Posted in Art, Poetry

Trout

plain-spoken trout
sought for its glimmer
tasty, flaky white

blushing fins, find
the riparian cold
captured ripples, bold

swam along with ease
one thought in mind
to fill its belly -caught.

A choice of fish/ to be/ extraordinary/ live mysterious/entwined and land-locked/rather/ run free.

Posted in Art, Memoir, Musings, Poetry

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.

Posted in Musings, Poetry

The fear of sharing my writing (reblog)

Don’t know who you are but I hear a heart beat faster than my own.

Someone read my mind and wrote down the words. I recognize the spellings. Perhaps off a vowel or two. Maybe i am missing some consonants. But i am ready to embrace the “me” who was afraid of their shadow.

If i kept half what i think to myself, i would drive myself back to sickness. I am. I was. I always will be a cyclone. A storm brewing is never calm but always refreshing because who doesn’t like the smell of rain when the sun warms the soul?

Bring the sun in and let your face shine. Some one will find us beautiful!!

Revolutionary Musings

When it comes to writing, I am trying to be less fearful about sharing what i’ve written. Sometimes I don’t want to upset people with an unpleasant past or offend them or turn them off, driving them away; thinking I’m a weirdo. I think I am at a point where other people’s opinions stop being important. Its about using writing to come to terms with the past and possibly help someone else, a creative outlet for the things I can’t say out loud. It’s a journey and a gift as well. So what I’m saying is that if you like my writing, great. If you don’t then that’s fine too. All that matters is that I am proud of my writing and the things I have posted so far. I will continue to write regardless of the positive or negative ( silent) reaction I may face, including this post

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Posted in Memoir, quotes

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.