One more for the road…

Post. Not a drink. But i think i will pour myself a sour cherry bier from Victory Brewing… right after i turn off my phone a while. (I will be back…)

Love this baby picture of me. One of the few where i am properly dressed. My shoes are shined and my hair is brushed. I am smiling and not crying. Happy. I like to believe my childhood was happy. I think it probably was.

There are no memories to recall from this time period. Similar to when i have had one too many beers, rum and cokes or margarita… Probably best i cannot recall anything at all. That way i wake up happy and carefree!!

Stay safe and have a great weekend. Do not drink and drive.

Catch you all later 🍻❤️🕊🎶🎶

A Guy Called Bloke…

via Secret Journal Musings

Learning to laugh (even if it is not hilarious because we were hurt) and not take ourselves too seriously, makes for a happy heart. Rory is taking our human fallibility and giving it to us as medicine. Thanks friend!!

Life is too short to become bitter.

Focus

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Today I want to give up trying to stay focused. I never know what thoughts will travel through this mind. The path is never straight nor narrow these days. I live in a chaotic existence.

Besides, it seems no use to focus at this stage of the game. Time wise, i am at life’s climax. I hear people say its all down hill from here. But then i remember my deliberate intentions to go after life in 2018. There is a desperate need to walk off the mental weight of grief. Banish the suffocating lost dreams that mock me.

I spent last weekend at Lutheran Hills as a farewell to girlfriends i had met there 14 years earlier. A fall hike was being advertised at church that summer 2004. I picked up the brochure which sparked a burning desire to discover myself. I intuitively knew i needed this necessary journey and was ready to explore.

I packed my weekend bag that October evening and told my husband my plans the following morning. He was stunned but happy for me. He took our three kids for the weekend.

I had never ventured anywhere alone and showed up at Shedron Lodge knowing everyone was a stranger. This was my very first time away from family and i was 37.

At 37, years were passing me and i was lost. I had no handle on any of my emotions, my body or my heart. I was floundering. Drowning. I had a biting urge to change the trajectory of my steps and it was a blur. I was desperate still in suicidal ideation. Death seemed the answer.

This post is hindsight which clarifies the memories. The voices. I left Lutheran Hills this past Sunday feeling determined. Even if i am focused just a moment, that is one moment more to paint.

I have finished quite a bit in the last 6 years. I have my Bachelor’s degree. My children are accomplished adults, thriving and growing into their best selves. I will be moving to Boston this summer and starting the best years of my life. I will walk the 18- mile trek for AFSP in Philadelphia and then hope to hike parts of the Appalachian Trail. As well as work with the people who have not found their voice yet.

—–

The reasons i write are many. I never had words to express it until conversing with Ray. I know what sells. I write (and now paint) to stay sane and that is priceless.

I drag my heart through sand and launch my soul on eagle’s wings for a purpose. To finalize this life and leave this earth finished with no missing pieces. With no regrets.

Happy writing, J💙🕊🎶🎶

Waking Up

I believe inside each of us resides a broken heart that never received the love needed. Our job is to heal those wounds, as revealed, and to search for those yet uncovered.

It came to me -a dream
And so my friend,
he has a name -Goy Peppo.

My constant companion on this writing adventure, Goy “Penguin” Peppo. He hardly believes I have shoved out all these words, nonstop, since 2008. Its akin to puking… i slowly loose the burden, strung around my neck, threatening to hang me.

Certainly there are people who would loved to have seen me dead. Growing up, there were kids in school who harbored ill desires toward me. At home, my sisters regulated me to a corner of the room, size of a cardboard box, and threw my clothes on top. I was invisible to my parents who walked right past and never noticed the tears.

Nights. I remember being in the dark, listening to the laughter coming from the living room. My parents and sisters would make pizza and popcorn and watch tv. It didn’t matter. I held my breath, covered my face with a pillow, in hopes the world would disappear. I would wake to silence, thinking I was dead. Imagine the disappointment when my wishes had not come true.

So, Goy searches for Words of Wisdom, in hopes, with time, I can be as loved as him.

Wharton “It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.”

Woolf “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.”

Emily
“I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!”

Alcott “I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end.” (Jo March)

Frost “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”

Plath “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.

If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.

I feel my words are changing as I am healing. Becoming one heart. Whole. I hope I am growing as a writer, expressing the deep caverns, still not lit well enough to explore.

Writing is a discipline as any other creative endeavor. What we give of ourselves, to both the process and the outcome, is what eventually is criticized. What remains unsaid, at the end of the day, will wait for tomorrow.

Going to get all crazy on WP

9:10 am (Eastern time)

Reading over Facebook Memories, lol 😝 and noticed a post from February 10, 2012. Sometimes Facebook can be a blessing. Yes?

9:19 am (Eastern time)

Share past post and wrote an epilogue:

Not sure I ever finished these thoughts on RISK… funny how my mom continually told me i was a mess. Who made me this way? Scatter brained. What i call creative. Whirling leaf on the wind… but get me on the dance floor! 🤣💙🕊🎶 Never too late to consider this RISK of searching out who i am. Slowly the picture is becoming clear…beginning to figure me out!! My mom never understood me. Not sure she tried.

9:41 am (Eastern time)

I never posted follow up thoughts to RISK because i lost focus. Was thrown back into the wind and was caught up in the chaos around me. I juggle an impossible six things at once… oh! I feel for Alice.

My goal this week, if any one cares, is to focus on RISK. It will be a challenge as there is much going on behind-the-scenes.

Moving from Indianapolis to Boston means packing, updating the house to sell, going on interviews, and helping my daughter graduate high school.

Moving means all my writing room is packed away and all my posts are being constructed on my phone. Not the most ideal platform, but i keep tapping away.

Moving itself is a risk. So much unknown but i have never felt stronger to journey forward. This turning point is an adventure into the unknown. I am quite excited if you care to know. Banish the naysayers once and for all!

9:48 am ( Eastern time)

I have risked opening up but I welcome it. I was fearful of the voices. I fought and found courage. Confidence is back.

I continue to write. I risk it all. My reputation. People i love exposed.

9:59 am (Eastern)

I shudder at risk. It is cold and feels nothing for me. Risk is bold and i am small in comparison. But i rise to the challenge. I crack open again. Both to release the venom and soak up the water spilled from the sky. I am a walking desert afraid to cry. I have been on this horse running from terror and now terror invites me in.

Let’s Talk About It

Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.

— Fred Rogers

The call came from Germany on Christmas Eve 1990. “Thanks for the cookies.” He was lying in the hospital having been bit by a poison spider. Weak from his excursion in the desert.

I had forgotten the sound of his voice for a moment. Only I didn’t really forget his voice. It had changed to a young man, grown.

Not fully understanding then, our conversation ensued and he finally broke down a tad. “They made us sit in gas chambers. Like during the holocaust.”

He would return to the states broken of his spirit. All of my love couldn’t fill those spaces hollowed out by war. The places of his mind were altered to pain and terror. He was a walking shell, emptied of John. Color had left his voice.

I was helpless on the other end of the phone line. My cookies such a weak gesture. I should have flown to see him. That was impossible! I was a new mom. Emily was six months old. None of which we talked about. Would a quilt have been more comforting? A gentle reminder of my care for him when he was a babe.

John remained a confused soul. We became estranged. He believed I was living in a perfect world and he wanted no reminder of his past. But haunts filled his days ever more. And chased him down each path.

Power to Change

If only you could sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.

– Fred Rogers

I vividly remember watching this show with my brother, 1975-1978. The kindest men I knew, John and Mr Rogers from some neighborhood.

just a few words…

For such a quiet person, I write a lot.

This simple sentence is me in a nutshell. Although i don a cracked exterior, which has let in too much world. Now i exist as warped. A walking, wounded soldier, who has witnessed too much pain. In turn, i turned crass. I am working on that aspect of me, but in reality, reality has sunken in from the first funeral i attended as a child, unable to look at the lifeless figure of a person i adored, until the moment i snuck a letter into my brother’s cold hand.

He clenched that letter as if his life depended on it. I believe he did one last loving thing for me. There was no removing those words i sent him off with. They now reside in each breath i take. Forever dust in the wind. And each snowflake, a kaleidoscope of memories shared.

I don’t recall what i wrote in my anguish. That letter held a lifetime of our experiences in less than 50 words. Writing it set me free from my heart. At least for the moment.

Today, reading a blurb on infp personality, i realized how little my brother and i talked, yet we understood each other so well. Often our eyes would connect and both of us would burst with laughter. Mostly at my dad’s expense which he never took to, too kindly. I recall one such incident in a restaurant in Madison WI, on our way to visit his parents. We both considered ourselves safe, being in public, amongst watching eyes, but boy were we wrong. He kicked us both under the table.

Silence can be a relationship killer. So is violence. My dad treated us both with that kind of discipline, which was learned from his father. Which was learned somewhere else, along the generational lines. Then a few days later it would be a trip to the soda station where they bottled his favorite drink, since he gave up beer from his Army days. It was always confusing to consider my father. What exactly was he expecting of us?

It killed my dad to know my brother committed suicide. It never dawned on him to consider why. It broke him but never encouraged him to change. He died set in his ways. I never left my dad a letter. Nor did I cry. I had nothing to give him. And only one tear was shed for my mother.

It is just the way life was growing up and it never changed for as long as our family was together. We were together but never aware of each other. It certainly made it easy to say goodbye.

Thursday Doors – January 11, 2018

Thursday Doors January-11-2018

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

img_3049
House of Blues Entrance (Gospel Brunch)

The house was hopping
Souls set free
The world woken
The Lord spoken to me.
These toes were tappin’
chairs set aside
no sittin’ lookin’ pretty
church is alive…

I would go to church everyday if the Lord spoke to me as He clearly had the house rocking in Orlando…  The Brotherhood sung us to heaven and God’s glory shone like the lighthouse these men are.  To live their lives for others a gift to humanity and they brought joyful sounds along with them to Orlando.

Enter the gates and bring a joyful sound.
Praise the creation as a soul unbound.
No earthly worries allowed here,
just lay them at the Lord’s feet.

A long time ago, 1992, I  was invited to a co-worker’s church.  I accepted.  I brought my then two year old daughter along and I sat in the farthest pew from the front.  I certainly felt unworthy to be in the crowd of rollicking, holy rollers, speaking in the Lord’s temple.  I was fallen to the soil in a heap of ash, barely breathing, wanting all breath to cease.  But there was an existing spark, buried, and my co-worker recognized and ignited it…  well, sort of.

Toward the end of the service people were invited to the alter to be blessed by the Word and she encouraged me to go forward.  I took my daughter with me.  The Deacons prophesied over us Psalm 91.  For those not familiar with the Bible, Psalm 91 concerns angels and their watch over His children.

At the time, I was unfamiliar with the verse and left church feeling no different.  About a year later we moved to New York City, my husband obtaining a postdoctoral fellowship with Prof. Danishevsky at Sloan-Kettering Memorial Hospital as a cancer researcher.  The Lord knew I needed plenty of help raising a toddler in New York City.  He sent His angels to surround my daughter as I navigated the city streets with a two year old who refused to hold my hand.  She had two near-death experiences, but an unseen hand saved her from perishing.

New York City was a wake up call.  I am quite naive about the earth’s perils.  The world is a dangerous place to exist.  New York City turned me into an angelic mother.  I declared there would be no more messing around.  I had to become serious in the plight of motherhood.

Now, where are the angels I need for this last daughter?  Send them, quickly!!!

Blind Mess

Frenchy’s Clearwater FL Mandalay Beach

Their only words. Agree? Someone, somewhere does not.

Don’t need to know if you like my words

your sweet suggestions quite absurd.

Its not how many like you, love or adore you, but how genuinely they care for you. That is how i judge.