Re: Lunch Date Thursday, 1/19/17 @ 12:30-1:00 PM

SJ

Sandy Jorgensen

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Today, 12:50 PM

Pat Knefel (beano_dragonlady)

Can we do a reschedule, a little dance and some alka seltzer in... never mind. 

My mother called last night saying she's rescheduled her acupuncturist appointment for Thursday, the 19th. I said, "oh, ok. well, looks like that's my only day off." and she says, "well good, it worked for me then. Pick us up early, we don't want to be late. "  My third chakra is blocked as the gurus say. Gut bombed as my beer drinking sons say. 

 Just for the record, I leave my house extremely early because my mom is never ready. I sit in the couch with my dad and his new television the size of the room on CNN blasted to maximum and then when we finally get in the door to see her acupuncturist, guess what her favorite thing to say is? If you guessed, "Oh that Sandra! She's a busy lady, but at least she got us here!" , then you are correct. (you may smoke your cigar)

  Nice thing about him is that we speak with our eyes and he grins, puts a needle on the top of my head and I feel it travel down my body in a most relaxing way. They don't remember why he does it and he always repeats that it's for stress to which my mom blurts, "Dee? No, she's not stressed."

 We all love to talk! but a 2-3 hour visit is too much and then we go out to lunch and my mom scolds me for not becoming an acupuncturist, telling me it's not too late and the Dr. and I have so much in common. "I think he likes you."  ...."would anyone care for dessert?" To avoid more gut bombing, I say, no thank you.

  As far as coffee with you my friend on the 19th, looks like we will have to reschedule.  

Hands of Love

    It was the last performance of the year for the junior high school band at a time when my emotions were raw.  Instruments were being tuned while parents filled the bleachers. Saxophones played over violins and the drum banged, piercing my heart for tears to run. The audience silenced to sounds of young musicians, bringing the room together as a whole but soon our collective peace was shattered by a red faced man running in late, two bleachers at a time. I noticed his short straight fingers indicating a quick and impulsive mind that may ignore details, and that he had sat next to an obviously annoyed elegant man with long knotted fingers. Long slender fingers that preferred punctuality and planning. The knots indicated analytical thought so it was likely he had arrived early. My tears turned to laughter. We're all musical instruments if only people knew the code for natural harmony. How do I know? I am a hand reader.

    Palmistry is defined as 'divination by inspection of the palm of the hand; the art of telling a person's character and fortune by examination of the lines and configurations of the palm. This definition is why many think only a select few have this skill, although complicated in nature as humans are, it can be learned. Wouldn't it be nice to know how another person reacts to the environment and operates in the world to avoid conflict simply by observing their hands?  Approaching a stranger and asking to see their palms for compatibility frightens many but there is an unspoken language on the outside of a hand. A square, course hand tends to be honest, liking physical pleasures, usually doubting the unseen world while a slender palmed hand with long fingers and soft skin will be emotionally observant to their surroundings with a natural inclination towards books and imagination. These are basic traits and not everyone will fit comfortably in the box so the trained palmist must consider other variables such as the length of fingers and shapes of nails. Short nail beds belong to high strung bossy types. They see the big picture, run in and out of the grocery store as fast as they can. Long nail beds belong to calmer people who take things slowly and like details. A lazy quality can sneak up on them because they tend to be sensual in nature. Another nail bed is the slender and long type that loves beauty and order. If you rearrange what they've done, you may cause arguments.

    Each of us desires meaningful relationships and validation. We come together to learn life's lessons and to fulfill a purpose. The lines on our palms speak volumes. There are three basic lines, heart, head and life line. A heart line represents our emotional nature and how we choose to love. It can be seen as a curved or straight line under the fingers.  Straight, the person is cautious in love, taking their time to get to know you because their emotions are guarded while the curved heart line is friendly yet emotional at times. They jump into relationships quicker than the straights. Look to see if the line is short or long. I had issues with a woman for years because I thought she was uncaring until I saw her short heart line telling me she was cautious to a fault because it was hard for her to be vulnerable. Once I understood this, everything changed. These types need to feel secure with finances before friends. Don't expect them to call you first as they generally tend to have a me first attitude. The good news is that through internal reflection and forgiveness work, our lines will grow on the dominant hand. Long heart lines are romantic and caring. They will call you to see how things are going and have days when they will feel ignored. If the line is deeply chained or broken, emotional pain is present. Find ways such as writing or walks in nature to release the tension, avoiding heart problems down the road.  

    The head line is under the heart line, starting near the thumb, traveling across the hand. Head lines are not a measure of IQ; rather, how mental energy is directed and how we express our thoughts.The life line must also be observed. It curves around the thumb, starting at the index finger and ending near the wrist. When the head line isn't attached to the life line, these people are risk takers who act impulsively. Head lines tied to the life line show on people that are reserved and may hesitate before taking chances. If your new partner has a short line, lectures and activities that require sitting will bore them. Better to go bowling, anything that moves the body as they love to be active, generally practical and may become specialists in their field. Long head lines belong to people that have multiple interests and are always asking questions with a desire for lectures, meetings and classes.

    Watch for straight or curved lines. I read a boy's hand with a straight head line, knowing this was a child that would meet deadlines in a headstrong way. Analytical and practical, he'd save money and work in an established company. He desired to be a banker with a sports car. His sensitive sister had a long curved line. She wrote poetry, and used her heart instead of her mind with decisions. I asked if she had an interest in healing and she said yes, she'd love to be a nurse but couldn't make up her mind as she also loved painting. The curved lines can dip into the area of the subconscious on the palm. Parents may see these children as procrastinators who meet deadlines right at the last minute. Curved types are intuitive business owners but need the straight lined folks for accounting work. It all balances out.

    "In arming yourself with this science, you arm yourself with a great power and you will have a thread that will guide you into the labyrinth of the most impenetrable hearts." ~ Henri De Balzac~ 

   

My Sister's Phone Call

Sister calls me late when things are funny
we've worked hard, dealt with issues and we laugh
at everything that won't make sense to others
because we're strong and made of salty earth
raised by heart committed  parents, tinged in shades of blue
coated with Catholic beliefs that tightly grip our new thoughts
So we laugh at being closet red necks,  teaching her children
how to be a good Jew because their father is a Jewish man
but her son hates the fellowship and has no interest in Israel
and we laugh again about the price of trees in that country that cost
ten grand and he'll be the coolest kid on college campus
if one is purchased but she won't listen to my words of comfort
reminding her that religion is man made and God is Love
God is also laughter and sister, you've made my day
yes, I'll jump on a plane and see you as soon as work is clear
because it'll be October and that's our birthday month
I eat two stale marshmallows and say my good byes over
I love you, no I love you more and cry because
she lives so far but our laughter echoes into my head
and gently rocks me into peace.

Christmas Song

     It was a tight squeeze between the taco shells and salted or unsalted butter on sale for all the December cookie bakers but the large and handsomely dressed young man maneuvered his grocery cart without noticing how dangerously close he had come to my left foot. His voice was louder than the store's speakers and in a childish voice he sang, "all I want for Christmas are my two front teeth, my two front teeth." I chuckled that I should be singing all I want for Christmas is my big fat toe, my big fat toe and mentally classified him as someone who was mentally slow. No sooner than the thought came to me, remorse  weighed my heart down with such a force.

    "Minister to  him," I heard. Oh no, not here at the grocery store! "Yes, do it, you must speak with him, he needs a smile." It's a Friday afternoon and the place is crowded I told this voice that overcame my body. "There is an understanding you will gain from him, here's your chance."
I turned around and noticed he had also turned his cart around. In perfect synchronicity, we both went into the same aisle. He was startled when I leaned into him and whispered, "I bet there's more that you want for Christmas besides your two front teeth." I prayed he didn't think I was flirting.

     The blue in his eyes were such a pretty contrast to his long black coat. I always find it interesting how preconceived perceptions change when I'm face to face with another person, fully engaged. He felt broken and told me about a near fatal car wreck when he was sixteen. It damaged  his knees and the surgeon who replaced them didn't do the surgery correctly because of outdated materials. There were two metal rods in both of his hips and the cold weather made them ache more. He wasn't having much luck finding a doctor who could help him and he didn't have health insurance. The pain was unbearable but he didn't want his wife and kids to know or worry so he said he sings.

     "I'm not young anymore, I'm thirty four!" he said. Oh how I thanked my pain free body and wished him good luck on his journey.

     "Thank you for talking with me. Now you know why I always sing that song. Two front teeth for Christmas! Dang, that's nothing."

    On that last sentence, we both sang the song and he went one direction, I went the other. There wasn't any music playing and it didn't bother me when a customer looked at me oddly. I now had a song in my heart and it was contagious!

   

The Sex Talk at the End of Summer

     I recognized a name from my past today on a for sale sign near my home that opened up a whole can of worms. He was the older brother of my brother's best friend and lived in a house across the street from the swimming pool. G.W., my brother's friend. came to our house often and I'm not sure why he was my choice for a practical joke the end of ninth grade after I had perfected typing. He had a nice Catholic family whose mom did volunteer work at the school where we attended. In those days, school started after Labor Day when summer felt officially over, not like my grand children's school that started today, in the middle of August. I was glad they had new clothes, shoes and supplies along with an eager spirit of new beginnings but feeling edgy wondering if sixth grader Dylan was ready for the much dreaded 'sex talk.' The clue came in the awkward moment yesterday when his mom had to turn off the t.v. seconds before John Travolta had a make out scene with a woman in the kitchen and Dylan's eyes were big as saucers.

     My parents didn't talk sex, they preferred that we learn it through our friends. Maybe it was their way of keeping us young. It was in the eighth grade after lunch and during noon recess. The girls were huddled together in a corner in the church parking lot and while standing on the metal grid, Rosemary K proceeded to inform us in detail what our parents did before we were born. Debbie said she made it up and not to pay attention because Rosemary was being mean but the thought of my parents doing that five times was sickening. I felt sorry for my mom and her sacrifice to have us children.

     The following year I woke with horrible stomach cramps and blamed it on the hot milk I drank before bedtime. During gym class after a game of dodge ball, my friend Pat said I had started my period and helped me put a coin in the machine for a pad. I wouldn't have told my mom if it wasn't for the new gym uniform that was ruined. She told me in a stoic expression that I was a woman now and my body could make babies. "Now go and wash your hands so you can set the table for dinner." It was that blunt. There was truth in Rosemary K's story. For the next couple of months while the boys were busy ignoring us, my friends exchanged information about sex. We could 'do it' but not on the 12th, 13th or 14th day after of our period if we wanted to remain childless. Confusion grew and we stopped talking about sex partly because homework and newly found typing skills were a priority but secretly nobody wanted to admit they didn't know much about sex.

    Click, click click were sounds you would hear at the local library in those days of typewriters going off together. The older kids always had the tables so I practiced on the typewriter at home in my spare time. I must have had sex on the brain because I typed a letter to my brother's friend, G.W. and addressed it to his mother. It was a notice from the library telling her G.W. owed huge fines for not returning the book, "Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask." It was a clever prank but before the stamp was licked, my mom walked in my room and found it.

    Back to school today. Do your kids know the sex talk and how old is too young? Will boys be told differently than girls? My husband had a way with words when our boys were curious. He told them sex was made to be pleasurable or nobody would have kids. When they asked questions he calmly told them that God had a plan for it to be that way. "What if your mate wanted a baby and the way to do it was to put your penis on the workbench and hit it with a hammer? Well, nobody would want kids. Ok, that's all, go outside and play." Laughing out loud on that advice I have to thank technology. Nowadays they can google any fact.

    Glad to be the grandma now! I don't have to explain anything. Think I'll order a pizza this weekend and rent that John Travolta movie with my husband. Happy new school year, I hope you all get A's.

   



   

Fred Phelps On A Saturday Night

     Fred Phelps is in his end days, preparing to be taken into the arms of angels while people here are clapping and booing him off the stage and I feel the sadness of it all. Who forgot to hug him when he had a bad day in school? Who bullied Fred when he was so small? As I lay my head on the pillow, I pray his soul to keep and thank the lucky stars I have smaller problems, while drifting off to sleep.

     Unexpectedly, Aunt Irene is here for a night time visit, interrupting the casting crew and pulling me off the set because there is a spot on my face. They're annoyed and it's only a dream but it costs money to get the photographers and music in alignment on a Saturday night and she's pulling my arms and asking me to go bar hopping in her fast white car. Stubborn woman, I'm dragged inside and walls are black, the people have no color, shadows draped in smoke lead our way. Bits of confetti float in the air, mostly reds and yellows. Why are we here? My son, we need to find my son! Shall I apologize to the television crew and their photographers first?

     The images are lucid as hard rain on glass, disappearing with every swipe of a windshield wiper and fear is thick but there is no fog. Aunt Irene has left, leaving me alone with the thing. The thing that exists and is now an enemy. It's coming to hurt me and I swear if it jumps like that jack in the box at the thrift store today, I will kill it!

     "No," the angel comforts. "You are to love this enemy or else it will kill you," she says and pulls the shades so Sunday morning light can penetrate my bedroom.

     Whew, that's the last time I'll pray for Fred Phelps before bedtime and a phone text tells me to call my son because he may be in physical trouble. The thing has found a way out of the dream and into my house.The drumming in my heart is getting louder and louder and I feel my tribal roots grow with every beat. I wish I could call Aunt Irene, but she's been dead for years.

     Two days pass before I hear my son's voice but I've been told he's fine. My calls go unanswered but I know the thing has me in its grip and I slow my breath and try to remain neutral.
    "Mom? I'm coming over," he decides after his space of solitude. "I'm sore and my face is bad."
    His eye is swollen and he walks like our old cat. "What happened to you!" I ask and the story unfolds.

     He had smiled and opened the door for the wrong woman who took a punch at his face, knocking him to the floor and then kicked him in the face with her boots. While trying to stand, she kicked him in the stomach, breaking his glasses. It was a random act of violence and the people who saw the moment when he was standing thought he had provoked it. One man furthered the insult by pushing him to the wall. In one small moment, many could have stepped forward but chose to walk away, diverting their eyes, leaving him feeling like a stain on the carpet.

     Every mother knows the pain of a bullied child and every cop knows the rage of vengeful mother. The thing I so feared had now entered my body, never mind that it may be karma balancing a past life action, he was my son and nobody would hurt him for no reason. An intense anger filled my body and I thought of ways to find this person. It took two days to rid myself of these thoughts, leaving me with the same kind of poison the woman must have felt when she hit my son. How did I become like her? The thing was snug inside of me and the only way out was for me to project a love ball of light into her from me. The energy slowly shifted and I began to cry. Who had forgotten to notice her when she was small? Where were her words that told stories of her dreams and why she is important? Slowly, there was release, my joints felt flexible and my breath became deeper with every inhalation.

     Aunt Irene was right, I had a dirty spot on my face. The only way we will ever be able to truly take our bow on the stage in front of cameras and lights will be to love our enemies with understanding and compassion. As long as we fear or hate the Fred Phelps and other bullies in the world, we are the same. As the angel in the dream said, "learn to love the enemy or it will kill us."



   

Mommy Dearest

     I knew she was mad when I called because her coldness hit me in the stomach only this time I wasn't going on another one of her guilt trips. Yes, it had been over a week since I had called but their phone was out of order and it slipped my mind to mention that fact. Life's been busy, I'm a grandma now, the freelance business I've dreamed of is taking off and my husband is turning into an old man faster than expected. She didn't hear me, I sensed daydreaming on the other end of the phone. Of all the women I have known in my life, she is the only one who can slice my heart in half with her lack of words and then piece it together with a homemade pie and a great story, often ending with, if you love Jesus, you'll call your old mother once in awhile. No, I'm not going on another guilt trip! This time she didn't say it, instead I heard her say, I love you.

     "I love you too, mom." We come in all shapes and sizes with different perspectives, feeling tossed together like a jigsaw puzzle, and I just wanted my piece to fit snugly next to her piece without feeling lost in a box where all the pieces are black, the hardest kinds of puzzles to finish! The phone call lasted thirty minutes and left us both equally frustrated for words not spoken but cordial out of respect for each other.

     Hanging up, the kitchen light reflected on the portrait my oldest son had drawn and colored for me when he was in first grade. My smile was huge and he colored me with green eyes, greener than my real ones. He had drawn a baby in my arms, him as a newborn. How I've treasured this picture for so many years that gives me such joy. Still feeling flattened, the phone rang again but this time it was my son, the artist of the picture I was viewing! He was on his way over to see me after working a long ten hours on the dock at his job. No wonder he drew a big smile on that face, he knows how much I love him!
                                           

     Thirty minutes later, enough time to gloat and feel pumped up again, he arrived looking somewhat flattened himself. Red eyed and in need of a shower, I offered him cooked scrabbled eggs, broccoli and couscous without the coffee since our breakfast would be his dinner hour.

     "Mom, you don't have to feed me," he said. "I'm here to get my invitation. Man, why don't people remember my address?" he moaned and I knew he had been awake far too long.

    "It's not personal, sometimes it's easier to send all the invitations to one house," I counseled.
     "Well, it makes me feel like a little kid," he added. "Oh! My picture! That's funny, you still have it, I like the frame, yeah, I will have some of that food." Thank God the conversation had changed to something less stressful.

     "I remember how hard I worked on that in school, it took a long time and I was so proud." he remembered. "I wanted to get your happy face and accidentally made the teeth bigger than your real ones."

     "It's perfect, I will always love it the way it is, " I sighed.
     "NO! That's not what you said mom. I was so proud of it and you laughed and told me I made you look fat and ugly," he said. "I thought I was a terrible artist or you would have liked it."

     "I'm sorry, is that why you stopped drawing? I dream about you all the time and you're painting pictures of Indians, everyone loves them, I feel sick, I'm so sorry!" I cried.

     "It's ok mom, I'm over it, I need to go home and get to sleep. Thanks for finding a nice frame for it."
     "Promise me you'll get back to sketching again," I moaned. "Your sister dreams about your paintings too."

     "Yeya! I had one last night, they're huge canvases and I'm jealous because I want some of those, "she yelled from upstairs.

     "Heh, maybe I'll start drawing again for fun and be in galleries," he laughed while we hugged and walked to the door.

     Paul, my first born child, great teacher to his mother, helping to solve life's riddles for thirty six years together looked ten feet tall in that moment with the bluest eyes and huge white teeth, and that's how I would have drawn him. Suddenly, his short visit had warped time. My deadlines didn't exist, there was no competition and plenty of time to phone my mom again. She didn't come to the phone, she was in the shower but it's ok, I'll call again tomorrow. For now I'll  be grateful for unsaid words and a more colorful puzzle picture. Heh, looks like another artist got added to the box!

 

Little French Bra

little bras and nighties that hang from wooden hangers
in the chic French lingerie shop with etched birds and leaves
on the windows peeked my curiosity
enough to cross the empty street in neighborhoods where
artists pray their work is sold in galleries that have a ghostly feel
because it's February and nothing seems to sell...

...tiny lady with feathered eyelashes and red stained lips
that protect long teeth with a slight lisp to her words
who says she knows my boobs by my hand to wrist ratio
"try it on, try it on! it's French" she commands
and there I stand in front of mirrored walls with four of me's
dark green velvet curtains to my back with red fringe
and a gap that's painfully uncomfortable

"how's it fit? come out, let me take a look! ah, perfect
distorted and blushed in front of windows, my thoughts
are on a walking plan to melt these winter curves
that come with yearly snow and then the lady whistles words
with a smile, "sweetie, you're not fat, your jeans are too tight."

oh how I wish this neighborhood had an open coffee bar
with scones and chocolates, far cheaper than french bras....

The Vision Board Tale

     Have you made a vision board? It's where you cut out pictures of things you like from magazines such as a big house, new car or maybe a handsome mate and you glue it all on a piece of poster board. Some people add words for affirmations and then you put it someplace in your house, forget about it and things you desire will start to take shape into your life. Well, that's what I did on Saturday with a group of friends and a potluck. At first I didn't want to go, I've made them before, I teach workshops on how to make them and it just didn't interest me but I missed this group of people so I went.

     Everyone went around the room to give general thoughts of what they wanted in their lives but when it came to my turn, I told about wanting a stronger future generation. My dirty blue Malibu parked in the street ran fine, my house is cozy, the yard is hand planted, moving or buying new things would be a pain. I told how important it was for me to clean up my attitude and be a way shower for the grand kids. You see, I've read where our DNA can be changed by our thoughts (you tube Bruce Lipton) and how a mother daughter team teach Bible classes world wide because of their great grandma. Apparently, the great grandma took a huge interest in reading the book when she was sixteen years old, then out of the blue, her daughter took on the habit at the same age and her daughter as well until it also hit the fourth generation.

       I had done an experiment to only water my plants on Monday. When I went to my son's apartment, I noticed the plant I had given him was unusually large and lush to my surprise. He told me he had to cut it back three times and he only waters his plants on Monday's. Yes, DNA can change I thought.
     We had a short meditation to get into our space. I'm envisioning strong future children and a blue chord reaching to the sky with Stevie Wonder singing 'there's a ribbon in the sky' when out of the blue, my grandson texts me a short "hi". Connection, it was working and I hadn't even glued one thing on my paper!

     Ever been in that blissed out state but there's a nag in your gut that some thing's brewing? Could have been the excited text from my grandson that he was having a sleep over with two friends and dad said it was ok! Yes, mom was working the night shift again. On a Saturday night, after dad had worked all week?
     To make a long story short, it wasn't such a good idea after all and Sunday was all messed up with a house full of grumps who were all mad at each other. I decided to pick the grand kids up after school on Monday to give dad a break and Kaitlyn wasn't going to forgive that 'meanie' dad, ever! Mom's going to nursing school and wouldn't be home until after 5.

     The school bell rings at 3:10 but the kindergartners get out five minutes earlier. Be there on time! Not today kids, grandma had a detour going to the school because of the water main break and the parking lot near the swimming pool where she parks wasn't plowed which made the lady in front of the line stuck in a snow drift and grandma couldn't park. She ran up the hill, dodging snow mounds and speed running children who thought she was a bowling pin until she reached the top of the hill to see her love bugs! 

     "Grandma! We're saved! We're saved!" Dylan shouted as he fell face forward into the snow. Of course Kaitlyn did the same. They would need a change of clothes. "Where were you!" Kaitlyn cried. "We almost died so we were going to walk home!" 
  
     "It's ok Kaitlyn, let's go home and get some dry clothes and then we'll go to my house." 
     "Dad! Dad!", she sang. "I'm staying home with you! I love you so so so much." she said.

     The plan stayed the same for Dylan, he came home with me and Kaitlyn made up with meanie dad. Isn't it funny how plans go awry but it's in our best interest when we remain calm and let the Universe do its work?

     End of story....the last text of the day... "Mom, thanks for watching Dylan. Kaitlyn says to tell you that...YOU'RE FIRED!" 
  "It's ok, I'll see her early the next time."
   "Mom, thanks for taking a hit for the team."

Do vision boards work? Yes, with detours and twists. Might as well make one, they're fun.

Ghostly Reflections / Remembering Ben

     Now that the cold long day is finally winding down and the computer clock says 11:11 pm, the time of angels and wish making, I can smile and relax into a decoding process where my thoughts have gone in reverse to the beginning of this day. The day that started with a frown and fourteen inches of snow on top of ice with dread of grocery shopping in weather that's fit for a polar bear. This day was important, I just didn't realize it until tonight and all the coincidences fall like dominoes. I am sorry I forgot it was your birthday but the unseen world tried to remind me.
     It drew my attention to the kitchen light over the table this morning. The sun hitting the glass just right made the neighbor's snow covered roof look like mountains in California and the blue was so blue with a hot sky. The Christmas poinsettia plant with its red leaves that was sitting on the table improved the make believe room and I pretended it was another small world inside of my world, trapped in the reflection. How would I paint that for a neat book? I felt the tug from Spirit at that moment whispering, reflection but I rushed to get dressed with the Beatle's song playing in my head, "I am you and you are me and we are all together."
     Maybe it was the fast speed of the muddy cars on the road or the five foot tall snow mounds at all the intersections that kept my mind away from you. Once again, Spirit tried to remind me of this special date because it wouldn't stick in my head when I wrote checks at two different stores. (yes, I still write checks)
     "What's the date today?" I asked the olive skinned woman at the India Emporium market.
     "February 6th", she replied. " "Be safe outside, there are so many things to pay attention to now," she added.
     February sixth, February sixth, I found myself silently repeating as I drove towards home the short cut way near the yellow apartments with the tennis court across the street. You started to enter my thoughts about this time but it was a tiny pinhole opening. It was a good thing I didn't run over the man in the street walking his dog on a leash who was trying to navigate over frozen bumps with his dog and he shook when he walked with his half smoked cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth.
     He stopped and froze his gait to turn to face me and when I passed him in the car, I looked in the rear view mirror to see that he had turned around to walk in the direction that I was driving.
     "Ben! He looks like Ben," I said to my daughter.
     "He looked at you funny mom," she said.
     "Oh my God! Today is Ben's birthday! I can't believe I forgot, I always light a candle on his birthday."
     "What a sign that is, I can't believe I didn't see one this morning. If I'm not more observant, God's going to start throwing signs at me," I laughed.

     The old ladies say be careful what you wish for and that couldn't have been truer to what we saw next. Someone had run into the stop sign during the night and knocked it down so we pulled over the side of the road and took a picture. Some people may not believe me, some do, all I know is Ben's birthday is today and Spirit was trying to get my attention. He would have been 37 years old but his life was cut short by murder. It's a pain that I bury and don't talk about to people because it holds the weight of guilt. Guilt for not having the resources to find him good places to live when my basement had the space. Guilt for complaining of the cold when I knew he was sleeping outside in the cold.

          Good night half moon, good night busy day. Thank you for the signs, thank you for the reflections and thank you for the last coincidence where I checked facebook because it beeped a noise that said someone messaged me but instead I find a quote that read..."If you want to see God, then open your eyes."
  Happy Birthday my dear friend Ben, I am you and you are me and we are all together.
   

Community

A life without friends is like climbing a ladder without something to lean on. The balancing act can only last so long.

Winter's Night

the overweight stranger in a woman's body

has burned her hand on water too hot to drink

but it's company for her lonesome soul

on a winter night with blankets on the window

and sheets in the doorways

dead are her summer plants in overcrowded pots

on tables where cat hair is thick

and brittle vines hang like ribbons

her cry for help goes to voice mail

and i feel her silent screams alone in my fortress

dreaming of nothing and everything

double socked and wrapped in wool

hush my friend, don't cry

there is a kingdom in the ice

waiting for its crack, waiting for us

to be still, to be quiet without an answer

 the castle walls say it's cold for reason

forget the rhythm, go within, let her out!

the little girl who smiles at bugs and throws

nickles in the street man's can because she likes the sound

drawbridge lowered, silence comes

her breath now fully visible, it cloaks the room

yes, there is kingdom in the ice

i will return your call when sunrise comes
sleep, sweet dreams my friend. 

Happy Anniversary

     An eighteen year old young whooper snapper from Kansas with a wild horse attitude and his best buddy Rex, could drive to Mexico in a beater car in 1955 not knowing a lick of Spanish. In those days, all you had to do was pull into a filling station and say, "filler up!" People knew what that meant and the ones who didn't, we waved a five dollar bill.

     "You must have loved her," I'd ask.
     "Well sure I did." he would say with the day's newspaper partially covering his softly shaven face. I liked sitting next to him on the couch, the way he smelled, always of Old Spice and a hint of cigarette smoke.

          The two friends drove for two days to get to Mexico where Susana lived with her parents. They didn't let anyone know they were leaving just because they didn't plan it out. Della Hopkins, his mom was a single mother of seven who worried sick not knowing if she'd see him again, her youngest son. I used to lay in bed staring at the green walls and wonder if she woke from a deep sleep the night they hit the donkey on the highway where the mountain curves in a dangerous circle right before you see the town of Parral's lights.

     "He came without a warning and I barely had time to put on lipstick!" my mother added.
     "You should have seen your grandpa Diaz. He put on his smoking jacket and combed his hair straight back wanting to make an impression."( Do people actually own velvet smoking jackets, I always thought that was a Saturday Night Live joke.)

     The sparks that flew that night at the football game in Paola, Kansas where they met made my mother start to like the foreign country where she was forced to study. It had been her mother's dream to study in America and play the piano but since she caught typhoid fever, her dream was pushed onto my mother.

     "I left my country for that man! My sisters never visit me and one of them said I was the one who left them so it was my obligation to visit," she would recall at times looking into the distance. "Love is a state of mind," and then she would call him for dinner. Always confusing was that statement, making me choose sitting on his side of the table.

Your grandmother planned the entire wedding, even the dress. I felt like it was her wedding but we didn't care, Your dad wanted to elope and I almost took him up on his offer. Don't you ever tell him, she would laugh. He had one good suit but he wore brown shoes and my sisters thought it was the worst thing he could have done. I told my mom if she said one word about the shoes, I wouldn't speak to any of them.

    January 7, 1955 they married with wealthy friends and gifts of crystal and a gold bracelet made of coins that was sold years later at a pawn shop so they could make another yearly trip to Mexico. I had dreamed of wearing that bracelet but Grandma Della said it would bring too much attention to me and that wasn't good for others to be jealous of their kinfolk. 

     Fifty eight years lasted longer than the six month prediction by my French grandmother who said Americans were nothing but trouble, he couldn't speak Spanish, a dangerous man.. Tonight is also the anniversary of my first date with my now husband of thirty six years and it's the last chuckle of my day because dad predicted six months for us. What is love and how long does it last? My parents couldn't speak each other's language but learned in time. There are days when I think my husband speaks another language and days when he speaks mine. Happy anniversary to all those celebrating! I wish you courage, happiness and a bit of Rosetta Stone.

     Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination.

Voltaire

Learning Tolerance...Again and Again and Again...

     She can down a Corona with the best of the men, juggle life like it's a piece of cake,sometimes working doubles at exclusive Biaggi's where all the nutty wealthy ladies who don't like tipping request her table. Forget the bus, she's the bus and her kids know she has their backs. Yes, she's a double fisted girl with Latin blood she got from her mom and a touch of backwoods Arkansas she got from her daddy, big hearted Rose is what we call her. I know her well, she's the baby I potty trained and taught to ride a bike, fourth born child of my parents and I am the big sister that laughs loudest when she calls at midnight. We speak with British accents, talk about our art and she's first to hang up but not before she tells me how my work should be in museums, prefixed with fn's.

     Rose drove eleven hours in the snow and ice with her husband and two children this Christmas with the expectation that I would greet her when they pulled into our parents house along with a marching band, whistles and Christmas penguins wearing party like it's 1999 hats, but I wasn't there. I didn't call. No hug for my sweet sister Rose. Instead, I was thanking my lucky stars that the two cars who pulled into my lane on the highway didn't kill me or my 2 grandchildren and 2 daughters. Then it was mall time, oh my gawd, the mall is hell on December 23rd and so is the grocery store! All shopping, miraculously accomplished in one night with the expectation that my love would be noticed.

     For thirty five years, my mother's house has been the gathering spot on Christmas Eve, this year to 25 which meant 4:00 was changed to 6:00 pm to allow for extra cooking time and Rose was the bearer of  this news via the phone. Oh I could tell she wasn't happy and I said we were looking forward to seeing her but she answered, "don't worry, we'll be gone and home before too long."

    "What did you say?" I shouted. "I have to call others," she said. Click, end of conversation...and that was the beginning of the tolerance pop quiz. We have a banner that hangs in the living room that I bought when the monks came to town, it's all about tolerance. Since I learned this lesson.. ;) ...it came off the wall in a hurry, I would give it to Rose! Yea, she needed it now and it looked pretty good almost new, it was going to be her Christmas present and I would open that jar of Calamata olives that were for her, eat as many as I wanted. "No! Don't give that away mom, we love that," gasped my daughter. "She needs the lesson, not me," I said while avoiding the five phone calls all from Rose wanting to apologize.

     "Hurry! Time is wasting, you need to wrap it fast." is what I heard in my head. Now I know guides, angels, whatever is good wouldn't help out on a sneaky thing but I hurried. It was wrapped with the inside of the brown paper that you get from the Christmas paper wrap, stiff enough to roll it into a scroll. I cut the ends like fringe and put tissue paper in the ends. Ribbons! It needed ribbon but the quickest thing handy was a stream of feathers that I had previously glued together on a piece of paper. All the time, I kept hearing a strange nagging voice over my shoulders saying to hurry, hurry! Not the doorbell, on Christmas Eve, really?

     My husband's big black friend who we've known since he was twelve, all 6 foot 4 of him on a painfully cold night with a runny nose and his box of candy bars. He comes over when you can fry eggs on the sidewalk with his candy and has never been a grump, we've loved him since the first time we met. I call him my husband's friend because he keeps him too long talking and it's obvious he wants out of our house to sell his candy. We've never taken the candy and he always gets ten bucks, always leaving with a cold Gatorade and a few bananas.

     "James! You must be freezing your butt off! Come in, hey Bill, James is here," I yelled.
     "Dude, you're working tonight in this?" Bill asked.
     "I have to hurry with something James, nice seeing you!" I hurried.

    The ribbon of feathers had to be attached to the scroll and tied with a piece of twine but I could overhear their conversation from my art studio. James had been out all night and we were the only people who answered the door. Yes, he was a new dad now and was excited to share. Now he could buy his son a Christmas present." I knew Bill had given him the cash we had set aside for Christmas day movie night.

     "Give James the banner, he's a new dad and needs these words of encouragement," the voice said.
     "No, it's Rose's gift."
      "Give James the gift, please," it repeated.

    Curlers in my hair, I walked to the door and handed James the gift with a body that felt more like a robot than human. "Merry Christmas! Now that you're a dad, this will come in handy. Please, open it later, when you're alone," I said.

He beamed with expectation, the healthy kind and Bill stood there with his mouth showing bottom teeth. Sneaky, I whispered to my guides. "not as sneaky as you" they might have answered.

     Rose was full of hugs, apologies, kisses when we finally made it to my parents house. My heart grew so big it felt Grinch like and I handed her my gift, a wrapped jar of olives.

   
     The Dalai Lama is right, the person who has the most amount of tolerance will experience good health and sleep. Me, I lost my voice, spent three nights coughing. Last night I went into the kitchen at 2:30 am for water, saw the gorgeous night with falling snow and was overcome with peace and gratitude. I'm on the mend.



   

2014! Happy New Year

     The wind blew the living room shutter open, revealing a purple sky over white lawns. Not a car in sight on this cold and snowy night, a contrast to last week's busyness of bumper to bumper Christmas shoppers and loud voices of visiting relatives and friends. The peace angels wanted the shutter open so we wouldn't miss the magnificence of this winter evening that's laced with a gentle grace. Outside air has lost its voice and I can relate with my laryngitis. I talked too much last week, we all did, trying to be heard in the short amount of time we had with our visiting loved ones. All the holiday decorations are boxed and back in the corner of the attic until next year.

     Happy New Year! So many people said that last night and I'm sure you were text messaged many times as I was with words of encouragement and how great the new year will be. My friends were talking about lighting a green money candle to welcome a prosperous year. In quiet meditation, these words came through,

  You are Light, therefore you are also a candle. Become the flame, burn brightly and enjoy your blessings.  If you prefer to light a candle, know that it is equal to you, there is no separation. Prove nothing, aim for kindness and you will know Grace. 

Cold Night Winter

the expected never came
because the weather man goofed
and i believed him
winter is deception
and beauty with a raspy voice
that reminds us how fragile is a day
and to the snowless night I pray,
forgive me for all those wasted
summer nights

Something's Up

     A woman feels it in the air, a feeling that something's up. A man feels it because he's read it in the newspaper and the local weather man said it's today. Big November full moon in Taurus.  She knows it was yesterday but his voice is louder and certain of the date. She daydreams to the background noises of his muffled words. The feeling came in waves with traffic flow and warm fresh towels that needed  folding. It peeked its head again at mid lunch when the phone started ringing. Women on the machine wanting answers from each other because they had a feeling too, something's up. A woman knows others won't hear what she has to say when the feeling is in the air so the phone went unanswered. Time for space where the heart is tender in a labyrinth that's shadowed by bits of this and bits of that and a woman knows it will pass as feelings often do.

     The man wants to prove today is the full moon and lucky for the woman, Google agrees with  her. His confusion makes her smile as he leaves the room amazed that he and the weatherman were wrong. How did she know without looking at the news? It came in waves, with thoughts of being nine dressed in a Christmas dress, riding in a dark car on the way to watch the Russian children dance ballet  in a small town in Mexico where the rain pours and the streets smell of fresh earth. Shadows of a sweet tamale with big raisins that she loves where another shadow lies on top of this one but it won't talk, only breathes. A hot breath of giggly cousins in clicky sounding shoes, famous dancers, grandma is so pretty and everyone loves her. Who's drunk? Not grandma, she loves the little girl and sings the words, pretty baby all the way home letting the child's memory relax into visions of wet clicky shoes in a town that glows with Christmas lights and plastic Santa's in the store front windows. Did the Russian children fly to get there?

     The man is hungry and joins the woman for an intimate dinner of split pea, carrot and potato soup with a crisp salad. He notices the house is clean and asks how did she know the full moon was yesterday.

     "It feels good in here," says the man.
     " There's something about full moons that makes me want to clean," replies the woman.
     "So that's how you know?" he asks.
      "Guess so, just a feeling," she whispers.

To contemplate is to look at shadows.
Victor Hugo 

The Funeral

We're a tangled bunch of actors on the same road
of twists and turns in a world of surprises and my heart
beats loudest before my turn to be center stage
for your funeral that's twenty years too soon...
...You've gone from sight and left with Gaia's last season
but new winter winds have arrived today and the show goes on
for me with veins that pump the blood
my heart beats loudest before my turn...
silent strangers in a crowd with roots and strength
 The cast in a production that remains live
without a script, a tangled bunch we are in a room
that holds a space for you with unified love,
making my task one of honor, praised by angels
who hold us together in one clumped mess
suspended in the Universe, a sphere of Love that pumps
and beats and carries on the promises of the dreamer
...I am so glad I wore pink for you today...

The Kitchen Table

     the kitchen table is where we all hang out, around a circle of caramel colored wood
     from an old Oak tree that grandma Della bought with a hundred dollar bill from Barbara,
     the single mom of four who used to live across the street.

     she had to pay the electric and gas and we needed a place to gather as a family in
     the warmest place of the house where something was always on the stove or in the oven.

     the crack gets glued once a year from elbows that have leaned in to hear familiar voices talk
     about book reports, bad ass bullies in the lunchroom, pregnancies and marriages.

     this sacred circle of wood that holds our family and friends together has heard it all
     standing in silence as regal as the tree it once was, holding space for hungry mouths
     in need of nourishment for body and soul, it's the place where we all hang out.

   
   

   

   

Job Offer at Trader Joe's

     There is a stone house with three arched windows in the front that looks like a castle, called The Writer's Place. Poets and writers go there to share stories but I lurk from afar because I don't have the courage to read my poems to a crowd, naked on the stage is what it would feel like to me. All week it's been popping in my head to go there, but the last thing I remember before bed last night was a command telling me to go to Trader Joe's in the afternoon. No, I planned to drive past the house and Trader Joe's is out of the way.  "Go to Trader Joe's," spirit repeated. Well alright, maybe I will, my daughter has been feeling ill and I've heard they have organic chickens, she probably needs chicken soup.

     After morning coffee, my daughter told me she felt we needed to go to Trader Joe's. A voice had told her. That's twice I heard the message. Wonder why they didn't make it easy and say Whole Foods or Natural Grocers that's in my neighborhood? Must be those chickens. So off we went. It was a good drive with autumn in full bloom and people on lunch break. Knobby white, green and orange pumpkins surrounded the doors. Cheap fresh flowers, organic bananas and pineapples were on sale. The customers were dressy and in a hurried state, must have been the working crowd, nobody smiled much. Let's get out of here was my thought because we got to laughing about stupid things, I was afraid they would think we were laughing at them. There was a man in a wheelchair in the salsa aisle with tubes going into his nose. He stared at me after I smiled at him, and out of the blue, blurted, "this stuffs the best! Ever try it?" Hannah laughed and he frowned asking, "what's so funny!"

     "You sound like my brothers, they love that brand and always say it's the best," she said. That broke his frown and he told us he was a food writer for a magazine in Missouri, had 500 recipes, some with raccoon. He slurped his words like they were a savory stew when he told us about rabbit and squirrel in soups and I thought he was pulling our leg. He never married, didn't have children so cooking was his love. He perfected the Vietnamese street vendor's sandwich, was a contract lawyer and had traveled all over the world.

     "Read books about Cesar and the history before traveling to a place," he said. "Before I went to Ireland, I knew everything about their old buildings and the beers they drank. Made me everyone's friend when I walked into the pub." He told my daughter to enjoy life and never be scared of it. "If a nice young fella asks you to spend time with him in Europe for a few months, you do it! What the hell, have fun. Before you know it, you could be a fat old scraggy man in a wheel chair wearing one of these things to keep a heart going and stinking tubes up your nose so you can breathe. I did what I wanted in life. You have to go to Dubai." he continued. "It's never as bad as you think once you get there." he said.

     Our conversation was starting to wind down when he turned to me and asked if I would come to live with him, cook and take care of him as he aged. "I'll pay $200,000 a year and I'm not looking to get married. I had a lady I had to fire because she was getting sweet with me and wanted to marry. Here's your check, bye bye is what I told her."  As a freelance artist, I have had my share of eclectic offers, but this one topped them all. I came in because of the organic chickens mister, as tempting as your offer may be.

     "Are you bothering these women? I'm checking out now." said a white haired woman who arrived on the scene. She too was in a wheel chair with deep set blue eyes, it was the man's sister. They shared the same big nose but it looked smaller on her face. What a coincidence, she was an artist too. We exchanged emails because she invited us to attend her first art show but apologized that she wasn't a real artist like my daughter and I because she had trained herself. "That's ridiculous," I told her. "Do you love what you do? If so, then yes, you're a real artist too. I wasn't trained either," I assured her, "but I love what I do."

     She is showing her work at guess where, the Writer's Place. Her dear friend is the head of the organization there so she gets to have her work on display for a month. Before I knew it, she was gone, wheeled herself through the checkout line and out the door. Her brother  followed me out, telling the checkers he wasn't leaving until I agreed to live with him and he wrote his email address twice on the Trader Joe's flyer. If only he was twenty something and I was 18, that would have sounded kind of cool.

     Two hours later, we were putting away the groceries and my husband asked if we got lost. "No, I was offered a $200,000 job to cook and take care of a 75 year old man without marriage."

    "You what!" he screeched. "Come on, he's old, you won't miss me and I'll send you emails. $200,000! We could buy fun stuff and a year goes by so fast." I said.

     "Really, stop kidding, you're not taking the job are you?" he moaned.

     "For God's sake, no! He wasn't serious."

     "Did you find the organic chickens?" he asked

     "Yes, they're $15 a piece so I passed."

     "I thought that's why you went to Trader Joe's? " he said and then left to finish watching the sports channel.

     No, that's not why I went to Trader Joe's I thought. Two boxes of butternut soup, persimmons, bananas, fresh greens and some crazy bread for sandwiches. I went because Spirit guided me, knowing it was the place to be at the perfect moment so that I could meet fearless Larry who has a sister that will bring me to The Writer's Place and I will read my poems because I am a poet like the other trained poets and I will do something else that I love. Yes, it was all about Larry who lived two hours away and was visiting for a short time who needed two women who had the time to hear his stories and soften his frown.

   

     The voice of Spirit is soft, often ignored, a gentle nudge if we allow. When we allow, Spirit laughs and angels give us signs to communicate. Notice the sign over Larry's head, aren't they funny?