Three days. Three motivations. Day 3.

This is my final post in response to A Guy Called Bloke and if you follow the above link, you will receive double motivation. πŸ˜‰βœŒπŸΌ

Ok. So, I am sitting at Hash Imports, waiting for my Jag. The garage door bit off a chunk of the trunk (aka boot for Englanders) and the damaged plith is being put back on the car’s booty!!! Hurrah πŸ˜„! They tell me it should take an hour. (Long story how this happened which i am not going to explain.)

Regarding English and its many forms, and reasons why it is difficult to learn, even for English-born speakers, here is a handy How to Understand English Words. Since i will be moving to Boston soon, this The Wicked Good Guide to Boston English or Ten Words to Know in Boston will come in handy for other reasons. BTW I love me some chowdah. Which i made over the weekend with Lake Erie caught walleye. So yum πŸ˜‹!

Since i will be walking, biking or taking public transport in Boston, what will happen to my Jag? Hurt feelings much? But that’s what the country side is for… motoring in my Jag to the ocean and mountain vistas!!! Cannot wait. 😝 β›° 🌊


And this…

because of this ❀️✌🏼🎢🎢🎢 J

Three days. Three motivations. Day 2.

A Guy called Bloke nominated me to share my motivations and I happily oblige, feeling motivated to share my inner thoughts. Why not? πŸ˜œπŸ’•βœŒπŸΌ

Glad you bother to read my posts at all! What, with all your responsibilities, who am i to take up your time?

This is the path unfolding before me. A red carpet spread to the ends of the earth, piled high with rocks and sand and twigs and leaves. Accompanied by the fragrance of flowers and promise of new Days. While Nights wander aimlessly toward silence and i reside peacefully as billions of stars awaken.

Oh! This too! Or better yet, make some of your own art! Grab a brush, paint, and go! 🎨 β˜”οΈπŸŒ΅πŸŒΌπŸ„πŸπŸ‚πŸΎ JπŸ•ŠπŸŽΆπŸŽΆπŸŽΆ

Three days. Three motivations. Day 1.

Introducing A Guy Called Bloke’s newest poem… and I kindly thank Rory, the guy or the bloke behind the words penned so swell, for nominating me to share some motivation for the next three days. Aka, the hum in my drum can become your purr with a considering stir.

I am happy to oblige Sir Rory. But i am not responsible for any side affects my words may have upon my readers. So my advice: Read responsibly.

i am motivated knowing other people get it. it being me. and me not showing fear but courage. today i exist deeply. i am the silence.

I nominate any blogger, who has time and courage, to participate.

My Monhegan

I am currently working on a painting My Monhegan, an island off the coast of Maine. Monhegan is a place that encompasses 95% of my spiritual thought while a mere 3 days and 2 nights were physically spent there. It amazes how much an impact the place had on me. A healing calm took me over and i only have to slip on those hiking shoes to feel the embrace around my soul.

At least the ones i have conquered.

In the meantime, while rushing from one idea to the next, for the past three days, i realized something important. I don’t hear the rattling noises in my mind. At least not as often as i use to and only when invited in. The loudness has abated with a new found courage. I have tamed the angry heart that broke and mended the fabric tears. The tears in my eyes have dried.

The scared child that cowered in the corner has found light. She has grown since last spoken to. The sex fiend has retreated and allowed a wholeness to take place. I convinced her sex is nothing compared to spiritual ecstasy. A spiritual relationship, with someone who can read my mind and play off my every mood, move and energy, is enticing. I have a few girlfriends like this. I have yet to make a pact with such a guy friend. I have a few in mind, but they don’t seem to understand the concept as i had envisioned they would. Such a collaboration is still open to anyone. Even long distance. I am open and my heart twirls in excitement to find such a guy. If such a person exists. 🀨

As if a light switch was flicked on and off, on and off, the hurt, which once overcame me, has now been overcome. The chaos inside has relented and been subdued.

I win! I won!
I run! I swim!
I fly away…

Strong Enough to Cry

“Most of us, I believe, admire strength. It’s something we tend to respect in others, desire for ourselves, and wish for our children. Sometimes, though, I wonder if we confuse strength and other words–like aggression and even violence. Real strength is neither male nor female; but is, quite simply, one of the finest characteristics that any human being can possess.”

–Fred Rogers

he promised to carry her
slouched in thoughts
was more
than he bargained for

he turned for the door
her arms outstretched
no stranger from begging
strength of tears
began to pour

In all of life, he sought to do the honorable thing. Stretched between love for his daughter and pleasing his wife, he felt to abandon his reputation. The daughter forsaken, left alone on the streets. Tears turned to rocks, thrown at her feet.

Room of My Own

Play is often talked about as if it were a relief from serious learning. But for children play is serious learning. Play is really the work of childhood.

–Fred Rogers

no flower
was as beautiful
as your smile
entering the door

we scribbled crayon
all over the floor

rocket ships zoomed
across the sky

dress up and dolls
taught us why

there is sacred
in small packages
a child’s heart
innocence rarely dies

until you have seen
the scars in battered eyes.

Be You

When we love a person, we accept him or her exactly as is: the lovely with the unlovely, the strong with the fearful, the true mixed in with the façade, and of course, the only way we can do it is by accepting ourselves that way.

–Fred Rogers

There is no shame in eyes
no matter what secrets tucked away,
Hidden beneath toughened skin
not skinned knees
but broken bones, rattling
Insides squeezed by enemies

Your mind far worse
Than the men who curse
the lady who spawns greedy hands
When you show another they matter
no matter what
There is no shame in eyes.

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.


this weekend in Chicago is invigorating. it’s cold and light snow fell. ice crusts the shore. broken spaces release the energy.

being with another person is confining. we rarely agree because i am slow, quiet and want to savor the feelings the sounds and sights produce. he is fast, loud and out of touch. annoyed by everyone and everything. but i managed to make him wait in the snow while i took a few pictures.

i am tired but a good tired. i am existing in a sacred place.

this Chicago visit was to see Rodin’s sculptures at the Art Institute. i have not completely digested the experience. his sculptures pull so much out of me. the locked cage, broken open. infiltration welcomed.

while at the Institute, we decided to check out more of the contemporary art and revisit a few favorites.

Energy and motion made visible – memories arrested in space –Jackson Pollock

The Key Jackson Pollock, 1946

Part of the Accabonac Creek series and a prelude to his drip paintings.

Number 17A Jackson Pollack, 1948

this. being surrounded by art. it all makes me jealous. i want to paint. i imagine myself painting. i feel my body shifting, as i lift the brush. the canvas never stationary and neither am i. the color calling. my hips sway and i feel eyes watching me. i want to be bold but gravity keeps me from flying.

City Landscape Joan Mitchell, 1955

a close-up of the favorite place i would reside in Joan’s landscape. a happy place indeed. certainly lost but found to me. splashes of red, pink… orange. Enveloped by reality of black, white, grey, brown… blue.

yes, i am referring to myself. after all, borderline crossing is all about me. my willingness to share a glimpse of me, with you. tear a piece off and toss it. wait. scrutinize your intentions.

we all need order to heal the crags of depression that consume. perhaps we are all lost in Joan’s landscape. hanging around the wrong colors. worshipping the pain in our lives. i am learning to cross the river and enjoy the other side.