Fall Has (Finally) Arrived ...

Sunday, October 14, 2012

How do I know this?  Well, for one, my a/c turned off automatically, it's been going 24/7 pretty well much since June.  For two, cans of pumpkin puree are in stock at the supermarket (when you see Libby's, Libby's, Libby's on the label, label, label, you will like it, like it, like it on your table, table, table).  For three, my make-up no longer melts in the short walk from my front porch to the car.  That's Fall, tada!

And for four, this afternoon I made my Fall Fabulous Fall soup, which consists of fresh mushrooms, corn, potatoes, onions, red, green and yellow peppers all coming together in a lovely bath of Alfredo sauce and chicken broth.  My own invention.  It simmers on my stove, scenting the house along with a lemon poppyseed cake baking in the oven.  And my a/c just kicked off again, confirming, yes, Virginia, it's true FALL IS HERE!!!  Next weekend it's off to the pumpkin patch with my neighbors.  I did order three pumpkins (small, medium and large) from someone at work, their daughter's school is selling them.  But Fall wouldn't be Fall without the annual trek to the pumpkin patch which sprouts (pun intended) up in a neighborhood church this time of year.

It has been a drizzly, raining off and on, gray skies, then blue, the gray again, weekend.  Perfect cocooning weather.  Have not had a chance to really work in my teeny tiny garden, but the roses are happy with all the rainwater they've  been getting, the Confederate jasmine has taken off like gangbusters and the ferns and plumbago, I swear, are smiling.  The lavender  appears to be holding its own.  I'm waiting until it is just a scooch cooler to bring on the impatiens.  Love, love, looove this time of year!

Have been in my pajamas all weekend, the only time I have poked my nose outside has been to feed the little homeless ones.  The yellow kit showed up for supper on Friday, have not seen him since.  But the little black one shows up regularly, now with two tiny kittens in tow.  They are beautiful, very skittish although one does prance up to me at times, then scootches back when I reach out to pet it.  Smokey looks on scandalized, how dare I reach out to another cat, no matter how adorable!

I did manage to ModPodge two hearts to the corner of my desk/dining table.  A while back one of my friends brought me some wonnnnderful Godiva chocolates wrapped up in this beautiful hot pink and orange cellophane and I thought, hmmm, these would make beautiful hearts.  So, today I ModPodged two of them next to the letter from Abuelo and the postcards from my godmother.  They looked like they needed a little glitter, so while the ModPodge was still wet I sprinkled some of Miss Jodie's pink glitter over them.  The result, I believe, is quite spectacular.  Am writing another little story for my beloved Whimbles.  If She of the Whimbles and her Faithful Companion, a/k/a The Master Exchequer, lived nearby I would trot on over to deliver the story along with a batch of my deeeelish Fall Fabulous Fall Soup.  But, nope, I will email the story and send a photo of the soup instead.  One day we will be close by.

Actually, FGM Martha (a/k/a She of the Whimbles) is going to be visiting the Cocoon sometime next year.  Which has, of course, set off a tizzy of planning, redecorating and general fluffing up.  So looking forward to her visit!   And Miss J. of my Tallahassee Peeps is hoping to come on down sometime before the holidays, along with her hubby.  Now, if only Miss K. would hitch a ride with them, we could have a grand time.  Of course, there is always the possibility of me driving to Talley before the holidays.  The only hitch there is ... I am afraid I would not want to return.  We will see.  Things work out.  This much I know.

Okay, signing off for now.  There's soup to slurp, stories to write and books to read!

 Until next time, be safe, be blessed, be loved!

Sleepless in Miami



Sunday, October 7, 2012

Can't sleep, too much going on, all good.  There are so many wonderful possibilities and doors opening for me, it is a bit overwhelming and so I find myself making cafe con leche and baking up croissants at 3:30 AM.  I was watching one of the Oprah shows on my DVR, her interview of Mariannne Williamson.  Quite interesting.  One of the things Marianne said was we choose whether to be happy or not, we are our own stumbling blocks, or something along those lines.  To ask yourself what do you want.  So I said "Self, what do you want?" and Self answered "I want my world back."  "Well, Self, that is just not feasible right now.  Short of time travel, you are pretty much SOL on that concept, so what are you going to do about it?"  Self can be rather bitchy at times answered "Bite me!" and blew a raspberry at me.  Is it raspberry or razzberry?  Well, you get the picture.  Speaking of pictures, when all this inner dialogue was going on, I looked at the big memory/vision board I have next to the armoire (my, I do love my armoire, it is just so me, off-white with the palest rose wash, decoupaged with Redoute roses AND Whimble doorknobs ... me) and saw your wedding portrait.  Both of you looking so radiantly happy, seeing what you thought would be a brilliant future, and I thought "That's what I want, I want you, here with me."  Only that's not going to happen, is it?  Not now, but definitely someday.  When I wake up, find myself on the other side, start walking, turn a corner and there you'll be.  But I digress, let me see if I can find my way out of this convoluted, wordy maze I have concocted.

What I want is you, my family, back together.  Here with me.  However, this is not possible, again, for now.  So, I have a choice, do I go forward and continue building a new life without you in it.  Or do I stay stuck yearning for what once was.  Afraid of truly moving forward, because it means accepting your absence and, in a way, leaving you behind.  This has formed a bumpy circle in my brain.  On the one hand, I am raring to go, create, fly, BE.  On the other hand, I feel a bit guilty that I am raring to go, because you are not here to share it with me.  And I don't want to share it with anyone else.  I want to share it with you and I feel if I really take off and fly, I will be leaving you behind.  Like I said, bumpy little circle.  I have had this conversation with myself many a time.  Sometimes more often than others.  This summer I had it a LOT.  Then serendipity stepped in.  You know what they say about serendipity, right?  It's God's way of remaining anonymous.  I pulled out the album for that lovely trip Mami and I went on, many, many years ago.  When the world was new, bright, full of possibility and wonderful adventures. When I thought I would conquer the world.  And there on the very last page was the card Mami had bought on our weekend trip to that magical, tiny slice of Heaven called Solvang, in the hills of Santa Barbara.  When I translated what it said "Wherever I am, you are there also" she said, "That's us.  That is us three."  I looked at that card, it is the very last thing in the album and I thought of that wonderful time, preserved in my memory like one perfect, clear drop of pure joy, and I realized it is time to fly, I am not leaving you behind.  You are always with me.  You are the air I breathe, the ideas I have, the joy and peace I feel when I am home in my cocoon.  You are my heart and my soul.  I could never leave you behind, it is impossible.  Because you are an integral part of me.  Because wherever I am, you are there also.

Someone at work remarked that their 11-year old daughter was starting to find herself.  She lives part of the time with her dad and part of the time with her mom.  I thought I never went through that phase of "finding myself."  I have always known who I am.  I am my father's daughter.  I am my mother's daughter.  Granddaughter of a toymaker/spinner of magnificent fairy tales and a housewife who was born to be a grandmother and made the best chicken soup.  Ever.  I never had an issue with being identified as my father's or mother's daughter.  Once at a family get-together someone came up to me and said "You are so much your father's daughter, he could never deny you."  I smiled and answered "Nor I him."  Once after my father had transitioned and I was living with my aunt she asked me "Who are you now, your mother is gone, your father is gone."  I told her, well, just because they are no longer here, doesn't mean I stop being me. They were not perfect, but they were there for each other and for me always.  Even in the middle of hell, we took comfort in each others' presence.  We walked through fire together and I am still their daughter.  I am me.

Reading Frances Schultz' recent blog posting on Yayoi Kusama, I became entranced by her Firefllies on the Water.  It took me right back to summer nights long ago and far away, the very last summer I spent with my godmother.  We would sit outside and listen to the nighttime concert of crickets, catch fireflies and my grandfather and godmother would spin fairy tales for me.  I have been obsessed with fireflies ever since, they always bring back a sense of wonder and magic for me.  Now that I have my own little nest and have been busy planting my (very miniscule) garden, I want plants that will attract fireflies, butterflies and birds.  Have this idea of sitting in my little terrace, once the weather cools off a bit more, having my morning coffee, butterflies flitting about, birdsong filling the air. I have been thinking of my godmother a lot lately, remembering and writing down my memories of her.  Often I have thought of traveling to where she died, going into the police records, investigating her death.  Someone asked me why, it was over 40 years ago, let it go.  I wonder if it was one of their loved ones, would they so easily dismiss it.  Her death was a catastrophic event which changed my family, tore it apart, my world turned upside down.  True, delving into the past will not bring her back, but maybe it would answer some questions and it would, in a way, enable me to spend a bit of time with her.  Touch history, if you will.

I came home last night to find the two little homeless cats I feed waiting for me on my porch. The boy had been gone for a while. He is painfully skinny and as I got closer I saw he has this horrible, gaping wound on his back, his fur has been ripped off.  You can see the muscles exposed.  I tried getting close to him, but he ran off.  So I put some food out for them.  This morning when I woke up and went out to water my hanging basket, there he was, meowing.  He ate two pouches of the wet food Miss Smokey snarfs at night.  Two.  Poor little thing was ravenous.  I managed to sit on the porch close to him, while he was wolfing the food down, and squeezed some antibiotic cream into the wound.  The sun was out, it was a beautiful, warm, early morning.  I watched as the warmth of the sun helped to spread the ointment, watched it sink into his exposed muscles.  He let me pat him on the head, BIG improvement!  Then he ran off a bit and just sat there looking at me, making it clear that is about as close a contact as he is going to allow.  And I thought, probably his wound was caused by a cat fight.  He is not neutered, Lord how I wish I could get him to a vet.  So I am guessing he got into a fight with another male cat.  But if his wound was caused by a human, on purpose, then my fervent prayer is that whoever caused it, suffer the same kind of hurt, of wound, only much, much deeper, to his or her very core.  I have no sympathy for those who inflict hurt on innocents.  I don't care how horrific your childhood, what abuse you suffered.  You know it's wrong and you make a choice to go ahead, you should suffer the consequences.  I am tired of people being asses and blaming it on something.  Sorry, that doesn't fly with me.

Ah, I am rambling.  It has been that kind of day, a little of this, a little of that.  A bit, actually a lot of gardening.  Some writing.  A truly splendiferous and very, very late breakfast.  Now it is clouding up a bit, the sky looks gray, as if a thunderstorm is trying to make up its mind whether to douse us or not.  Fall is slowly making its presence felt.  Slowly.  I set out my Halloween tableau, Halloween cats from Most Marvelous Magical Fabulous Fleaing Fairy GodMother, my purple witch, placed new fragrant votives in my little mercury glass Halloween votive holders, three etched with Jack O'Lanterns and one with a witch's hat etched in the middle.  I switched out the Spring/Summer wreath with its pink and fuchsia roses for my Fall one, its colors matching the new planter where my lavender resides.  I am hoping it will be  happy there.  This is my third one.  I bought two earlier when they first became available at my neighborhood Publix, they didn't make it through September.  But I am stubborn and do love the scent, so clean and fresh, so I am going for a third.  So far, so good!



I have been burning my Fresh Cut Roses candle since I got up and brewed my morning coffee.  Strangely enough, even though I slept only a few hours, I am not sleepy.  Can't believe I was up at 4:30 baking croissants, their scent still lingers mixing with coffee and the rose candle, it smells of home.  Next week out comes the big silver bowl to fill with Halloween candy (mini Snickers and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups) and I go hunting for pumpkins to carve the weekend before
Halloween.  Next month I bring out the Noel scented oil to go in the light bulb diffusers.  Already put pumpkin puree (from Libby's Libby's Libby's), brown sugar, baking soda and spices on my shopping list.  It is cocooning time.  Well, for me it is ALWAYS cocooning time, but this time of year even more so.

Yesterday, Friday, I had lunch with my boss.  My friemily will be very proud of me when I tell them that even though I had never been to that particular restaurant, Seasons 52, I did not, repeat, did NOT steal the menu.  Mainly because I was with my boss and she goes there a lot.  Don't want the serving staff going "Ah, there is that attorney with the loony assistant who stole a menu!" the next time she goes there.  My boss is a very complex person.  We met at a firm I worked at a few years ago, which got royally skewered by a bunch of nimrods and subsequently went under because of what I still believe was a vendetta, but I digress.  I like her.  Always have, always will.  The first day she walked into my department, I was the new girl on the block, they gave me her project.  Because the others did not want to work on it.  That always amazes me, but it turned out nicely for me.  We hit it off.  She was (and is) known for being persnickety and a perfectionist, I have no problem with that.  After all, it is her name on the documents.  I left the firm shortly after it changed hands and went to work for another firm, where I was quite happy and fully expected to retire from.  But ... that one ran into major problems and I was faced with finding a new job.  Enter my boss, who called one afternoon saying she had heard I was looking for a job and would I like to go interview for the position of her assistant.  I did and the rest is history.  Without a doubt, this is the most stressful job I have ever had.  Mainly because every time I think I am getting a handle on it, something new pops up, or a rule changes, or a judge decides to change whatever.  I am always worried I will miss something, muck something up, but I muddle through. The environment around me is very noisy and I have to make a conscious effort to concentrate on the job at hand and not let it distract me.  Sometimes I want to tell everybody to shut the f' up, but I bite my tongue. She has been incredibly patient.  I am good at the secretarial part of it, the legal part of it still gives me hives.  But we go along.  I have found her to be quite kind, generous, funny and fair.  She is a brilliant attorney and tolerates no guff.  From anyone.  I like that in people.  I hope we are a team for a long time.  At times I feel secure and confident.  Others the snargles return full force, biting into my happy like a hungry jackal.  I have learned to slow down and breathe when that happens.  Drink a lot of water and ride it out.  A few weeks ago they were back in full force.  I beat those f'ers back with a stick.  I am my father's and mother's daughter, I refuse to be intimidated, I will see the good, I will see the good, I will bless my circumstances, through gritted teeth if necessary.  That is from Simple Abundance.  I will remember "Wherever I am, you are there also."

Signing off for now ... Until next time, be safe, be happy, be blessed.

Ramblings on Fall, Friends and Fabulous Brownies

 

Fall kicks off my favorite time of year.  It calls to mind cozy nights at home, reading, getting together with my friemily, working on artsy projects, drawing, writing, gardening.  Stuff of bliss for me, which I do throughout the year.  But come September, they take on an added richness, sweetness, depth.  September through May, I am pretty much blissful.  Summer ... it's nice, but in my ideal world, it'd be exactly four weeks long, with Memorial Day, 4th of July, the Most Beautiful Baby Boy Ever's birthday and Labor Day all celebrated within those four weeks, then we'd be in Fall.  That'd be lovely.  Just four weeks of worrying about hurricanes and then boom, done.  Fall, fabulous Fall!!!  Cooler weather, gardening, rainy days, soup on the stove, brownies in the oven.  Croissants, mimosas for brunch on weekends.  Holidays around the corner, oh, yeah, B L I S S!

Today being the official start of Fall, I have been in a major nesting mode since I woke up.  Between bouts of writing, which tend to set off bouts of crying, I have been cleaning, washing, dusting, mopping and polishing up a storm.  Also baking brownies and making soup.  For some reason it is impossible for me to make soup for one.  I have to make soup as if I were feeding an army, or at least a very hungry large group of people.  It's a good thing that (1) I love soup and (2) one can freeze soup.  I have a well-stocked freezer.  Since I am still recuperating from a bout with the Major Mucks, this nesting mode has proceeded in phases, I clean a little, rest, wash the dishes while sitting down, drag my little fold-down chair to the bathroom and clean a bit more, rest and catch my breath, try to figure out how in heck to work the glue dispensing thingies I ordered for my new scrapbooks, write a bit, puff on my inhaler, finish cleaning the bathroom.  Get the new bed linens out, rest a bit more.  Feed the outside kits, check on the brownies.  Put fresh bed linens on the bed, reveling in that wonderful, clean scent of lavender and roses.  Curse a blue streak when Bella Bella Smokey Noella jumps on the bed before I finish making it, plunking her derriere on top of my garnet pleated silk pillows.  She yawns, showing off her pointy pearly whites, not caring a whit about my rantings about her @#$! cat hair getting all over my beautiful pillows.  She knows I have the sticky roller thingie I am obsessed with and shoots me feline dirty looks when I shoo her off the bed.  Of course, she jumps right back on again, the minute I'm out of the bedroom.  I go through the two stacks of books on my bedside table, muttering there are are entirely too many of them, but they are some of my favorites and I like seeing them there, they are like old friends waiting for me, so after a bit of rearranging, they stay.  Puttering, it's good for the soul.

 

 Tonight I will take a Falling In Love scented shower in my sparkling clean bathtub and then happily snooze in fresh sheets and pillowcases smelling of roses and lavender, the scent of brownies will hang in the air into tomorrow morning, when it will be replaced by the scent of lemon cake and freshly-made coffee.  I realized the other night while writing in my journal that what I love most about my cocoon, what I have loved the most in all of the nests I have lived in, is the peace that envelops you the minute you walk in.  In my parents' home, no matter what our financial situation was, we always found peace at home.  In the midst of hell, we knew that once we got home the world would make sense again, if only for a little while.  I was able to face dragons, because I knew eventually I'd get to go home.  The end of the day was always welcome, because it meant returning home.  I lost that peace for a long time.  I craved that peace for what seemed an eternity, while I was not living on my own.  Found it again when I moved into my cocoon.  It is this peace that comes from my deepest core and memories of home that keeps me going on difficult days.  Because I know that sucky as the day may be, it will be over with eventually and I will get to come home, to a very mouthy cat, jasmine and roses, twinkling candles and blessed, blessed peace.

                                                                                                                

Ah, I am rambling.  This was such an emotional roller coaster summer for me.  Work was hell, to put it mildly, with layoffs and uncertainty.  During one of my lowest points I decided to just put my best face forward, trowel on that happy face, take it one day at a time.  As one of my favorite parts of Simple Abundance says, bless my circumstances, through gritted teeth if necessary.  Been through weirder, more upsetting times.  Yet in the middle of this uncertainty, deep in my core I felt it would be okay, things will be as they must and they will be fine.

This feeling was further reinforced when a few weeks ago I got together with one of my best friends, her Mom and my goddaughter (her second child).  We met at her Mom's house, which is one of my all-time favorite places in the world.  I have spent many happy hours in that house, where I have always felt welcomed, loved, safe.  Drinking coffee, laughing ourselves silly and talking about any and all subjects.  One of my favorite memories is of one of those nights we all coincided in that wonderful nest, there was company visiting from out of town, the "adults" were all talking in the living room, the "kids" (us) at the dining table talking up a storm.  For some reason we got to talking about a rather risque subject, a male strip club (it was the days when Chippendale's was a new subject) and got a bit loud in the process, completely forgetting about the "grown ups" sitting just a few feet from us.  Until we realized everyone had gotten really, really quiet and we were yelling names for a club we would open and me, of course, yelling "*&^!, we'll call it *&^!!" at the top of my lungs.  For being an asthmatic, I have considerable lung power. I thought my friend's Mom's eyebrows would never fall back into place.  We slunk out, heads hanging in shame.  But a few weeks ago, when we got together I was reminded, yet again, come what may, friends, especially mine, will always be there for me.  Being with my friend, her parents, her children who I tend to think of as mine, is like being home, back when the world made sense, if only for a little while.  They are a little piece of what was once a very happy, safe, little world.  Which got pretty well smashed to smithereens and it has taken me a LONG time to realize that yeah, it got broken, but I still have them in my life, I have my memories and, dang it, I can make myself a whole new world.  You can't get stuck in the past because, no matter how happy it may have been, it's done, it's over, you have to move on.  I tend to wallow. I may look like I am moving forward, but inside I am bitching the entire time, wanting to find that magic time travel machine and go back.  Of course, were I able to do that, I would tell my young self: (1) He's never going to love you, you will never be blond enough, pretty enough or thin enough for him, you're going to make yourself miserable over someone who wouldn't give you the time of day, it is so NOT worth it, get over it, move on.  Trust me, further down the road you will meet someone who, to your utter amazement, will love you as is, make you laugh, make you nuts at times, but will make you happy.  Yes, he will eventually move to California after having a major row with you because you refuse to go with him, but you know this is the best for both of you and you will, oddly enough, remain friends.  Please, please don't tell him he reminds you of a tall version of Barney Rubble, do bake him chocolate chip cookies with walnuts, he loves those. (2) Save money, save money, save money.  (3) Life is going to majorly blow at times, but in the end, it will be good.  You are going to be blessed with some truly amazing, creative, brilliant Fairy GodMothers, who will be there for you through thick and thin.  They will inspire you to create, write, go fleaing, garden.  They will help you find joy in life once more.  One will gift you with the Most Beauteous Sleigh Bed Ever and give you healing hugs, one will introduce you into a magical world where tiny, wise beings live and go on most wondrous adventures, which you will record with her and her Companion and one will always remind you to Believe.  They will all help you "go forth and live the life you have imagined."  Even when you do not see the light at the end of the tunnel, trust me, it's there just around the corner.  Loved ones you once thought lost forever will find their way back into your life.  You are going to hold the Most Beautiful Baby Boy Ever in your arms and see his mother, who you love as your own, in his eyes.

 

You, my dear, are going to go through hell, but in the end you ARE going to be happy and, best of all, you will appreciate the joys and blessings in your life. As the President says, Forward!



Ah, I rambled again, didn't I?  What I started to say before rambling on down the road was that we had such a good time we made a pact to do this once a month, get together. The first Saturday of the month.  This time the meeting spot will be my house, we'll go to one of our favorite restaurants and then return to my nest for Cuban coffee and intelligent verbosities. Mind you, I am going to buy an espresso maker, one of those Cuban-coffee makers this week and practice, practice, practice.  I used to be pretty good at making Cuban coffee, long ago and far away, being once mad for a guy who lived on the stuff.  He always smelled so good, of cologne and freshly brewed espresso, a heady brew indeed.  Working my wiles, I decided to become a master Cuban coffee maker and used my Dad as my guinea pig.  He didn't sleep for weeks with all the coffee I had him taste!  That romance, alas, didn't work out.  We did go out once, it was funny that until we were actually on a date I didn't realize he talked incessantly ... about himself.  One fake asthma attack later I was home, in my pajamas and having cafe con leche with my parents.  Good grief, that was back in the 70s, before my rocker romance and move to L.A. That's a story for another time.

 

I have decided, come heck or high water, I am going to keep a positive attitude.  Even when I am positive the world sucks.  I will put on music and dance the blues away.  Even if that means being on mega doses of Advil for days afterwards.  Bought three beautiful scrapbooks, I am in love with them, all pink and ivory and rose-bedecked. They come already pretty much assembled, all you have to do is add photos and personalize as much as you like.  God bless Anna Griffin, love, love, love my rosy scrapbooks!

Whenever the snargles threaten, I will pull out my scrapbooks, text my friends, or read my favorite blogs, those being Rx for the Soul,  The Silver Pen, Frances Schultz and, best for last, the Whimbles. They are Silver Linings in my life, just like my friends and my Most Marvelous Magical Fabulous Fairy GodMothers, always providing inspiration, joy and beauty. I have my sights set, my ducks in a row, time to go for that brass ring, although in my case it's platinum with diamonds scattered throughout.  What can I say?  I love my twinklies.

It has been raining here all day.  I opened the blinds and watched the rain pour, it was lovely.  For a change, I was home during the storms, Silver Lining indeed.  Enough rambling for now, time to visit my beloved Whimbles, how I do love that world.


Until next time, be safe, be joyful, be loved.

Looking Back, Looking Forward, Keeping the Faith

Lately I have been off-center, a wonky situation at work, the accidental (although they say there are no "accidents") discovery of a long-rumored, but never believed, suicide.  Something which happened well over 40 years ago just hit me upside the head and knocked me askew.  Ever since reading the report, discovered online of all places, the phrase "self-inflicted wound" keeps drumming in my head.  It has taken place there along with the evil dwarf OFU, who regularly makes his presence known.  Although his appearances are fewer and fewer these days, thank God, but still he does come out to play once in a while.  Merrily tap dancing inside my head, laughing his evil cackle and yelling in his raspy voice "YOU?  Happy?  Neverrrrrr!"  The best way to shut him up is to start writing about what is bothering me at the moment, hence my most recent post, Three, about me and my two cousins. I always thought of them as Beauty and Brain, my oldest cousin, my godmother was beauty personified.  She had the kind of beauty that took people's breath away when they first saw her.  The thing was she was also funny, bright, good-hearted, kind.  She was not stuck-up or arrogant, she was truly one of the nicest people you could know.

My second oldest cousin was a brainiac, so, so smart and beautiful.  I really spent very very little time her, but she was a lot of fun when we did get together, plus she also deciphered my math homework during one visit (we were then already living in the States) and helped me conquer fractions and those math problems from hell (at least for me) that went something like if a train leaves the station going south at 65 mph and another train leaves going north at 45 mph, bla, bla, bla or if Bobby buys 10 oranges at 10 cents a pound and Nancy buys 3 apples at 5 cents a pound, bla, bla, bla.  I am the daughter and granddaughter of people who could solve complex mathematical problems in their heads, but God skipped that gene when putting me together.  It wasn't that I didn't want to learn, I just didn't care to.  Did not give a fig about if a train left a station at 9:00 in the morning, going north at 60 mph and another train left a station at 10:45 in the morning, going south at 50 mph, when would they cross paths?  Who cares?  I wanted to know where they were going, who was on the train, what they were wearing and would there be shopping and lunch involved when whoever got on the trains got to wherever they were going and would breakfast or brunch be served on said trains?  So, kudos to her for getting me through those math problems from hell.

Years later my Dad figured out how to get me to do percentages, he simply put a dollar sign in there and voila, I could solve them like a champ.  By that time, I had discovered the magic of X percent off in stores.  To this day when something is X percent off, I imagine it as something I've really wanted for a long time and now I can maybe get more than one because it's on sale.  My mind works in mysterious ways.  I remember my grandfather (my Mom's dad) adding up huge sums in his head, while I worked diligently at solving them with paper and pencil and when I (finally) finished my jaw would drop at his having gotten the same answer in like a nano-second!  How DID he do that???  My father was the same way.  I had math genius on both sides of my gene pool, but I really did not get that particular gene. I got the artsy, creative writing, chasing fireflies because I believed there were fairies riding on them gene.

At any rate, back to my initial point, the wonkiness at work and the discovery of the possibility of someone I loved  very much putting a gun to her head and ending it all, have really knocked me off center.  The whiny bitters, who I firmly believe are companions to the dementors from Harry Potter, started flying around my head, cackling and cawing, flapping ever closer to my happy.  I tend to be a glass half full type, but this time around the glass was almost empty, cracked and leaking, not a good place to be for me.  I know some people enjoy going about with a little cloud of gloom and doom perpetually over their head.  Not me.  Whenever it is raining and people moan and groan about it, I'll think well, the plants are getting a good soaking and won't they be happy, plus now the ground will be nice and soft for planting more stuff in the garden.  Or, if it's a rainy weekend (which I happen to love), I will sketch, paint, read and make soup and corn muffins.  This attitude tends to tick the naysayers off.

My luck is that I was raised by positive-outlook people who, no matter how daunting their situation just got up in the morning and went for it, with a smile on their face and the attitude of "It is going to be alright" and "I can handle this and it will be great."  They are gone, but I am still surrounded by positive-vibes people.  My friend and Faboo Fleaing Magical Fairy GodMother Steph is one of those.  (Note, the term Fairy GodMother shall henceforth be denoted as "FGM.")  There is also FGM Martha a/k/a She of the Whimbles.  Last, but not least is FGM Ruby.  Whenever the whiny bitters loom, I call one or sometimes all three of them and invariably come away feeling much better and ready to tackle the world once more.  There's also my "Talley Peeps."  These five wonderful  people help keep me centered and on course.  They love me "as is" and encourage me to become the best me possible.  That is one heck of a combo right there.  Lately I have been waffling, letting the uncertainty of the job situation get to me.  Wondering if, in fact, my cousin did one day just decide to end it all, the "why" of it just keeps slamming around in my head.  I wrote my last post about it, spent yesterday reading and sketching, but still thinking about it.  Made a great Italian dinner last night and opened a bottle of very good wine with it, enjoyed the food and wine, but still the "why would she do this" was tap dancing in my head, why, why, why.

This morning I woke up and decided, okay, enough.  This happened over 40 years ago, I am obsessing over something that (1) I had no control over whatsoever, I was a child when it happened; (2) anyone that was even remotely connected to the investigation is either dead or really, really old by now; and (3) I need to do something productive, write, paint, clean, do the laundry, bake, if I am to obsess over the why, I need something productive to come out of it, or else it will be 10 at night, the weekend will be over and phhhht, I will have done zip.  So, I opened my blinds and let the light in, it's a beautiful day.  The sun is shining and the sky is true-blue.  I decided to get off my duff and do SOMETHING, like writing more of my beloved Whimble stories, which I then turn over to FGM Martha and she works her magic and turns them into absolutely fabulous little gems.  Or painting.  While on vacation last month I actually painted something.  On a huge canvas.  It's a very simple painting, really. Inspired by a Valentine card I absolutely love and carry around with me, because it's such a beautiful, happy card.  Smooshing paint onto canvas, getting paint splattered on my clothes, the scent of paint in the air, did my soul good.  I loved the end result so much, it now hangs in my bedroom and is the first thing I see when I open my eyes.  It makes my heart happy every single day.

I need to remember to keep the faith, look for the good, the beautiful, like the beautiful roses I buy for my cocoon every weekend, my cat greeting me with a huge yawn showing off those sharp little teeth and looking at me as if saying "Hey, you're home!  Perfect timing, just finished my nap and am ready for a snackie!"  The little every day blessings of life.  Sitting down on my comfy sofa for morning prayer, cafe con leche in one hand, cat at my side.  Going to work.  In a time when a great number of people are out of a job, what a blessing it is to know you have a job, even if the people around you are annoying as all get-out, you have a job, you are getting a paycheck.  Coming home to a clean, fresh bed and sweet-smelling cocoon, God bless whoever invented lemon-scented Pine Sol and Fresh Step cat litter.  Little things.  Little blessed things.  I got an email from a friend the other day, someone I rarely see and you'll know why in a second.  She was kvetching because her yearly vacation in Europe is a no-go this year.  She had to settle for a week's stay at a Caribbean resort and she was complaining about it.  My response?  "It's all perspective.  Look at it this way, you could be living in Syria."  She did not appreciate this.  I can't deal with people who continually focus on what they don't have and wish they did, instead of on what they have right in front of their eyes.

My aunt, someone I do love very much although I walked away from her, was like that.  She continually focused on her daughter's death (my cousin mentioned above, who was also my godmother).  Now, my godmother's death was tragic.  She had, or so it seemed, everything going for her.  Her children, family, health, she was getting her degree and then one day, it was all over, just like that.  Once when my aunt was visiting us with her grandchildren, she told my Mom she would have chosen to lose her child at birth, like my Mom lost my sister, than to lose her after seeing her grow up.  My Mom just hugged me and said "But you have her children, that is her living in them."  That was my Mom's way of looking at the world.  To me it was like my aunt was competing with my Mom, seeing who was in the most pain.  What hurt the most, carrying a child within you for nine months, making plans for it, feeling it grow and move inside your body, looking forward to bringing the baby home and then coming home without the baby, or having that child, seeing it grow up and then the child dying young.  What the heck?  I'm guessing both situations hurt like hell.  But at least in my aunt's case, she had her grandchildren.  What a marvelous gift and blessing.  But my aunt did not see having my godmother's children as such a gift.  At the fact that her daughter did, indeed, live on in them.  Years later, all grown up, they married really wonderful people and had beautiful, healthy, joy-filled children.  My aunt did not see it that way.  She saw it as her daughter was not here to see her children and grandchildren.  She continually harped on that and on my parents having died and not leaving me any money. Like that was really their job, to leave me money.  Not giving me a wonderful, mostly happy, exceedingly long childhood.  She did not see that.  She just saw that they did not leave me money.  My godmother's death and my not having inherited money.  Those were her two pet subjects to harp on the minute I got home.  It can be frustrating and soul-numbing living with someone like that.  Try as hard as you might, you will never get them to see the good side.  They will always focus on the dark, on the lost, on the absence and sometimes you start seeing the world through their eyes.  Scary.

While living with her there came a day when I was feeling really, really tired and I remember being in my room and thinking, if I were to close my eyes and just let go, would it be so bad?  That was around the time she told me I had to leave her house by Fall and I would never find a place which allowed me to keep my beloved felines, so I was going to have to, in her words, "kill them all, except maybe one or two."  She came THISCLOSE to defeating me in those days.  That afternoon, when I thought maybe if I close my eyes and just let go, something inside me snapped.  Maybe it was my backbone which had been seriously MIA, snapping back into place. I don't know.  All I know is, something made me get up, take a shower, get dressed and go get a newspaper.  The next day at work (didn't have a computer at home back then) I went on the internet looking for apartments.  By the end of the week I had three apartment interviews lined up, all allowed pets.  A week later I had signed the lease on my cocoon, cats and all.  Two weeks later I moved out.  I remember telling her I had just leased an apartment and her saying I couldn't leave, she had said I could stay until September.  This all took place in June 2004.

I moved into my little apartment at the end of June.  I took a Friday off from work.  Didn't have a lot to move, actually, at least furniture wise.  Boxes I had plenty of, having put everything in storage from my home where I'd lived with my parents.  I had given away all of my furniture from that home.  The only furniture I had was my armoire, two little round tables, the kind you screw the legs into and then put a little tablecloth over and my mattress set, which took a battle and a half for me to actually take, as it was my aunt's and she said she needed it. I could damn well buy a new one.  She knew full well the costs of the move were taking up pretty much all my budget and I could not afford it.  I figured after six years of paying her rent, utilities and chauffeuring her around, I had earned that mattress set (and then some), come hell or high water, I was taking it.  My cousin, her granddaughter, stepped in and got her to, grudgingly, let me have it.  Mind you, she had a spanking new mattress set in her bedroom, but that was my aunt for you.  Control at all costs.  My first weekend at home was the 4th of July weekend, my parents' wedding anniversary was July 2nd, so their anniversary always rolled into the 4th of July celebration.  I couldn't help but think they were looking out for me from Heaven, happy I was cocooning in my new nest on this most special of holidays for us.

Sometimes we forget that, really, the only one in control of your destiny is you.  Well, you and God, but let's not get into a theological discussion.  I believe we have free will, we get to choose (most of the time).  The Father gently nudges us (some call it gut instinct) in the right direction and sometimes we listen, sometimes we don't.  Sometimes, I am sure, He really wants to reach down and smack us upside the head.  In my case, I know that has to have happened on many, many occasions.  There were times during my Mom's illness that I had very loud (and one-sided) arguments with the Father.  In our garden.  It's a wonder my Dad and our neighbors (we have always been blessed with excellent neighbors and friends) didn't have me Baker Acted.  Because I would kneel on the grass and yell "Why?" at the top of my lungs. There was one day when we were in the middle of a police investigation, my Mom was in the hospital because her blood counts had plummeted, my uncle was in CCU in the same hospital having been felled by a massive heart attack and I just couldn't take it all in.  Going to the hospital with my Dad, I just started shaking and crying and my Dad pulled over, hugged me and said "This will pass."  And it did.  Once more we walked through hell and came out the other side.  Which is what I have to remember.

Maybe that afternoon when I thought of letting go, that was my Dad holding me close once more, helping my backbone snap back into place.  Reminding me everything passes, we come out on the other side.  Life is good.  You just have to look for the good in it.  My "problems" are gnat-sized compared to what others are going through.  Keep it all in perspective.  I have always had the blessing of employment, have kept my cocoon, I just have to remember to secure it.  And, yes, I moved on.  My first night my FGM Ruby showed up at my door with the most beautiful sleigh bed ever, in went my mattress set.  A few weeks after that she showed up with my beautiful pink-marble topped night table.  By Christmas I was able to buy my sofa, big comfy chair and dining table with four chairs.  I made my nest.  A path has always been shown to me.  What is that saying about having an angel on your shoulder?  Sometimes I think I have an army.

I need to remember, when the gloom and dooms circle, to have faith.  Believe and have faith.  Because every single time my existence has been threatened, I have been put on a new path.  And that path has always been steady and true.  On it I have discovered friendship, fabulous FGMs, love, laughter.  The freedom to let my imagination fly.  A job which at times makes me want to scream, but still affords me the ability to pay for my cocoon, my car, keep a roof over my head, food on the table and plenty of snackies for Bella Bella Smokey Noella, who is at this moment licking her whiskers after snarfing on tuna.  This morning she was being such a ham, I grabbed her and gave her a big kiss on her fuzzy snoot.  She did not appreciate my Colgate minty-fresh breath and wriggled out of my grasp, giving me disgusted looks from the middle of the bed while giving herself a thorough grooming.  My faith tells me something better is just around the corner, things will be as they must and they will be wonderful, to see the blessings all around me, my friemily, these keep me centered and keep me on track.

So, enough with the venting and writing, time to go create ...

Until next time, be safe, be blessed, be loved.

Once We Were Three

Once we were three granddaughters. Beauty, Brain and Toad.  Brain was never around much, she lived far away.  But Beauty and Toad were close and spent a lot of time together.  Toad would be me.  It has been a harrowing week for me, there have been layoffs at my office, just as I was starting to feel a bit more secure, the job no longer seeming as daunting, this started.  I have to admit I have been freaking out, worrying.  Writing helps, which is how I wound up on the internet the other night when I couldn't sleep.  For some odd reason I googled your name and up you popped.  Well, not you.  That would be kind of difficult, seeing as to how you've been gone for, oh, let me see, 44 years.  Good lord, that is a lifetime and then some.  But there you were, your name splashed in big bold letters across my computer screen.  A hearing transcript, of all things, who knew those things were public?  The web, a double-edged sword.  I was so startled, but read it just the same and now, now I wish I hadn't.  It has brought back that awful day when the phone rang and we learned you were in the hospital and then a few days later, an even worse day.  You had died.

The world changed that day.  You were gone.  It was weird enough losing my sister two years earlier, months of looking forward to the baby, going to the doctor with Mom, hearing her little heartbeat inside Mom, thump, thump, thumping away so very, very fast.  Feeling her move.  How I loved snuggling up to Mom, putting my head and hand on her tummy, feeling her kick.  I must have driven her nuts doing that, but how I loved feeling that baby, hearing her.  Once she poked or kicked, a little fist or foot just popped up, you could see it jutting out on Mom's tummy and I thought it was the most marvelous thing.  I thought it was the baby's way of saying "I am here!  I am here!"  All those dreams and wonderful plans, and then no baby.  That night when Daddy came home from the hospital, his eyes red, and he and Grandmother were talking in low voices and then he told me the baby was a girl, which Mom and I had said all along, only she was very, very sick.  That Mom was fine, but the baby was going to Heaven and I told him he had to go back to the hospital and tell those idiot doctors to put the baby in an incubator, then she would be fine.  But she wasn't and Mom came home with no baby.  Mom looking so calm, serene and sad at the same time.  She would hug me and tell me we were going to be fine, we now had our very own angel in Heaven. Only I didn't want an angel, I wanted my baby sister.  That was in January, early January.  I remember Mom telling me the nights are most beautiful in January, the stars shine the brightest.  We would sit out on the terrace at night and look up at the stars and she'd say "You see that one twinkling really bright way, way up there?  That's our little angel saying hello."  She'd tell me how the moon would sing her lullabies and tell her bedtime stories, so she would have sweet dreams, just like she and Grandfather told me stories.

Daddy decided to take us across the country to visit you that summer.  He knew that seeing you would make Mom happy and so we were off.  Mom and Daddy in the front seat, me in the back sitting between Grandmother and Grandfather.  Mom was in charge of the map, Daddy happily ignoring her directions, until he really ticked her off and she pitched the map out the window.  Which is how we wound up spending the night in a little town's only hotel, where the next day we had the best breakfast ever and our first taste of grits.  I'm still a fan.  The next day we arrived at your house, where we finally got to meet your babies, all huge eyes and shy smiles. Daddy filming the reunion with his Super 8 camera.  I wish I still had those movies, but they were damaged in one of our moves.  There was a scene with Mom sitting on a chair, you on her lap, me on your lap and one of your babies on my lap, wriggling away to swipe a lollipop.  Our grandparents looking on beaming and your father rolling his eyes because we were all acting silly.  We all looked so happy, relaxed, we were where we belonged.  We were whole, again.  I wish there was a photo.

Mom and Daddy returned home a few days later with Grandmother.  Grandfather and I stayed behind with you.  We spent the rest of the summer there, with you and your babies.  It was heaven spending time with you and it was hell because your mother had morphed into this harpy, who continually screamed at you, calling you horrible names.  She actually punished you and me.  Her favorite punishment was to make us scrub all of the doors in the house.  And you, you just bowed your head and said nothing.  You never talked back to her.  I remember when I was back home and I told Mom about this, she could not believe that your mom (her sister) made us scrub the doors all the time.  You had started divorce proceedings, but were still in love with your husband, keeping his name and yours written on a piece of paper, in a glass filled with clear water, next to a little statue of a saint, I forget which one.  We went to Mass every Sunday and you could not sit with us, but had to stand at the back of the church, because you were getting a divorce and still you went to Mass.  I would have told them to f' off.  (Years and years, decades, later, I actually did and soon afterwards I left what remained of my family behind.  My parents were gone by then.)  I think that is when I started to dislike church, politics, hypocrites.  How could the priests say God was love and then turn around and treat you like a second-rate citizen, denying you communion and to sit with your family at Mass?  Of course now, I realize a lot of it, if not all, was probably your mother's doing.  Her way of punishing you.  I have no idea why.  I will never understand the way her mind worked.  And yet, I loved her then, I love her now.  So did you.

Parts of that summer were magical.  Going for walks in the woods with you, Grandfather and your babies.  On picnics in that big meadow, the kids riding along in a little red wagon.  You taught me to sing the entire Sound of Music score.  We'd walk into town singing at the top of our lungs.  Grandfather busting his buttons, happy to be with his two granddaughters, his eldest and his youngest, and great-grandchildren.  We would sit on the back porch late at night, after the babies had been tucked into bed, Grandfather and you spinning fairy tales.  You helped me catch fireflies and put them in big jars with screw tops which we'd punched holes in.  You would always make me set them free before going to sleep, saying the fairies needed them to ride on because they could only fly short distances.  If we kept the fireflies, the fairies wouldn't have them to fly on and then when their wings grew tired, they'd fall and hurt themselves.  I have been enchanted with fireflies ever since, always picturing tiny fairies riding on them.  You kept this wonderful smelling soap in your bathroom and you let me wear your fluffy slippers, the red ones trimmed with marabou feathers.  Their shade of red exactly matched the towels in your bathroom.  Oh, how you loved that color of red, a true red.  You said it was the color of Christmas. You loved roses, white roses.  A love of roses, I believe, is part of our genetic make-up.  I loved spending time with you, my beautiful, beautiful fairy godmother.

Do you know I used to believe you were a real fairy godmother?  You were so beautiful and you loved me, the toad.  As far as I was concerned, you were a real fairy and you sprouted wings after I fell asleep, then went to visit the fairies.  You were such a joy in my life.  You made a rotund, buck-toothed toad feel like a beautiful princess and taught me ballet in the woods, while Grandfather stood watch as you taught me to plié, stretch my arms gracefully over my head and twirl. I loved to twirl.  I still remember those early morning ballet lessons.  Oh, how I loved you.  I hope you knew that.

Your husband came to visit you and the children during that summer and one time you went for a walk with him and came back looking so happy.  You would talk about him to Grandfather and there was this look on your face, you loved him, I could tell by the way your face changed when you talked about him, your voice was lilting when you would describe him to Grandfather.  When he visited, you just beamed.  Something your parents did not appreciate.  And when he went away, I asked you if you thought things would be okay between you and you looked so sad and said, no, you didn't think so.  The day Grandfather and I left, you hugged me so, so tight and said good-bye with such finality.  I remember starting to cry and when Grandfather asked me why, I told him I knew I would never see you again.  There was just something in the way you held me and the way you said good-bye.  I was cold for days and days afterwards.  Even when we got home.  I just, somehow, knew.

Which is why the day the first phone call came in, I just knew, it was a matter of time.  And then you were gone.  Everything shrouded in mystery, lies and deceit.  I didn't know for years how you really had died.  Mom finally told me part of the story one day at the cemetery.  We had gone to put flowers on Grandfather's grave and we were sitting there talking and it just came out.  You had been killed in a hunting accident.  I was still in my teens, still in school, when Mom told me.  It was years and years later, I was out of college, visiting one of our favorite relatives, when I heard another version.  She was moving out of her apartment and in with one of her children.  It was she who told me that family rumor had it you had taken your life.  Only she didn't believe it.  Neither did I.  You loved your children way too much to do that.  They were your life.  You were studying for your degree, living at the university, your parents had the babies and you saw them on weekends and holidays when you came home.  I have a letter from you, written during that time.  You had met a boy and Grandmother and Mom had sent you Cuban coffee, a little coffeemaker and some pretty coffee cups, because he loved Cuban coffee.  And there is a photograph of you taken during that last winter.  You are wearing a brown jacket, trimmed in fur and red pants.  You're standing next to some bushes, your hair blowing in the wind, snow was starting to fall and you look happy, as if you were standing on the brink of something wonderful.  I remember seeing that photo and being so happy because I thought maybe, maybe this meant you were going to be okay.  You look so happy in that picture.

But you weren't okay, were you?  That phone call still came and then you were gone.  Our family was never quite the same afterwards.  A vital part of us was gone, missing.  It was like losing a limb.  Your mother made it out like she was the one who lost the most.  But, you know, we all lost.  My parents lost a beloved niece.  My grandparents, their firstborn granddaughter.  Your children lost their mom, and, oh, my love, how they needed you.  And I, I lost my fairy godmother.  A few years later, Grandmother and I spent two weeks in summer with your parents.  We didn't see the kids, it wasn't their time to visit.  You were not to be mentioned during our visit, not even your name.  It was like you had not existed.  Those were two of the oddest weeks of my life and believe me, I've had a few odd weeks in my time, but those two were definitely weird.  I wanted to talk about you, see your things, read your books, but there was nothing remaining of you. Not even a photograph.  At home, we talked about you, about how much fun I'd had with you, how much we missed you, your laughter.  But in your parents' house, it was like you were never there.  Once I mentioned you, said something like how much I had loved walking in the woods with you and your mother raised her finger and said to be quiet, that I didn't know what I was talking about.

I grew up.  Our grandparents died.  Then my parents. I walked away from the rest of the family.  Long story, not going into it because what would be the point.  But, oh, I remember you, the memories of playing dress-up with you when I was little and our family still intact, of those summer nights on the porch listening to you and Grandfather spinning fairy tales long into the night, singing "doe, a deer, a female deer, ray a drop of golden sun" at the top of our lungs, all those golden moments keeping you alive.  Always with the question of what really happened to you, who had been there, seen you, that could tell me the truth.  Not that I ever found anyone and your mother refused to talk about it.  But I never believed you would take your life.  Not for one second.

Only now it's there in black and white.  I first read it here at home.  The next day I looked it up again at the office.  Still there.  Big as life.  Self-inflicted wound.  I printed it out and drove home with those words ringing in my head.  It still doesn't make sense.  I still don't believe it.  It just doesn't have any logic.  Why, why, why would you do that?  Who were they protecting by letting that be stated?  What really happened?

When something doesn't make sense, they say we only see bits and pieces, God sees the entire picture.  I place my faith in that.  In the hope that one day, someday, all of this will make sense and it will all coalesce into something grand and beautiful and we will marvel and go "Oh, NOW it all makes sense and it is beautiful!"  And I hope, somehow, you have seen your children grow up, they both married truly special people.  That you have seen your grandchildren, who are such joys.  Especially your firstborn grandchild.  The first time I saw that baby, it was like seeing a little piece of you, the same coloring, the same eyes.  Your grandchildren, pure joy.  They must be almost all grown up by now.  I wish them all the joy and beauty life has to offer, wish they had known you. 

When I think about those long-ago days, when we were still in our birth country, those memories seem to be wrapped in tulle.  They are happy, beautiful memories of family, friends, Mom and Daddy dancing down the long hallway of our beach house, dressed to the nines ready to go out on the town, days at the beach, floating in that crystal clear water, you riding a bike with me perched on the handlebars, both of us laughing out loud and Daddy driving the car behind, just in case we got tired, making sure we were okay.  Nights on the terrace of our beach house, looking up at the stars that seemed to cover the night sky and shone brighter than diamonds.  Of the power going out and lighting candles, Grandfather playing his violin and then making shadow puppets on the wall.  Of you dressing me up.  Memories of sitting on the porch, on your lap, while some young Romeo visited you.  Grandmother and Grandfather looking on from the living room, front door open.  You would put a little bit of lipstick, a soft peach color, on me and I felt so grown-up.  I think of those memories like the pretty patterns that form, break apart and form into new patterns when you look through a kaleidoscope.  It was a bubble world, safe, loving, perfect.  Until it was smashed to pieces and no matter how hard the grown-ups tried, they could not put it back together.

I haven't seen a firefly in a very long time, but every time I see a fairy I think of you.  Once we were three.  Beauty, Brain and Toad.

Phoenix Rising and Rainy Sundays

phoe·nix

noun /ˈfēniks/  phoenixes, plural (in classical mythology) A unique bird that lived for five or six centuries in the Arabian desert, after this time burning itself on a funeral pyre and rising from the ashes with renewed youth to live through another cycle. A person or thing regarded as uniquely remarkable in some respect.

They have been yammering about rain, rain, rain for a while now and, of course, it has poured during the week.  Which I think is rather unfair of the weather angels, because I never get to be home when it is pouring.  Yesterday, Saturday, it was overcast but not a drop fell during the day.  Then last night, just about bedtime, a flash of light and boom!  A thunderous (you will pardon the quasi-pun) thunderclap which sent Bella Bella Smokey Noella to her new "safe spot" ... my bathtub.  These days when leaving for the office, I routinely make sure her pillows and "blankey" are in there.  Nothing says "I love you" like drying off the tub after your morning shower so that Her Highness has her safe place ready to scurry to when thunder booms.  But last night, blessed be, I was home and thoroughly enjoyed a marvelous thunderstorm.  Sigh, true bliss.  Being home in bed, pot of hot chocolate on my night-table, stack of decorating magazines next to me, cat snoring happily on my pillow (after being coaxed out of the tub and into bed with a handful of Seafood Medley Temptations snackies), not having to worry about work the next morning (it's the weekend, yay!), thunderbooming outside. That is a recipe for true bliss, at least for me.

 This morning I woke up and it's still pouring!  Got out of bed, made my morning cafe con leche, said morning prayers and have been writing ever since.  Turned the tv on for like a nanosecond and turned it off. The continual coverage of the Colorado shooting is horrifying.  They latch on to every new tragedy like a predator latches on to its prey.  Pushing their microphones into the victims' and their families' faces.  "How do you feel?" and "What does it feel like to get shot?"  Really?  You became a journalist to ask this type of question?  I smell a Pulitzer in your future ... not!  It's like the news media has turned into piranhas.  That's not journalism.  That's sensationalism.  Playing the same sound bite over and over again from different angles, and maybe with different people, but still, essentially the same sound bite, just desensitizes people to the tragedy of it all.  Sort of like people going to see those movies about dead people, "Faces of Death" or something like that.  It desensitizes you.  Like when that hideous woman was found not guilty of her little girl's death last year and one of the people I work with remarked "Damn!  I want her lawyer if I'm ever in jail for murder!"  What the heck kind of remark is that?  So, I turned off the tv and continued with my writing.  All I can do is pray for the victims, their families, pray for their healing, overcoming this horrible thing.

I have been on an odd journey this past year.  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it is time for a change.  I do not want to live like this the rest of my days.  Our time is limited, we just don't know how limited it is.  But I don't want to one day wake up and realize my time here is done and all I've done is work Monday through Friday.  I want to follow my bliss and my bliss is writing, painting, working from home.  Success is preparation meeting opportunity.  I heard that on an Oprah interview, I think she was interviewing David Copperfield.  Absolutely loved it.  So, I am preparing.  This week they let go several employees at my firm.  People that had been there for years and years.  Deja vu.  That is how it started at my former firm and this firm is way smaller.  It's scary, knowing someone holds your livelihood in the palm of their hand and they may be smiling at you, but behind that smile lurks the knowledge that you are going to be let go the next day.

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I often think about my formerly secure life.  When I knew someone had my back.  I wrote once that it felt like someone took my world, shook it to its very core, smashed it to bits and I have been trying to put the pieces back ever since.  Friendships you once thought would be with you forever, people you would once have called when needing to have someone there, just to listen, fade away.  Nothing says I love you like repeatedly getting a friend's voice mail.  It takes forever, but eventually you finally get the message and realize friendship mutates, changes and sometimes you just have to let it go. In putting together a new life,  incorporating just a few pieces from my old one, I found support and love from those not even remotely related to me, people that were not in my life until a relatively few years ago.  Friendships are born and Fairy GodMothers make their entrance.  I have been blessed with three.

I fought building a new life for a very long time.  The other day, after a particularly bumpy week,  I called a friend and got their voice mail, yet again, left a message.  (A few days later I got a text from her saying "Have I told you that I love you?" and I texted back "Yes, you have.  Hearing the computer voice on your voice mail message gives me the warm fuzzies."  Life is short, people, a sense of humor is imperative. We all have busy lives and give people different priorities.)  Then I called another friend (and Most Magical Faboo Fleaing Fairy GodMother, Estefania of the Macedonian Fairy GodMother Tribe) who was at a restaurant having dinner with her daughter and actually picked up the phone and told her daughter "I'm going outside for a few minutes to talk with my friend," something that touched my heart.  I was important enough to her that she took time from hanging out with her daughter to talk to me. The next day I had a wonderful, creatively stimulating, conversation with my Most Magical Wondrous Fabulous FairyGodmother, She of the Whimbles, someone who has a very busy, creative life.  We've never actually met, but she and her husband have become dear and trusted friends. This weekend emails have flown back and forth between my cocoon and my Talley peeps.  Today I spoke with another Fairy GodMother, She of the Beautiful Sleigh Bed and Delish Jamaican Patties. And it hit me, I have already let go, I have built a new world, a new life and it is sweet.  You can rise from the ashes after all.

Until next time, be safe, be grateful, be loved.

On Friday the 13th, Friendship and Saying Good-Byes You Never Wanted To Say

Yesterday was a Friday the 13th, capping off what was a very odd, slightly off-kilter week.  I returned to work on Monday, having been on vacation for nine(!) whole days, which included the 4th of July holiday (fireworks, hot dogs, potato salad and apple pie, oh my!), the longest time I have taken in over two years, was wonderful.  I had time to visit with friends I hadn't seen in a very long time, hang out at home painting, sketching, reading, spoiled my cat silly, no traffic hassles, it was, in a word, blissful.  I got the chance to reconnect (for lack of a better word) with my artistic side, painting to my heart's content. Had forgotten how truly satisfying it is to swoosh paint around on a canvas and then hang your creation on a wall.

Returned to work, happy to see everyone, fell back into my usual work-week routine.  Looked forward to Friday the 13th.  Since everyone is always so flipped out about them, I make it a point to make them extra nice.  This one, not so much.  Yesterday morning (the 13th) I woke up to a text from a very dear, very old friend, saying her grandson (in his 20s) had passed away.  Funeral on Saturday (today).  I knew his daddy when he was a little boy.  My friend had three children, two boys and one girl.  They came over my family's home often, we had barbecues, played chess, checkers and just had a good time hanging out.  I still see those two little boys running around on our lawn, eating burgers, having fun, while their sister tried on every single piece of jewelry I had. They grew up, married, had babies of their own.  We have always kept in touch.  She called me one day to say her youngest boy had died.  He had been murdered.  About two years later, her oldest died, also the victim of violence.  Throughout all this, she retained her calm, her faith rock solid.  She read, beautifully, at my Dad's funeral Mass.  Time passed, but still we always have stayed in touch.  I know she found solace in having her sons' children near her.  Last year one of her grandsons was killed, and this week his twin also fell victim to violence.  I have no clue what I can do, what I can say to her to make it better.  Don't think there is such a thing.  The pain of losing a loved one, even when they have been sick for a long time, is unfathomable.  I can't even imagine losing someone suddenly, out of left field.  Losing a child.  How do you come back from that.

Another friend texted to say she is having surgery, a small health issue became complicated, surgery was needed, to please keep her in my prayers.  Always is.  She has a lovely family, whenever the news gets a bit overwhelming and it seems like the world is going to hell, I think of her and her family and know that, yeah, the world may seem like a madhouse, but there are still families out there with solid values, real families, who love, respect, trust each other, actually like each other.  Because sometimes you love a family member, but not necessarily do you like them.  Her family reminds me a lot of what my parents, grandparents and I had.  We actually liked each other and enjoyed spending time together.  My friend's family is the kind of family who has dinner together and goes to church, on family vacations, they live what we used to call normal lives, but now seem to be the exception to the rule.  Later in the day, she texted me saying her cousin's husband who had been battling cardiac issues, finally had a heart transplant earlier this year, and seemed to be rallying, had passed away.  And I am heartbroken.

I never met her cousin's family, but I feel like I know them because they are part of my friend.  And if you are part of someone I love, then you are part of me, no matter how far or how near you may be.  There are people in my life I am no longer in touch with, but I do love them, always have, always will, simply because they are part of someone long-gone, but still very much loved and missed.  There are friends I love dearly, even though I see them once in a blue moon, but still they are a part of my life, always have been, always will be. There are friends that have been with me through thick and thin, friends that have shared their babies with me, we have gone for years without seeing each other, then one day a knock at the door and there's her oldest child all grown up and hugging her feels like coming home.  Years later holding her firstborn in my arms, I feel my heart breaking and expanding all at the same time.

Friendship is seeing children you love as your own grow up, become amazing adults.  You remember them as babies, remember one of them teaching her little sister how to sneak out of the playpen, remember them running through the house buck-naked yelling "Aaaaaahhhhh!" like a heathen and standing in their crib, all grumpy in the morning, giving you dirty looks and saying "Cheche!" demanding their milk.  You remember the morning they rushed into your house to find a freshly-cut Christmas tree, filling the house with its delicious scent, and they stood stock-still, their eyes filled with wonder.  Remember when one of them doused herself from head to toe in all your perfumes and you had to march her (over her very loud protests!) into the shower because, frankly, she reeked.  No matter how loudly she wailed "Nooooo, I don't stiiiiinnnkkkk!"  Your heart broke the first time she got her heart broken, you wanted to find and seriously damage the heartless cad.  And now, now these little girls, well, they're all grown-up and you can talk for hours with them, marveling at what amazing people they have become.  Friendship is a treasure  A friend is not an acquaintance, a friend is someone you trust.  Sometimes with your life.  My friendship is not lightly given.  I refer to my friends as my friemily, yes, as a matter of fact, I did invent that word!  They are my tribe.  I feel as at home with them as I feel in my own nest.  There is a little house in my old neighborhood where many a cup of Cuban coffe has been consumed, conversations shared, tears and laughter.  I do not visit often, but going there is like going home.  A visit there refreshes my soul.


This morning I woke up with every intention of going to the funeral of my friend's grandson.  But my panic issues are still, well, issues.  Lately "snargles" have been looming, hovering at the very edge of my soul, they tend to kick in when I am feeling happy.  So I guess, in an odd way, they are a good thing because they start to threaten when I am feeling good, happy.  I still grapple at times with the fear that if I admit I am happy, it will be taken away.  Being in crowded places sets them off big-time.  I know the church must have been overflowing and did not want to risk creating a scene at my friend's church.  I am sure she would not appreciate my running out of the church, gasping for breath, crying.  Panic attacks are sheer hell.  So, instead, I will go visit her another weekend, taking a homemade carrot cake or a batch of freshly-baked brownies and we will sit and talk and remember.  I would give anything to be back in the barbecue days, seeing those two little boys running around like little maniacs, yelling at the top of their lungs.  Innocent and free.  I had just left my teens then, barely 20.  It seems like another world.  Actually, it was.

I wish I could give the children of my friend's cousin their Dad back.  Losing my Dad when I was 41 was hell, I can't even imagine losing him while still a child.  When I dream with my parents, part of me knows it is a dream and part of me does not want to wake up.  It has been 15 years since my Dad and 18 years since my Mom.  Still feels like yesterday and on days like today, oh, how I wish they were still here to talk with.

My Fabulous Fleaing Fairy GodMother and I talked on the phone early this morning, hearing her voice always puts a smile on my face. Our visits are like Christmas because there are always fabulous finds to exchange, news to catch up on, photos to take (although invariably I will forget my camera), intelligent verbosities abound.  Then J., one of my friends who lives in Tallahassee called.  I have two friends in Talley, love them both dearly.  We keep in touch via email, photos and phone calls.  And, somehow, whenever I am particularly blue or just off-kilter a bit, when the snargles loom, one or the other, or sometimes both, will call.  And the world seems a lot better after one of our phone visits.  After talking with my Talley friend, I checked my email and there was an email from my most Fabulous Magical Fairy GodMother, She Who Dwells in Atlanta In a Most Enchanted Castle. I have a fabulous set of Fairy GodMothers, they are three marvelous, brilliant, creative, brave, funny, true souls.  Just thinking of them makes me smile. Later I called a friend who lives nearby to ask if I could take pictures of her roosters for some illustrations I have been asked to do.  I read through my journal, finding a quote from J., who upon losing a dear friend wrote "I don't understand why God took such a super nice person home at such an early age, but I trust God to never be early, never be late and never hurt His children."  That always reminds of the saying that goes something like "We only see bits and pieces, God sees the whole picture."  Which always makes me feel better, because it tells me that what is happening may not make sense to me, but somehow, somewhere it does, or it will and the end result will be grand.  The blues lifted and now I am raring to create.  My friemily always makes me smile, inspires me and gives me hope for the world.  Sometimes the smallest gesture can make a huge difference in someone's day, life.  Watching Deepak Chopra and Oprah the other day, one of them said that whatever gesture, whatever words, you choose to make or say, every action you take affects a myriad of people.  You just don't necessarily know who or how, but there is an effect.  I really have to remember that.  I try to keep my words kind.  Try to help those I can, be they two-legged, or four.  Once I got into a bit of an argument with someone who made a rude remark about my feeding two homeless cats that hang around where I live.  They said I was feeding "vermin."  That bothered me.  I snapped at them, saying as long as I am able I will not let anyone, any creature, go hungry or thirsty.  I will offer shelter, food and water, it is the least one can do.  If you can ease another's suffering, why not?  It is the right thing to do, at least that is what I believe. Do the right thing is something I really try to live by. That is why I try to always open the door when the Jehovah's Witnesses knock on my door.  I may not agree with some of their tenets, but my sister is part of them and I dislike the idea of her knocking on strangers' doors and people being unkind to her.  She tells me they are trained to deal with that type of situation, still I do not like the idea of someone being rude to her.  So I open the door, listen to them and offer them water and a chance to rest.  After all, aren't we all our brother's keeper?  How can I say I am a Christian and slam the door in someone's face just because they do not subscribe to my particular beliefs?  Well, actually, I try to avoid saying I am a Christian because that label is so misused these days.  Same as I don't like it when people tell me they think of me as "religious."  Really dislike that term.  I am me.  Period.  I am not "religious."  But my faith in God is unshakeable.  I can be the most irreverent person ever, trust me.  Just ask any priest who has known me for any length of time. Please do not pigeonhole me.  For some things I am a liberal, for others a major conservative.  Oh, dear, I have rambled.

There are good-byes one doesn't want to say, but is forced to.  We know our time is limited, we just don't know what our limit is.  Life is too short to waste even one precious second being bitter or angry, those emotions accomplish nothing.  They say that butterflies are the symbol for transition, so for my friends who have lost loved ones this week, this butterfly is for you.  Wishing your loved ones a blessed transition into a beautiful, new world, free of pain.  A world where they are happy and safe, where they wait for us to join them.  I like to imagine my parents sitting on a bench by the seashore, watching a sunset, happy, knowing loved ones and dear friends are close by and one day I will come walking around the corner, home once more.

 

And for Pete's sake, if you are reading this, turn off the computer and go call someone, tell them you love them, hug a relative, a friend, a pet!  Create something, carpe diem!  As for me, I am off to sketch, have a brand-spanking new set of watercolor pencils and watercolor pad and they are calling my name, loudly.  It's the weekend, no bedtime!  Woo to the hoo!

Until next time, be well, be blessed, be loved.