris photographs to work from. I opted to use pastel paints instead of watercolors. There was some artistic license I exercised, as is my right! But, I hope he is pleased with the result.

I must be going through my flower phase. The last bunch of paintings I have done have all had flowers in them.

And I breathe a huge sigh of relief knowing I honored my promise.

"People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us." ~Iris Murdoch

BEHIND A PARASOL~August SPC, Week 5~Enclosed Spaces

2006-08-28T12:10:00.000-05:00

This parasol takes me way back to my early youth. Elementary school to be exact. It is one of my most sentimental and cherished possessions that has moved with me many times through the years.

My father did much traveling during his lifetime. It was on one of his trips to the Orient that he bought this rice paper parasol for me. I can still recall the moment he gave it to me. I immediately opened it up and twirled it above my head over and over again. Its large diameter dwarfed my tiny frame, and I fancied myself as some exotic creature from an exotic land.

Because I was in grade school, I brought it to "show and tell." Rice paper was not common to really anyone at that age, so it was unique to them and interested them. And the delicate beauty of the hand-painted blossoms still enchants me all these years later.

I keep this parasol in our master bedroom. It is propped in the corner...in the exact spot where I am sitting in this portrait.

(The August Self-Portrait Challenge theme is enclosed spaces and places.)

#@*&($!+% (Repost from my former journal)

2006-08-27T20:40:00.000-05:00

Thursday, January 27, 2005
7:17:00 AM EST
Feeling Happy
Hearing Sex and Candy~Marcy Playground

#@*&($!+%

::my entire body shudders violently as my head thrashes back and forth, my fingers entwine in my hair trying to still the movement:: Whew! That was a rough flashback. I have those on occasion. I am always glad when they pass. What is it I am recalling that causes me such anguish? Birth control methods. Yep, birth control.

I naively skipped off to my gynecologist's office to be put on the birth control pill one month prior to my marriage. With my soon-to-be hubby just starting college, we decided we should wait until he had his degree before children were to be considered. No problem. Yeah, right. I took the tiny little pill each day and felt quite comfortable knowing I would not have to worry about any unplanned pregnancies.

Flash forward two months. Picture me with the migraine from hell. Picture me lying on the bed literally trying to hold both sides of my skull together from the axe that was desperately trying to split my head in two. Hey, I was a migraine professional. I was used to them, because I had had them since my teen years. They were no fun, they cramped my style, they hurt, and I did not like them. However, I could suck 'em up with not too much of a disturbance in my routine. EXCEPT FOR THAT DAY. Oh my God. I would have had to rally to die. The pain was the most awful pain I could possibly have imagined. Hubby knew this was not my normal reaction to a migraine. He called my long-time family friend doctor who told him to bring me in immediately. Poor little me was taken into the office to be examined. I do not remember very much of the visit except when he asked me if I was taking any medications. I said, "Nothing except the birth control pill." Uh oh...wrong answer. Doc was not a happy camper hearing that. Apparently migraine sufferers should avoid taking THE PILL. Oops. I didn't know. He said something about the potential for strokes and other equally unpleasant side effects I could have had. He told me never to take it again. Then he whipped out a huge needle you could have basted a turkey with and jammed it into my butt. Hubby's parting instructions were to take me straight home...not to stop anywhere...straight home and get me into bed. Alrighty.

I was feeling pretty darn happy by the time we reached our apartment complex.I had no pain in my head at all. It did not matter to me that my head was the size of a hot air balloon. I floated up the flight of steps to our apartment door only to notice the neighbor just across the hall from us had moved out and left her door open. I just had to sneak a peek in there to see if it looked like our apartment. I made it maybe five feet past the door when I thought I was going to pass out. I grabbed hold of hubby's arm and told him to get me to bed right away. He quickly unlocked our door and led me inside. Oh, figures...I had to tinkle. I went, but I couldn't feel any of my limbs, so I told hubby he had to flush the potty. While he was doing that, I entered the bedroom and sprawled across the bed~shoes and all. I think he undressed me, but I do not really remember. (Wait, he's a man...I was helpless...let's get real, he probably at least copped a feel.) I woke up once long enough to yell out for something I could use to barf in. Hubby appeared with a bowl which I promptly filled. ::laughing at how gross I am:: I never woke up again until the next day. God only knows what was in that shot, but it was strong.

That left the two of us with quite a dilemma. If I couldn't take the pill, then we had to find some other means of contraception. The rhythm method is cute, but it isn't exactly very effective. It was ruled out. I suggested condoms. I was promptly shot down. Okay, okay...I told him I would go to the gynecologist and see what he suggested. I made an appointment and went to his office. I received a stern lecture for not telling him about my migraine history. I pathetically explained I was unaware migraines were considered a health condition. Doc and I discussed various birth control options. The diaphragm was decided to be my best choice. Yay! I had something he felt was effective. He gave me one with the instructions, and I went home all content with my new pregnancy-prevention gadget.

Oh dear Lord. I would have rather had a brood of 12 children than to go through the diaphragm experience again. For those who are not familiar with it, it looks like a big rolled-up condom, except the sides do not unroll. It is a disk with a lip around it. You have to put this messy gel around the lip, then bend the disk in half to put it inside of you. Once inside wherever the hell it goes, it springs open and prevents the sperm from swimming anywhere except into that rubber wall. You have to leave it in place for a set amount of hours after sex, because the fishies lurk just waiting for you to accidentally remove the diaphragm too soon, enabling them to head right for that come-hither egg. This thing was a mess. I despised it. Every single time I used it, I had difficulty. It was next to impossible to hold onto the damn disk when there was all that gooey, slippery gel on the part you HAD to hold onto to bend the dumb thing.

One evening I wanted to have sex, so I slipped off to the bathroom to begin the wrestling match between me and the dreaded diaphragm. I wanted it in place so when hubby was ready for bed, I could surprise him and jump his bones. All pleased with my planning, I began the process of applying the gel to the rim of that contraption. I carefully bent the disk and ::boing:: it sprung out of my fingers and onto the floor. Okay. That happens. I tried a second time and ::boing:: up into the air and down onto the floor. By this time, I was getting pretty agitated. I am not a quitter, and I sure was not going to let some little round rubber thing get the best of me. I applied more gel to the rim (after wiping up all the stupid gel from the floor) and very, very carefully bent the diaphragm in half. Yes, yes...this time it was so very close to my body when ::BOING:: it shot out of my fingers, went flying away from me, and stuck itself to the ceramic tile wall inside the bathtub. I was livid. I peeled it off the wall, and once again made the attempt to insert it. It went in, it went where it was supposed to, but I was in a horribly foul mood. I left the bathroom, and these were the exact words I said to my husband (you can use your imagination to guess the tone in which they were said): "We ARE having sex tonite whether or not you want it, and you WILL enjoy it. I just spent forever trying to put in this stupid diaphragm. I hate this thing." We had sex. I think he was scared not to.

Oh, by the way, we switched to condoms shortly after that nite. ::grin::

Today's quote:

"I rely on my personality for birth control." ~Liz Winston

ENCHANTMENT

2006-08-24T22:14:00.000-05:00

"Only those who truly love and who are truly strong can sustain their lives as a dream. You dwell in your own enchantment. Life throws stones at you, but your love and your dream change those stones into the flowers of discovery. Even if you lose, or are defeated by things, your triumph will always be exemplary. And if no one knows it, then there are places that do. People like you enrich the dreams of the worlds, and it is dreams that create history. People like you are unknowing transformers of things, protected by your own fairy tale, by love." ~Ben Okri

Who cannot be enchanted by those magnificent words and the spellbinding painting (which I embellished, perhaps to its detriment, with sparkles and a butterfly to enhance the magic of the scene)? Only those whose hearts and minds are closed or dead. And I feel pity for them.

X IS FOR X

2006-08-22T18:05:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, sometimes, when a journaler/blogger is writing an entry that will ruffle some feathers or offend people, the writer takes a moment to say, "This is my journal, and if you don't like what you read here, all you have to do is click on the little X up in the corner."

I do not recall ever having said that in my journal. First of all, of course it is my journal. It is why my name is posted on the entry and not someone else's. Second, every dullard in Dullardsville knows what happens when the X in the corner is clicked. I do not feel the need to point it out to them. And third, I think that particular advice is often used an excuse to be rude. Uh huh, I do. If the potential to offend someone is going to be in your entry, then at least have the backbone to say what you want without throwing in an overused and tired line to try to further justify your action. Stand by your words or beliefs, without relying on a worn out cliche to cover your behind ("Well, I said to click on the X."). Or is using it a guarantee that people will read your words? Hmmm?

Whatever the case, gotta admit the above graphic is somewhat amusing.

By the way, X got screwed over by E when Webster compiled his dictionary. Why doesn't "excellent" start with an X? Or "ecstasy" start with an X? Or "extraordinary" start with an X? E had to go and horn its way into taking over some of the best words, leaving poor X a mere few words. So selfish and thoughtless.

"Action, looks, words, steps, form the alphabet by which you may spell character." ~Johann Kaspar Lavater

SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE, AUGUST, WEEK #4

2006-08-22T00:51:00.001-05:00

I feel puny. Both of my ears are infected {insert whine}, and they feel like they will soon be exploding right off my head...taking much brain matter with them. My throat is sore {boo hoo}, and talking makes it hurt worse. I am in a feverish state and shaking like a leaf at what must be subzero temperatures in my house {violin, anyone?}. However, it's Self-Portrait Challenge time, and I briefly entertained the notion of not bothering to post anything for it. Why bother? Sometimes when I see what others post, while interesting and well-done, I fail to see how it really fits the theme for the month. Then again, we all have our own unique thought processes, and self-expression of them is the name of the game when it comes to the SPC. This month's theme is enclosed places. Should I take a picture of the cotton ball that is currently shoved into my ear? Uh, I'll pass. That would actually fit the theme, though. ::grin::

Anywhoooooo, in keeping with the theme of confining and enclosed spaces (and not out there on some super cerebral plane of consciousness), I have posted this self-portrait of me inside a revolving door. It was taken in Chicago on August 4, 2006, just as I was entering our hotel after having seen the King Tut Exhibit.

I'M LOOSE!

2006-08-16T20:53:00.000-05:00

Finally, something for me to yahoo about!

Lately, my painting has left me frustrated and doing more than my share of kvetching. Creating anything worth keeping was impossible. (That, in itself, told me I needed a vacation.)

Before I left for Chicago, I decided to try an entirely new~to me, anyway~technique. It involves using very watered down watercolor paints on a material called Yupo paper. Yupo is not really paper at all. It is a plastic sheet. It does not warp or buckle, and there is no need to prepare it before applying the paint. At an art show, I had seen a very small abstract painting using this particular "paper." I found it unique. And I immediately bought some Yupo to give it a try. Mind you, I had no earthly idea how to use it, but I am always game for experimentation.

Excitedly, I began to paint on this curiously different paper. Ugh. And double ugh. I was appalled at the ugliness I had created. The bonus of Yupo is that with a damp cloth or sponge you can wipe off the paint. I think I wiped off four different hideous paintings. By the time we left for Chicago, sitting on my drafting table was a blank piece of Yupo. I was convinced I was going to have to find a workshop to learn the proper use of it. And I was none too happy.

Maybe my muse was refreshed after the long weekend away, because upon my return I sat down to give the watercolors on Yupo one final try before giving up on it. And the above is what I created. Yay for me! I got loose! Loose, I tell ya! I have always wanted to quit being such a tight, precise painter. Looseness I wanted, and looseness I got.

I am very pleased with these tulips. I will even matte and frame this painting. ::gasp:: To the majority of people, this might look like a mess not worthy of framing. But to me, it gives me hope that I can express myself in a multitude of ways using various mediums.

Did I mention I got loose? ::grin::

"Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known." ~Oscar Wilde

SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE, AUGUST, WEEK #3

2006-08-14T21:43:00.000-05:00

August's theme at Self-Portrait Challenge is enclosed or tight places and spaces.

I cracked up when I took that shot of my face and put it on a jack-in-the-music-box. It seemed to "go" with me and my personality quite well.

First, I am a joker. I love, love, love to make people laugh. That is the intention of a jack-in-the-music-box, is it not?

Second, I have a sadistic sense of humor. Everyone knows that kids either love or hate these things. They scare the crap out of many young children and might even evoke a jerk out of an adult when the crank is turned just enough to release "jack" from his confines. I think it is a hoot when the kids cry. Kinda like when they sob and scream while sitting on Santa's lap. Hehe. Plus, I hate clowns. I get major heebie jeebies when I see them.

Third, I am always surrounded by music. I would, indeed, find myself lost without it.

And fourth, the idea of being shoved down inside that square box and having the lid latched absolutely wigs me out.

See how well this picture represents me?!!!

W IS FOR WIND

2006-08-13T01:27:00.000-05:00

KARMA CURIOSITY

2006-08-09T06:19:00.000-05:00

Karma is a curious thing. It is veiled in little mysteries and loathe to share its exact origins with its owner.

I have always believed in karma. I had thought I had seen in it in action on numerous occasions, and maybe I actually did; however, now I have to think a bit differently about it. Researching it more than I ever had previously, I came across information I had not known.

Seems there are two main schools of thought regarding karma. Short-term karma and long-term karma. The short-term kind is the here and now. We reap what we sow in this life. Treat others well and perform good deeds, and we will be rewarded with positive karma. Intentionally (intentional being key) hurting others and causing them pain or harm is paid back in this life. Unpleasantly. Religions or people who believe in reincarnation (which I do...I am such a liberal Christian) strongly believe in short-term karma, YET also believe in long-term karma that follows you through every life you have. Yes, each and every life. That was news to me.

So, I thought long and hard about that. It was a twist I had not expected to find when researching the concept. And finally it all seemed to fall into place. It makes sense.

Think about it. How many people do you know who have lived an exemplary life full of goodness and decency, yet they suffer indescribable maladies? And how many people do you know who are heartless and callous beasts who seemingly skate through life problem-free? We try to understand it. We say those cruel people have paved their own way to hell. And for those who have suffered inexplicably, we reassure ourselves that they have a ticket to Heaven.

But is that really true? Could it possibly be that long-term karma is the cause of such occurrences? It seems highly plausible to me. We are not who we were in a past life, but we might be experiencing the aftereffects of the life previously lived. And how we handle ourselves in this life might very well indicate the kind of life we will live in the next one. Until we get it right. Some may get it down perfect in just one or two lives. Others may go through dozens of lifetimes before getting it down pat. Then, a seat in Heaven at God's side is the reward.

I had to chuckle a bit when I had this next thought. When something good happens to me during this present life of mine, will I automatically believe it is because I am being a wonderful person? And when something bad happens, am I going to blame my past life for it? ::grin:: It would be very easy to go that route, and I suspect some people routinely justify their behavior by doing exactly that.

No one can say with certainty that karma does or does not exist. Just as no one can guarantee that God exists. It is all in what you feel in your heart and mind combined whether or not you believe. And I so believe.

“Watch your thoughts, for they become words.
Watch your words, for they become actions.
Watch your actions, for they become habits.
Watch your habits, for they become character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.”
~Unknown

WEEK 2, AUGUST SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE

2006-08-07T23:01:00.000-05:00

In keeping with this month's theme of tight, enclosed places or spaces at Self-Portrait Challenge, I offer the following:

Uh huh, the "girls" felt quite enclosed in this little oh-so-tight dress. I am not a particularly busty woman, but this dress fits like a second skin. It certainly gave the girls more than a bit of claustrophobia. It also earned me a smile and a lingering gaze right at them in the elevator at our hotel. Did I mention that the smiler/gazer was a stranger and a drop-dead gorgeous hunk of man who I wanted to grab and pull his face to my chest? The matching sweater had long since been discarded before my elevator ride. Hubby was in the elevator and saw this taking place. His response after we stepped out of the elevator was to shake his head at me with a slight smile curving his lips. Hey, I appreciate fine-looking men wherever they might be found! And he knows it.

Yes, I know, I know...I am being naughty. Naughty is fun.

V IS FOR...

2006-08-07T01:14:00.000-05:00

Ahhhh, my trip to Chicago was sheer heaven. The King Tut exhibit (no photos allowed), Stained Glass Museum, Navy Pier for the Tall Ships show, Chicago Water Works facility, Lollapalooza, churches after churches, shopping, exceptional dining. And there were so many other activities and events I wish we had had time to see. If I have any regrets at all, it is that we were unable to stay longer. We tried to conjure up ways son and hubby could take off work for a few more days, but it was not to be. I think I will be returning right after Thanksgiving, sans kids, so I will get another dose of Chicago then.

Of all the cities I have visited here in the United States, Chicago remains the one that has seemingly permanently captured my heart. Oh, how I love it there.

"This is my kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of people too
People who smile at you"

~My Kind Of Town by Frank Sinatra

WEEK 1, AUGUST SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE

2006-07-31T23:35:00.000-05:00

The theme over at Self-Portrait Challenge for this month is enclosed spaces. Self-portraits of each one of us in a confined space. Another requirement is that the portraits portray us as others might view us in that particular place and moment.

And since this is a place in my home that I frequent far too often and "travel" on at various speeds, here I am on yet another trek up the stairs.

HAPPY, HURT, AND HARRIED

2006-07-30T01:56:00.000-05:00

Could be the names of three of the seven dwarfs, couldn't it?

Anywhooooo, I finally finished this painting of my daughter. Yes, I am happy with it for the most part. I do not like doing portraits using acrylics, however. I was utterly clueless how to go about it (lessons in acrylics should be on a to-do list for me), because the paint dries way too quickly. I took the photograph of my daughter from which I based this painting last summer, and I had always wanted to paint it. TA-DA! Goal achieved. Best part of it all is that she likes it very much. She smiles when she looks at it. And that makes me very happy.

I began a new painting right afterward, and it is entirely different from any type of painting I have previously done. Egads, I keep trying new stuff without having seen the techniques performed in person. Relying on step-by-step photographs is just not the same as actually watching someone wield the brushes and paint. This promises to be a challenge, but I am already liking some aspects about this new style. The painting sucks in a huge way. The nice part is I can wash it all off and begin anew. (::grin:: I have already done that three times!)

My heart got a hurt put on it Friday. ::nodnod:: No Band-Aid can fix it. Those are for minor boo-boos anyway. This is a pretty large wound. The best thing to do to heal it is to push it out of my thoughts as best as I can. Sometimes I am very good at that. Other times, I cannot at all. I do not know which way it will be this time, but I am hopeful I can wrestle it from my thoughts. Honestly, I have to wonder just how many little chunks of my heart are missing from the various injuries it has been subjected to. God help me if there would ever come a time when I would grow cold because one too many pieces had been plucked from that vital organ of mine.

Harried. Mmhmm. I am getting more and more frantic by the hour. We are leaving for our trip to Chicago Thursday morning, and I have a list out the wazoo of things to do. Leave it to now for my dog's diabetes to start acting up. I inject her twice daily with insulin, yet I can see signs that perhaps she needs an increased dose. The poor thing is aging, and it is sad to see her slow decline. Her blindness is an ongoing source of pain to me. I hate that she has become more timid and hesitant and nervous since losing her sight. Her weight is dropping, but her appetite remains hearty. That and her constant thirst scream to me that her insulin needs adjusted. So, I take her to the vet on Tuesday for a checkup.

Yessss, I am getting my hair done on Tuesday, too. I chopped off a good four or five inches the other day. It had grown way too long. Let's see if my stylist thinks I did a good job of hacking at it. ::laugh::

Joy of joys, I chipped my front tooth. No one can tell, because it is the back of the tooth I chipped. This is ALL the fault of Mark Jacobs who was my elementary school honey. Yes, one summer nite long ago at the pool as I was leaving and had just begun to step into the encased steel turnstile that led the way out of the facility, Mark jumped in with me. Only one person was supposed to be in each section, and when he slipped inside with me, it jerked back the bar. And hit my mouth. What a horrifying treat to see tiny bits of white enamel on my black towel. Ugh. I suppose I was lucky it was not knocked out or broken in half, but geeeeez! The dentist will be getting a phone call from me on Monday with a plea to do something to fix it. I cannot imagine how unsettling it would be for it to pose a problem for me while in Chicago.

And that's another thing. My son is vacationing in Maine right now. We cannot get through to him to coordinate the time we are to pick him up at the airport in Chicago. He is flying straight from Maine and meeting us there. Well, he is if we know when the heck his flight arrives. ::smile:: I am sure he will call before we leave. Okay, I am almost sure he will think to do that!

Mom has had one heckuva tough time since she went into the hospital. She ultimately had to have her heart shocked twice, because the first time only kept her heart in rhythm for less than a day. The new medication she was sent home with caused her to feel like she was experiencing congestive heart failure. Fortunately, the doc halved the dose, and she is making a slow comeback. I was ready to take her to the emergency room at one point. I worry, worry, worry about her. I also am feeling a bit guilty leaving for my little getaway. One of my sisters is already in Spain and Italy on a trip. Another one is leaving early in the week for a destination I cannot even remember. That leaves only one sister here to look after Mom. ::sad face:: At least I will not be too far away should I need to get back home quickly. And Mom is adamant that I take this vacation. I love that pushy dame. (Okay, so I am the pushy dame...she's just cute as a button and no bigger than a minute!)

All of the little things to do before going anywhere are making me frantic. I doubt that I will be posting again in this journal before I leave Thursday. 'Tis possible I will do the self-portrait challenge on Tuesday, but that is a quick entry...if I can get around to taking the type of photograph designated for the month of August challenge. Right now, it is low on my list of things to do.

I soooo want and need this little trip to my beloved Chicago. Oddly enough and very much unlike when I am at home, I sleep like a baby when I am in a nice hotel. Go figure!

And that is that for now. A happy week to all of you.

"A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you've been taking." ~Earl Wilson

BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR THIS "MAN"

2006-07-29T14:01:00.000-05:00

Helpful tips: Often seen wearing ruby slippers. Armed with a lidded picnic basket. Considered dangerous to the eyes.

Any information that leads to his arrest will be rewarded. Oh yeah, and I guess he should probably be caught alive. That is your choice, though.