T.O.Y.

Thinking of you.

If you are reading this, we are most likely friends. If you are getting this by email, chances are I value your opinion or I wouldn't ask for your feedback.

Not so long ago, just a couple of years, you wouldn't be reading this.  For one thing, it had not yet been conceived, but that isn't the point.  You wouldn't have liked me well enough to bother.  I see this clearly now.  I see the friends I was "too busy" to call for coffee, the church I didn't bother going to, the reckless way I treated the people and things I cared about, the awful state I had allowed my body to become.

There for awhile, several years at least, I was without merit, for the most part anyhow. At least, looking back, that's how I see it.  Thank You, God, for those who loved me in spite of it all.

I wasn't Godless.  I had a wishy-washy faith that served me, sans building, preacher or fellowship.  Basically, I used prayer as begging, my God as a genie in a bottle, instead of worship, petitioning for my smallest need.  I didn't see it that way then, naturally.  I went the polyester pants suit route, figuring a jacket would cover up my flabby, frumpy body.  It didn't.  I was lazy to a fault, sometimes too lazy to take care of myself, too lazy to  think.   I got spurts of energy, to be sure, but nothing constant.  I lacked commitment, confidence and creativity.  I was incapable of returning what was given to me.

I didn't like myself very much. I don't think you would have either.

My husband would never have called me sexy or even pleasant in those years.  I'm sure he was disgusted with my failures.  Why he stayed, I will only guess.  He must have seen a glimmer of who I was once, or what I would become much later.

So what does this have to do with thinking of you?  Everything.

The unconditional love from my family wasn't enough. I  needed outside validation.

If you hadn't been there to give me encouragement, if you hadn't been there to suggest that I try something new, if you hadn't told me I was pretty--well, I wouldn't have bothered changing.  I was in such a low spot that it was pointed out to me many a time how "down" I sounded.  I needed a hand, and you offered yours to me.

I am new, although I have along way to go.  I'm not as selfish as I was. I threw out the shoes that pinched and the polyester jackets and with that simple exercise I regained some of what had been lost.  I'm still chubby, but I'm strong.  I'm willing to try something new.  If I can overcome my fear of kayaking and of sweating--well, I can do most anything.  Maybe I'll buy a bathing suit next season.

Every time I do something that I didn't think I could do, every time I set foot in my thank-God-I-found-it church, every time I renew an old friendship or make a new friend--I think of you.  I can walk a lot farther now, I've kept my blog up and running, I care about how I look.  I've learned to give love where it is needed.  I don't have to ask for it back; it comes to me from unexpected places.

You make me ponder;  you are the reason I stand up straighter and dress better. It is because of you that I am no longer afraid to scrutinize who I was and to be who I am.   You are my family and my friends.  You've given me all those things I didn't think I deserved.

Thank you.

Grateful Tomorrow

After a wonderful day off, I return to work on Tuesday.  I haven't checked my schedule yet, but I'm sure it will be someplace a couple of hours away.  I don't know if I can do this this winter.  I'm starting to get scared when I drive in the snow.  The brightness confuses my eyesight.  Jobs that pay this well are hard to come by.  I have to do this for now.  I should be grateful I am able to work.

I guess I don't want to work anymore at all.  I want to play.  I want to shop.  I want to travel.  Oh, does that sort of entertainment cost money? Sigh.  So every day I will continue to play the part in my skirt and heels, gulping my Starbucks and driving, driving, driving. OK, I am grateful that I have a job.

My life could be much worse. We aren't impoverished, just on a budget. Our health issues are manageable for now.  I'm darn cute for an old lady. I need to hear it once in awhile, that's all. My car is working, the dog is healthy (even after eating a Popsicle stick). Of course we want, want, want like other people do, but we have, have, have more than many. 

Tomorrow, or some day this week,  I will take my notebook to a quiet little park at lunchtime. I will eat my yogurt and my nectarine and think about all the good things in my life, and learn to appreciate them.  I will write them down so that on those days when I want to complain and run away, I can look at my list and say, "I am grateful for this."  Another day I will go to the cemetery and talk to Mom and Dad, begging them for their wisdom.  It isn't enough right now to depend on my own judgement.  I need to practice being grateful.

Some days it is easy to be grateful. Those we love are close by. We can touch them, talk to them, hold them close  and all is well.  Or if they are far, we can pick up the phone or open the email to find them.  The drink is cool, the sun is warm, the sky cloudless.  These are the days it is easy to believe.

There are other days, even weeks that seem never ending, when the smallest troubles seem like mountains to climb.  We take it out on those we care about most.  We are not grateful for the snippets of time and health and wealth,  We are too busy looking at the big picture of uncertainty. Like me, others are uncertain of their futures.  They wonder if they are loved and wanted, they wonder if their loved ones will always be around, they wonder if the job will be there or if the roof will hold through another winter storm.  I understand, I do.  The names and the games are different;  the playbook is the same.  It is all these things that make us ungrateful.

So I need to take another step forward.  I will take a few minutes every single day to continue the journey I was foolish enough to think had ended.  This step is to learn to be grateful once again for all the good things in my life, no matter how small. 

I am grateful for my family; for you, my friends, for my faith.  I am grateful that I have a park to hide in, a lake to gaze upon, nourishment to share and hugs to give.  I am even grateful for my work, because it sustains me.  By the end of this challenge, I will find much more for which to be grateful.

The journey has begun again.  You are welcome to join me.

Cousins

My friends talk about their first best friends being their cousins.  They tell tales of growing up together, of sleep-overs and tight-knit families.  My mother had a cousin like that.  Me? Nope.

I had a cousin six years my senior who lived next door, got married when I was twelve.  A couple of others lived far away.  Some boy cousins who I saw on occasion, one with whom I lost touch and reconnected later on.  My grandmother pretty much took care of driving away cousins on Dad's side of the family.  Mom's side had mostly childless couples it seemed.

So one day I had a friend request on Facebook from Sue something.  I know lots of Sue people.  So I confirmed it and wrote to her, pretty much saying OK, I see you have somebody I might know on your friend list, but who are you?

My cousin......say WHAT???

She put me in touch with her surviving brother who I had loved like my own brother when we were kids.  She was much younger than I; I knew who she was, but never got to know her, missed knowing her family, missed a lot.

Suddenly here is Sue, here is Bobby, in my life again.  I chatted with her on Facebook that first night for a long while--alternately crying with happiness and laughing with the sheer joy of family connections.
My Mom's family is tiny.  Most of them have passed on leaving me and my sister.  Now there is this whole group of people I can get to know. Family.

Sue and I are closer in age than I had thought years ago. A five-year difference doesn't mean so much when you are sixty instead of sixteen.  We are both grandmothers now--what fun those kids could have together--all thirteen of them.  Our husbands like cars and music.  Sue doesn't have to do anything.  She is the cousin I should have had growing up.  I want to make up for it now.

Today Hubby and I spent a few hours at a picnic at Sue's house. I felt a little awkward at first, like I should know all these people, but I didn't know any of them, not even Sue. It took awhile, and a couple of wine coolers, to start talking...gingerly....but by the time we left, I knew that given a few minutes over coffee and PB2 that we could become friends.

I don't remember all the names of sons and daughters and grandkids.  I will learn them.

It might seem silly to crave family now after so many years of doing without.  But it is one more part of my past that I want to reconcile.

We have plenty of time now, Sue and Mike.  Pleased to meet you.

"Our" Places

There are places where we spent time together once.  There is a spot by the lake where we would watch the waves break on the pier and seagulls flock to the popcorn we threw.  There was a little park where we would sit, a favorite place to drive.  They are still the places that make me smile from the inside out.  They are filled with the memories of a hug, a heart-to-heart, a promise of something more.

I go there myself now more than with him.  Our lives are too full these days of work, fatigue, obligations and maybe laters.  Always an excuse, always something that gets in the way of a few moments of peace together in "our" place.

Why are those others here?  I recognize the cars more than the people.  There is the grey Kia who never speaks.  Is he shy or fearful?  There is the yellow Jeep who always has a smile and a friendly wave. There is the convertible who sits with his cigarette, never leaving the safety of his front seat.  Why are they here? Is it memories? Or are they, like me, trying to recapture something lost?

We have a place by the lake where we watch the waves or the storms.  There is rarely anyone I recognize there.  The anonymity suits me.... It isn't hard for me to engage in conversation if I so wish. Today I crave quiet.  What happened to time?  Where am I going next?

Today I have time.  We have been so busy.  Too busy to enjoy each other's company, too busy to enjoy the wildflowers and the warm wind, too busy to walk in a gentle rain, too busy to take in the fragrance of cut grass.  We are not making memories these days; we are intent on destroying them.

If my love was here today he would surely be disgusted.  They have thrown wrappers on the ground.  Their conversation is so loud we would be forced to listen.  The music blares.  So irreverent!  I don't want to roll up my window.  I want to take in the lifeblood that is September.  I love this place, and today I don't want to share.

Do I sound melancholy?  Forgive me, I don't mean to.  I know this physical place isn't "ours", just the memories it holds.  I have to share the geography, not the photographs in my mind.

He isn't with me today, but I will ask him to come back here sometime soon.  We will bring our own music, talk again about our dreams, have a hug for good fortune.

Sweet.

Second Sight

I said that I would tell  you about Grandma Hess someday.  Today is the day.

Grandma Hess was a round, pink and white, fluffy bundle with arthritic hands and a huge heart.  I remember her baking and fussing and using a big "ironer" machine to iron shirts to hankies.She loved canaries, always naming each one "Dickie bird". Although diabetic and in much pain, Grandma was not a complainer.

Ethel Pearl Ferer Hess was every bit as patient as the Hess family she married into.  Where Grandpa would greet a guest with an easy handshake, Grandma was the one who was quicker to laugh and clap him on the back, tell him to "sit a spell" and offer to whip up something lest a guest should leave her table hungry. They always stayed, praying that the "something" would be a pie or cake or homemade biscuits with honey or jam.

Not every guest came for the goodies.  Grandma had a secret.  She had a sixth sense.  Some call it second sight.

Scoff, go ahead.  My dad and his father, devout Roman Catholics, put no stock in Grandma Hess' abilities. Not, that is, until A. Grandpa lost his "numbers" bets and was worried about retaliation and B., when Dad's truck was stolen.  Well, A was found in the chicken coop where Grandpa had laid it down for a couple of eggs for breakfast, and B was exactly where Grandma told him it would be found.

The police department believed, too.  Over a cup of coffee and a sweet the detectives would relate what they knew.  Grandma would tell them the rest. The headlines would read "POLICE CONSULT LOCAL FORTUNE TELLER" the next day.  She told them how to find the missing man in a swamp by the heel of his boot, where the diamond ring has been lost down the overstuffed chair she had never seen, where the produce vendor had spent his afternoons in the "house of ill repute".

There are many more stories I could relate, not from personal experience but from the mouths of believers and skeptics who saw her at work.

Grandma didn't predict numbers or horse races.  She didn't accept money or presents.  Would I be so altruistic?  Or would I hang out a shingle and prey on passers-by?

Grandma used to tell me that I had "healing hands", and Aunt Marjie always suspected that I was gifted with her mother's second sight.  There have been disconcerting moments in my life, but none so strong that I would call it predilection.  Afterward, it is too late.  Hindsight is, after all. twenty-twenty.

So would I open my mind for cash?  Would I clean the pockets of John Q Public?  The old me, blessed or cursed, might have tried.  The newer me is also blessed with a conscience.  How much of one?

Let's see. . .want your fortune told?

Cats and Caterwauling

There was a stray cat in our neighborhood last spring.  She took a liking to Hubby, rather excessively pursuing him.  Her plaintive yowling would start as soon as she spotted him leaving for work and continued to the wee hours. Our mutt didn't like it one bit.  When the crush finally ran its course, I was more than a little relieved.  The singing had stopped at last.

It has been pointed out to me, none to sweetly, that I, like that cat, should learn to sing solo...make that SO LOW, so low that I can't be heard.  It is usually followed by, "but you know I love you, Ma."

Ok, so I can't carry a tune.  At church I lip-synch mostly.  I don't offer to sing a remnant of a sixties' song because it would help no one remember the tune.  If I am alone, I crank up the radio and belt out Aretha or Fogerty or the Boss.  Otherwise, no amount of gin will flex my vocal chords.  Karaoke?  I don't think so.  You know that sound when you step on a cat's tail?  It's melodic compared to me.

Driving as much as I do I have learned to entertain myself to stay awake. Pop in a CD and get motivated by Clapton.  It's no wonder I only rarely see deer or other critters.  They are running for their lives from the sound of my screeching.

Is my speaking voice so totally devoid of pitch?  Is my cadence cock-eyed (geez, I love alliteration).  If so, I apologize to the masses.

I was asked at church if I was musical, obviously from someone who sits several pews away.  Hubby, bless his heart, turned away as though not hearing the question--no need to lie or snicker.

Even long-time friends haven't heard my voice. One says "it can't be that bad."  Maybe someday after a fifth of gin, and when I feel like torturing someone, she will find out.

I took public speaking class because I was nervous when talking  in front of people.  They worked, and I have no fear of crowds.  I can't afford the combat premium I would have to pay to anyone who thought she could teach me to sing.  She would have more luck teaching the cat in heat to be tuneful.

I will continue to whisper as I sing praise. I will mouth the National Anthem as I hold my hand to my heart in pride of my country.  I will screech as I speed down highway 79.

That off kilter voice you hear?  Must be that stray cat in heat yet again.

Naptime

I overheard a conversation the other day in WalMart.

"I love naps,"said one. "I can sleep for an hour or two and still sleep well when I go to bed."
"Not me," said the other. "If I snooze more than twenty minutes, I can't fall asleep for hours!"

Poor thing.  I am more like the first.  I can doze for an hour or two and still go to bed at midnight without lying awake.  I am a born sleeper.  It was inherited from my dad's side.  Mom's family only slept if they were gravely ill.

I love to nap on a  rainy afternoon.  I love to curl up with a quilt on a snowy day.

I love to take a quickie snooze in the parking lot at lunchtime.

There are days when I come home, pat the dog, hug Hubby, head for bed for an hour or so.

Power-napping isn't my thing.  One of my sons has been good at it since the day he was born, sleeping for fifteen, up for five or six hours.  The other is like me, move till he drops, sleep anywhere, get up and go to bed.

I love to sleep.  The floor, the bed, the recliner, the car.  I love the daydreams that lead to the nightdreams that keep my mind occupied while my body is at rest.

Picture a rainy Sunday...I pull on a nightshirt, tuck a sheet around my shoulders and a pillow beneath my head.  It takes mere minutes to begin to dream.  There is something special about the unconscious, or the subconscious, thought.  Is it who I am? Who I might be? Or only a flight of fantasy?

Sometimes I wake up discombobulated and a little grumpy. (A LITTLE GRUMPY? says Hubby. HAH!!  More like just plain MEAN!)) Sometimes I momentarily forget where I am, or WHO I am.  It takes a minute to recover. I'm OK.

My advice to you? Let me sleep.  If I am sitting up or on the floor, sweating or freezing, let me sleep.  When I get uncomfortable enough, I will wake up.

The Men in My Life

The men in my life vary in age and stature. Some are mere boys, either physically or emotionally.  They are grey, sandy-haired or dark, with thick curls or balding.  Their eyes may be brown and/or green, hazel or blue.  Some are my blood, some not, some may as well be.  They are slim, muscular, a bit thick around the middle.  They are tattooed or not, pierced or not.  It doesn't matter. They are mine.

Some of my men are remarkably well-read, some extremely talented.  Some don't know enough, as my granddad would have said, to come in out of the rain.  Some I would call knowledgeable, some just plain know-it-all.

Some of them are peripheral, striding in long enough to make themselves known, then poof! Others linger when I wish they would go away.  Some are attached to a friend. 

Some of them I genuinely like, some I love with every fiber of my being.  Some I grudgingly tolerate.

Some of the men I know make me feel smart, pretty and special; others leave me with a sense of never being able to do anything worthwhile.  Some make me laugh.  They make me feel good just by being.  Some are talkers, some rarely speak.  Some might share a coffee, but will share none of themselves.  That emotion or thought that you think is too precious to share?  It is worth nothing when kept inside.

To some, I am a gift and they are grateful that I am a part of their lives.  To others I am an afterthought.  Others won't remember my name or my face.  They are the men I love, old friends and new ones, acquaintances and passers-by.  Each of them has a place in my heart or at least in my life.

I don't choose my friends by gender.  They are in my life because they fill a need--for love, energy, humor, information, competition  and kindness.

The women in my life fill those needs, too. They are, in general, more supportive, gentler with criticism, freer with advice, more vocal about their faith, less political.   They are less vain (myself probably excluded!).  They are usually more compassionate, less stubborn, have greater tolerance for pain and are more quick to rush to aid a friend.

I am not willing to give up the opportunity of a lasting friendship based on gender.  It isn't about flirting (OK, sometimes), sex, protectiveness or anything else.  I have chosen my life mate;  my sons and cousins and others are my blood; others have fit in as friends, co-workers or just people I know.

Each of them has a place in my life.  I hope I am worthy to have a place in yours.

One Step Forward

I have been on the road to self-discovery for many months.

I was getting cocky.  I found myself.  I found contentment. Ta Da! I had reached my goal!

Not exactly.

As soon as I got comfortable in my new skin, I learned lesson number 237.  Be careful what you wish for, and its corollary, want what you have.

Oh, boy.

Somebody has been shouting at me in my befuddled state, making me painfully aware that I am not done growing yet.  The contentment was only a deep breath in the asthma that is my life.

I have far more pacific moments now than I used to. It's just that now I know more about what isn't done.  It makes me a bit queasy.

It isn't depression, it isn't sadness.  Instead it is a restless spirit, one that wants to open every door and peek out every window just to see what is there. I wished, prayed, hoped for a new job, some excitement and some other more private things.  I am beginning to see that I should learn to want what I have and to not want what is not mine.  Not everyone has fame or riches or the thing that makes us concentrate on the unhappiness instead of the joy.

I call on God or on meditation when the restlessness fills me.  I need to walk or drive without destination.. I need to talk to someone who will not repeat what I say, nor nod as though hypnotized or bored.  Sometimes I need coffee, and that is all.  Sometimes I need it alone, sometimes I need to share a moment.  It isn't really the coffee, is it?  It is the need to absorb outside, unseen energy.

The unseen travels from you to me to him and back again.  Whether it is love or light or restlessness it ebbs and flows between us.  Is there someone who makes you feel tired, empty? Do others fill you with smiles and energy? My friend, those who leave you with the desperate feeling? Those are the ones who sap you and are unwilling to give of themselves enough to quench your thirst.  They have put up a force-field of sorts that enables them to keep what they have as though it is precious, yet it would be worth much more if it was shared, whatever it is.

My restless side is searching for others who, like me, are so full of love and energy that I can feel it.  They don't just take, they give.  This is what I want in my life.  We feed our bodies, so why are we so anxious  about feeding our spirits?

So my restless spirit has taught me something.  I need to want what I have, yet  surround myself with those who will give me the energy to aspire to what I am capable of being.  I will be careful of what I wish for, because it may not be in my best interest long-term. Whew! Heavy, man.

I was hoping that my first breath of contentment would last forever...but it didn't.  I am still moving forward, however, and making discoveries as I go on.  Will the restless spirit ever quiet itself?

I remember wishing that would be so; now I hope it never does.

I have found that it is the restless spirit that makes me grow. 

Hot Turkey Dinner, Please

As a child, my favorite treat was when Uncle Roy would drop off Aunt Marjie and me downtown on a Saturday afternoon.

Aunt Marjie always looked sensational in those days.  Barely five feet, two inches tall, easily over 225 pounds, she moved with a model's grace in her high heels.  She had her hair upswept and colored with New Dawn #27.  She wore a dress always--never owned a pair of slacks.  Her big hat, bigger earrings and polished make-up were just the outside of why she was well-loved.  I wanted to be like Aunt Marjie.

Aunt Marjie loved to take me to the theater.  We would go to the elegant Warner, or the ordinary Strand, but never the slightly dumpy Shea's where my friends and I went to see the Beatles' movies.  We would watch 56 cartoons, or take in Joan Crawford, Elvis or It's a Mad, Mad World! yet again.  I loved them all, from creepy Bette Davis to Elvis singing to the antics of Bugs and Daffy.

The best part was after the movie ended...a hot turkey dinner at W.T Grant's, or Kresge's (the forerunner of KMart) or Murphy's with the brass railings.  And always, always a sundae even if we were too full to speak.  To this day, I remember the somewhat salty gravy, the probably instant potatoes and the frozen peas.  Even then, I asked for extra cranberries on the side.

I was allowed to walk around the toy department only once, then I could pick out anything I wanted, within reason, of course, though sometimes I did get to pick out a bride doll.

Afterward, Uncle Roy or maybe Grandpa Hess would pick us up on Peach Street.  We would take a ride down State Street to the Dock on the Bay, watch the fishermen for awhile before we headed for home.

Those were good days.  I loved Downtown, the movies, the cartoons and the shopping.  To this day, I ask for extra cranberries with my hot turkey dinners at Bob Evans.  I miss Aunt Marjie still.  Her birthday recently passed, and I stood by her grave marker for a long time.. . Her hats and her earrings are fresh in my mind.  I wonder what she would think of the woman I have become.

Betcha she would love those hot turkey dinners.

Kayaking

I got into the tippy kayak with some trepidation.  What if I fall in the water?  Well, I guess I'd get wet.  Will I drown?  No, it isn't very deep and I am wearing a life jacket.

Motion sickness plagues me, often from the moment I set foot in a boat or a plane.  Well, I made a six hour flight; I can take a couple of hours in a kayak.  Am I going to throw up?  No, I am going to pop ginger root.

Fear envelops me.  It renders me speechless.  What made me want to do this, anyway?  I remember, it was the joy that Paul and Gina found in the sport.  It was the offhand remark of a friend. So here I am... Paul thinks I am concentrating.  No, son of mine, I'm scared.  Oh, just suck it up, lady. I am scared spitless.   I swallow, no small feat.

Am I strong enough?  Will I be able to keep up?  Will I have to turn back after a few minutes?  Oh, I am too old for this.  You know what they say about doing it or getting off the pot, don't you?

Nope, none of the above.  Well, it took a few minutes to get situated.  It took a little time to get the rhythm of the paddles.  It took a bit to realize that I was in the middle of the lagoons, and I wasn't tipping over and the only way to get back was under my own steam.

Paul, to his credit, was very patient with me.

I am stronger than I was a year ago.  I am not sick.  I don't hurt.  I am not afraid. I am at peace.  My mantra of the day...I am not scared, I am at peace...I made a choice. I can do this. . .

The sky was like a sapphire with a few wispy clouds playing on it.  The air was balmy--not too hot, not too humid, not too buggy.  It was perfect.  I want this. . I am at peace with my choice. . .

The water in the lagoons was like glass, a reflecting pool for every tree, every weed, every flora and fauna.  Clean weeds filled the channels, no algae to be found. Some lily pads and watercress, some geese and turtles.  The few humans that were floating by waved and told us about the eagle they saw.  Everyone is kinder than they are on shore.

I have learned some things.  I learned that I need a bigger life jacket next time (the muscle is within, the fat is without).  I learned how to paddle to make the kayak go fast, then let it drift wakeless. How naturally the motions came to me!  It was as though I had done this many times before.   I learned I am capable of overcoming fear.  I didn't fall in the water, I didn't throw up, I didn't get stuck in the middle and have to call for help.  I am stronger than I thought I was.  I did not awake in pain the next morning.  My fears were unfounded. The calmness, the peace within me, is palpable.

I am not afraid.  I am at peace.

Bring on the next challenge of my bucket list, bring on the white water.  I have learned than I can accomplish things, things I have never tried, by putting aside my fear and insecurity.  I can't wait to go again, solo or with another.  I've been given a better outlook of the unknown.  I have always been afraid of everything, afraid of what might go wrong, afraid of the consequences, afraid so much that I never even tried.  It may seem that kayaking is a small thing, but it was a huge step for me. 

It's all in how you look at stuff, I guess.

By the way, the name on the boat?. . . . .PERSPECTIVE.

White Lace

I wore satin and lace on my wedding day.  The gown was inexpensive even for that time forty years ago.  Complete with headpiece, veil and train it was less than a hundred dollars.  My mother made it for me, sewing on every sequin, every seed pearl by hand.  It had long lace sleeves and the body was satin with a lace overlay.  A more beautiful gown I have never seen.  Thanks, Mom.

My grandma Ceil usd to tat lace.  Another Grandma crocheted it, as did my mother.  White lace has always been a part of my wardrobe and a part of my home.  Lace peeks from my shirt and lets sunlight into my rooms.  I love the look of white lace, the intricate design, the way it keeps my privacy while it lets in the outside just a little bit.

White lace is my feminine self, the vulnerable part of me.  It isn't the part that shows in the business world.  It is the romantic side that shows itself in dreams in color, white chocolate and clouds, pink sunrises and red sunsets.  White lace lets me see magic in a still pool.  I can peek out the window without being seen, yet invite the lightning in to brighten the night.

Black lace, pink or ecru--they are the colors born of necessity; they serve no secret purpose.  They are the frivolous side of me.  They are a change of pace.  They don't have the purity and quiet innocence of white lace.

We went to two weddings recently.  The bridal gowns were lovely, one in eggshell, one in white.  The brides were so gorgeous as they gathered  their trains off the floor to dance with their new husbands.  Happiness was written all over their faces.

But something was missing.  Neither one wore even a speck of white lace. . .

From Within

Over the last week or so I have spent some time, though not nearly enough, on reflection. I am trying to understand some things like my attraction to people, places, events.  Like why I can transfer so readily my addictions from one to another.  From soft drinks to gin to food to Facebook games, to the Y and back again, like big loops and rings intricately intertwined.  One step forward, one step back.  I must have taken two ahead at some point because I am better than I was.

It has been more than a year now of new experiences, one after another.  New friends, old friends revisited, new job; things that have touched me in ways I wouldn't have believed a year ago.  Simple pleasures, most of them.  Life-altering, some of them.

Yet I remain vaguely dissatisfied in many ways.

The feeling of foreboding is still with me, though it has lessened to be better described as apprehension.  Something is missing.  My subconscious is looking for something I cannot find in the material world.  I get irritated too easily with the day-to-day.  I snap at the dog and Hubby.  I sleep to escape.

I worry about things over which I have no control--a friend's illness, lack of faith in God, stubbornness or unforgiving attitude.  I wonder, even obsess, over why someone doesn't like me or why I am so lazy at times.  I hear people yell at each other (or worse, ignore each other) and I want to ask them why.  Life is too short.

My goals have changed, my bucket list has grown, my desires and needs have been revised.  Some things I am sure of, yet I am... what?  Too lazy or too afraid to reach for them? Afraid of what? Rejection? Failure?  or success?  Is it the fear of the unknown?  Am I too cautious about consequences?  Am I too impulsive?

I am more certain of what I don't want than what I do want.  So many questions.

I want to put God in a fancy bottle, like my own personal genie, who will grant my every wish whether it is good for me or not.    I want Him to explain all these rantings to me and answer all my inquiries. I want Him to give me signs and portents to show me He is listening to my every word and will answer me instead of me having to wait to hear Him.

I ask for peace.  I want to know instead of guessing.  I want to be told where I am going wrong and how to turn around, not from you, not from a human perspective.  People's ideas tend to be brutal with their own ideas of truth; they call it honesty, I call it criticism.  No, I am looking for creativity and gentleness from within.

I know what my physical body needs--food and water, exercise, rest, human touch, faith and humor.  The mental state is another matter.  It needs much the same thing, only more delicately balanced.

I will find that balance someday.  I will get the answers I seek, probably from an unlikely source.

Maybe from within myself.

You Might Be From EriePA If You Love It!

Recently I joined a Facebook page called "You might be from Erie, PA if...".  I'm addicted.  Everyone 's posts give me a look back and remind me why I love my home town.  I see the names of people who jog my brain cells, places I had forgotten. Thanks, Iam Stacks, whoever you may be, for this brilliant idea.

All was well.  Visions of old and older Erie filled my senses.  Recollections of Christmas downtown, the stores that used to be, sights and smells and memories overwhelmed me.  It was the kind of stuff that makes us...well...US.

And then somebody posted a note about moving away and never wanting to come back.  I was horrified.

I am a lifelong Erieite.  Other places are for visiting, but this is where I want to live out my days.  My heart lives here.  There are good reasons why I continue to make Erie PA my home.  Here are some of them.

Are you stuck in our sometimes unending snow? I'll bet someone will give you a push and not expect payment.  Somebody hit your car?  If it was an Erieite, he left a note.  Are you hungry?  Look on your stoop. A neighbor probably left food and a treat for your dog.

Do you need faith?  There are churches, synagogues, mosques and halls of worship.  Was your wallet lost at KMart?  Betcha it will be returned intact.  Need a ride?  The bus goes within a block or so, a cab will take five minutes, the Lift will come to your door--but did you ask a neighbor?  Chances are, he will be happy to oblige.

Want something to do?  Try the Playhouse, the comedy club, the philharmonic or the ballet.  Watch a ball game or go to a car show or arts festival or concert or hockey game just to name a few. Take in Waldemeer (no admission fee to the park).  Go swimming, fishing, boating. There is something different to do every weekend.  Not enough?  Three major cities are 120 minutes away.

You can still find a banana split for three bucks in Erie, a cone for a dollar.  You can get a decent meal in a clean place for ten.  A small house might be fifty thousand in a neighborhood you can be proud of, but you can spend a hundred or two hundred or a half million if you want to.

Hospitals?  Yes, nationally acclaimed.  Colleges?  Yes, well-respected.  Police and fire and ambulance? Full time, fast and first rate.  Safe?  Yes.

Erie is a small city where you can be anonymous if you wish, yet the degree of separation is likely one or two instead of five.  Even with its surrounding townships, Erie is just a speck in Pennsylvania's chimney.  The people are friendly, the service is good,  life is good in Erie.  It's a small city with a big heart.

I am proud to call Erie, Pennsylvania my home.

Pictures

I hate having my picture taken.

Every time I think I am over it, that maybe this one won't freak me out, I am not and it does.

We have a professional photographer in our family.  She whips out that little Kodak at every occasion (or no occasion)  trying to catch a good snap or two.  OK, it's a simple little camera, but the colors are pure and clear and she is a genius at composition.  But when she oohs and aaahs,  I know she is trying not to hurt my feelings.  I may as well fill my cheeks with air, cross my eyes, pull my lower lip over my nose and stick out my tongue.  Awful.

I take a lousy picture and I know it, OK?  Let's face it, I am the least photogenic person in the US of A. Probably Canada, too, maybe even China.  We won't talk about the driver's photo.  I didn't expect to look like a movie star.  I didn't expect to look like Michael Moore in drag, either.

When I look in the mirror I don't see that ugly face that taunts me from the digital box.  Granted, I usually only look at my eyes, but that's beside the point.  I see a softly rounded face with bright eyes and silver hair.  I see dewy skin, a little puffiness that comes with age.  I do not see the sumo wrestler with several chins, a blotchy face and is that a pimple on my nose??  Oh, please just shoot me....

You're so pretty, he says.  Well, what else can he say?  You look fine! he says.  Well, yes, I do, if you want dinner and whatever you will not be truthful this time.  Oh, you look fine! says my friend of many years.  This from a woman whose God-infused joy beams from every pore.  Now that is a beautiful woman,  Nice pic, Ma, says my unnamed son who coughs and turns away so I won't see the snigger.  Be nice, my dear; after all, I gave you life.

Every time I see in a picture what I must look like to the world, I cringe.  My carefully nurtured self esteem plummets.  The flirty attitude disappears.  I want to go back to bed, pull the covers over my head, stay there lest I offend someones senses.

Yes, yes, a bit melodramatic (which I often am).  Even though I have come a very long way in the last year there are still some people and circumstances that set me back.  They lead me to a black hole, and a bitty Kodak shoves me into it. 

Thank you, no, I don't want to be photographed.   It crushes my ego, gnaws at my vanity, magnifies my flaws.  I prefer to see myself in a different light.

One good picture.  Is that too much to ask?

Beginnings

I love you, you know that, don't you?  I don't always tell you to your face; sometimes it remains quietly unspoken in my heart.  The key to my heart sounds trite, doesn't it?  But it is yours.

It's been more than forty years since the day we met.  We were both a little shy back then.  I can still remember the look on your face.  I can still remember your eyes, always smiling.  I could feel it even then, that something special was happening, something that would keep us linked in a small way or a large on, for all our days.

I remember the first time you asked to see me.  I couldn't believe that someone like you would want to be with someone like me.  There is nothing remarkable about me, but you, well, you were special, different from everybody else in some way.  You made me feel like I could fly.  You made me feel like I could accomplish wonderful things. You made me feel beautiful, smart and capable of almost anything. I fed off your remarkable quiet energy.

I became so wrapped up in wanting to be with you that I forgot about wanting to be with me.  That was all right for awhile, but these days I can feel those wings again, and I want to spread them wide and take in all the good things  that the universe has to offer.  I want the chance to sip a mai tai on the ocean, hobnob with those who run the world, float in a kayak on the lagoons and to write a book that will make people think about themselves in a new way.  I want you to be there with me, not watching from a distance.  I want you to see what I see.  I don't want to wonder if you notice me at all any more.

See, I don't want to go it alone.  I want you to be there to hold my hand or to give me a hug when I need it.  I need to lean on you, and I will be there so you can lean on me, too.

There have been those days when the distance between us seems insurmountable.  We don't talk, or we say too much.  You say things that hurt,  I say things that wound you just to get even.  But it is never even, is it?  It makes the chasm so wide that we are lucky if we can mend it.

But--here's the good part--we are still breathing.  We have a little while left at worst, a long time left at best.  We can go along as we are, or we can begin again.  We are alive.  We can begin again, and again, and again--as often as it takes. There is so much to see, so much to do!  I want to be with the person I know loves me the most so that neither of us has to do those things alone.

I look at you when you don't know I am watching.  I see the fine lines around those eyes that aren't smiling as much as they used to.  I wonder if you are thinking as I am, that it is time to begin again.  There was a time when you were my hero.  You brought me life. Am I willing to begin again with you?

Yes.  You are the love of my life.  Don't you ever forget it.

Foreboding

In spite of my generally good outlook of the last few months, I have recently been hit with a deep sense of foreboding.  I can't seem to shake it off.  It comes and goes, in daydreams and night dream, out of the clear blue.  I might be reading or dancing or walking at Wintergreen.  I will suddenly feel the tears well up and spill down my face.  I feel so foolish.

Much of the turmoil inside me ended when I realized who I am.  I have become reacquainted with the old self and I like her.  This eerie feeling tells me that there are still unresolved issues in my past or present that I have to see clearly, and I mean now.  Maybe I need to get away for a couple of days.  I do that on occasion, but it is always associated with work.  No, this time I need to pitch a tent, take my cell phone and peanut butter and iced coffee and just think for a few days without distraction.

I don't know what is going to happen, or when.  I feel it in the air--a mixture of sadness, chaos, fear and uncertainty.  I don't know if it is global or personal.  I only know it isn't right.  It leaves me with tenseness, irritability and a state of confusion that I don't much like.  My friends think I'm getting nutty.  My husband can't believe I can be dancing one minute and chewing off his ear the next. 

I want it to stop.

I am not mentally ill, thank you for your concern.  I am at least as normal as you are (well, some of you anyway).  I don't think I am a clairvoyant, although Grandma H was, and I will tell you about her another day.  It is not mass destruction I see.  It is more like a 4.0 earthquake, enough to shake up one but not cause deep personal tragedy in most cases.  I do believe we are in the End Times, but that isn't it.  It's a restlessness, an uneasiness, a dissatisfaction that I can't put my finger on.  Is it me, or is it the world?  I don't know. 

I wish I could say this was the first time, but it isn't.  The feeling is often precipitated by something I read or dream or talk about.  The images are triggered, and then I begin the "what if?" process.  That part is OK.  We all have "what if?" days.  My imagination turns itself loose and pummels me with sweet dreams of fame and fortune and whatever.  I enjoy the rush.

Sometimes it is different.  Whether it is an unrecalled nightmare or something deeper, I don't know, only that it gives me these muddy water dreams.  Grandma always said nothing good comes from one of those dreams.

So as I drove to New Castle today and someplace else tomorrow, I will use the time to think, to plan and to try to resolve whatever is causing this uneasiness.  Bear with me, my friends.

Maybe I think too much.

Brown Food, et al

Brown has a bad rep.

I seldom wear brown, except for its variant, khaki (whatever happened to beige?). 

Brown is the color of doggie doo.  It represents old food that is bruised, grass dried up and dying in the July heat, dead leaves beyond the reds and golds of October.  We look at weathered, leathery brown skin with some distaste at the wrinkles.  Coffee (ah, my beloved coffee!) leaves a nasty brown stain on your shirt and your teeth.  You can tell where a smoker sits by the brown film on the curtains and the wall.  And let us not forget the UPS guy who brings tons of brown cardboard boxes to my house, waking my husband from his already restless third-shifter daytime sleep. No, brown is not pleasant.


My wardrobe, as I might have mentioned, consists mainly of black and khaki with shirts of various jewel tones--garnet, amethyst, aquamarine.  This way, my sleep-deprived and slightly blurred eyes can grab a jacket, pair of pants and almost any shirt.  I leave the house looking decent if not fashionable. Khaki is my one indulgence in the brown family.  Yes, yes, I'm sure you have seen my recent acquisition of the brown skirt and jacket.  They are an anomaly, like the the lime green blazer. 

I used to wear brown.  Then we had our house decorated in earth tones.  It lasted a year or two.  I began to think I lived in the mountains instead of the suburbs. I haven't worn earth tones in my home or on my body since-- unless it looks darn good, like the brown skirt or the pleated blouse.

Anyhow, if you see the glass half full as I usually try to do, you see the better side of brown.  You look at the deep brown eyes of your loved one, or the so-dark brown eyes of a beloved dog.  You see the brown hair falling over the forehead of a child or the soft earth of your garden plot.  Brown is the color of the bark of your favorite oak, and the shimmer of maple syrup. It is the color of tiger eyes.  You see a beautiful woman's gently tanned legs. You see the warm woods of your classic end tables.

Brown gives us hot coffee and iced tea, chocolate cake and Oreo cookies. There are baked beans, new potatoes in their jackets and caramel topping on your sundae.  Toast a marshmallow, eat a s'more or a perfectly done hamburger or pot roast.  Spices like cinnamon and nutmeg, caramelized onions, even your morning toast with peanut butter (you didn't really think I would leave out peanut butter, did you?), all delicious nuances of the lowly maligned brown.

So, like many other things I have changed my perspective about in recent months, I have learned to accept the beauty of brown.  I am trying to--actually become obsessed by, as some would say--see the glorious world in all its colors from the blackest shadows to the white light of heaven's gates.  I am trying not to see the muddy mix of primaries that is brown, but to see how each individual drop of color turns it into khaki or peanut butter or 85% cacao.

Maybe my understanding of brown will help me to change my world a bit.

Cliques Click

Way back in my high school days, I was vaguely aware of the Clique.  Since I knew several of the Clique from my pudgy, pimply junior high and grade school days I was not intimidated by them; they were just people who happened to have it all, except blemishes.  There were a few in the Clique who treated my friends and I like road kill, but then again they treated everybody like road kill--why should we be exempt?

I never considered my group of friends a clique.  We moved about on the fringes, taking in the strays--the really sad classmates who had no one (some for good reasons!); hob-knobbing with the rich and famous, with the smart and the silly, trying to give everybody a shot at being happy for awhile.   We were free spirits in some ways.  We rarely went dateless;  we had our own lunch table, we went to dances and basketball games and pep rallies and French Club en masse. There were a few in the Clique whom I envied--I wouldn't have been a normal kid if I hadn't.  There were a few whom I wanted to emulate, a few whom I despised for their better-than-you attitude and one on whom I had a massive crush that never was resolved.  Oh, well.

As the years have passed, I have discovered some basic truths about the Clique, as well as about myself.  First of all, they were in the Clique because, well, they "clicked" with the others in the group.  It might have been the desire to be with others as smart, as popular, as talented. It might have been childhood friendships that continued and the comfortable camaraderie stayed.  Hey! Wait a minute!  Isn't that why my friends were my friends?

Secondly, the Clique seemed to move as one,  from football to music to mayhem.  From an outsider's point of view they were more alike than different. They were rich (no, they weren't), they were smart (not necessarily), they had a famous parent (nada), they had fast cars (occasionally) and a desire to belong.  Oh, for pity's sake, that sounds like my friends.

Third, I guess, is that they were comfortable in their own skins, exuding confidence wherever they showed up.  Aye, there it is.  This select group had confidence as its ally, many of them learning early on who they were and what they wanted (or having been told what they wanted, believed it at the time).  That's what separated us, clique from wanna-be.

As I open my eyes today, I no longer see the Clique.  I see people who live and die, are rich and not-so.  I see long-lived marriages like my own, or stacks of two, three and more relationships.  I see general equivalency diplomas from high school and strings of letters after classmates' names.  I see drunkards and addicts, successes and mega-successes. I see those who are well-loved and those who are not.  I see the fella of the massive crush, bouncing from marriage to marriage and job to job and am grateful it ended before it started.  Funny, isn't it, how Life sorts us into groups, then into other groups, till the lines between "Clique" and "not-Clique" blend and morph into one-size-fits-all?

The truth is, the Clique was then, Life is NOW.  When we look back to high school or college or even a few years past, we need to look beyond what was and see what is.  Times change, people change.  Some came out from under their bushel baskets later in life, some bloomed early, some will never see the flowers because they are still chasing a rainbow (bet you didn't know anybody who could mix all those metaphors in one sentence, huh?).

Today I no longer need to be them because they are us.  We have grown up (at least most of us have), and should be able to look past the Vuiton  and the Prada, or the WalMart and the Target; we should see not the wrinkles or the pounds but the inner light.  We are different; we are the same. Maybe today we will "click".  Then again, maybe not.

I can't say that being outside, looking in to the Clique, was a heart-wrenching experience.  I was too naive and too busy to be a part of the inner circle. In the years since, there have been the inner circles of which I've been a part and it isn't a big deal.  I am content on the fringes, being the trim on somebody else's shawl.  Without me, their lives would be so plain! (OK, even I  can see that was a bit of a stretch.)

Today there is only an eensy bit of envy for those who have achieved what I have only dreamed of.  One day when I said as much to an old classmate and friend, she said to me, " I envied you!" Imagine that.  While I saw her successful career, Mustang and cheerleader energy, she saw my marriage,  my sons and my shiny new Sun Coupe. There's a lesson there somewhere.  There always is.

Ketchup

Or catsup.  You know, the red, slightly spicy stuff made from tomatoes, vinegar, salt and spices.  The stuff Weight Watchers used to ban from their diet plan and the US government decided was a vegetable on the school lunch program.  The stuff some wiseguy tried to improve by making it green or purple. Sheesh.

I'm getting into this confession thing. Ask me, and I might tell you my secrets.  Or I'll lie about them.  How would you know?  But this confession is one I will share honestly. I love ketchup.

You know that I will cause mayhem if you touch my chocolate.  That 85% cacao bar better still be there when I crave it.  Peanut butter is a staple.  Ice cream is surely my best friend, even surpassing gin and tonic.  I am also a nut for ketchup, but not with my chocolate, peanut butter or ice cream.  It wouldn't do justice to any of them.  I haven't tried it yet with gin.


I realized it even as a child.  Linda's sister would reach for peanut butter sandwiches. Lin and I ate ketchup on white bread, sometimes with mustard (plain yellow ballpark).  My occasional bologna sandwich (still a comfort food), also on white bread, had a big squeeze of ketchup on it.  My dear mother-in-law would fix sandwiches for me when we lived there.  She would lovingly lightly butter the Vienna bread, then spread just a little mayo. A slice of bologna or ham, a lettuce leaf--all presented with a slice of tomato with grated cheese, or a pickle, and a linen napkin. To her chagrin, I would make one for myself--bread, bologna, ketchup served on a paper towel.

My sister and I would stop at McDonald's or wherever for French fries and proceed to drown them in the red condiment.  We decided we only ate the fries so we wouldn't get our fingers full of ketchup. What would a restaurant do if you asked for a bowl and spoon, then dumped the complimentary ketchup in it and began to dine?  Call Bellview, I guess.

I don't love ketchup the way I love peanut butter.  It needs a medium, like bread, to be filling. It stains when splattered on my yellow t-shirt.  It feels wrong to dunk anything in it when dining out.  Those little fast-food packets have a way of leaking in one's purse or getting stepped on in one's car (trust me on this--it shoots out of that little tube like Old Faithful).  Still, ketchup is more versatile than you may think.

Mixed with horseradish, it makes good cocktail sauce. With mayo, it makes thousand island dressing (add chopped egg and relish if you want it).  Add it to mushroom soup and mustard and it makes a spicy gravy for Salisbury steak (really--try it; add some Worcestershire, too).  Use it for sloppy Joes. Top your eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs or mac and cheese. And bologna, of course.

I wanted a snack one day and was trying to decide between sour cream and onion or barbecue Pringles when the stock man brought out a new carton for the shelf.  Bless my soul, ketchup flavored Pringles! Heaven in a chip. I don't know why this flavor isn't catching on...I mean, it's ketchup!

Before you barf, I urge you to at least try the ketchup.  I know, I know.  Hubby says it's good on hamburgers and hot dogs, even fries, but draws the line on my putting it in his lunch box.  My sons scoff--they want malt vinegar or ranch.  Some look at me like I must have been deprived of the finer things as a child, to rely on the lowly ketchup for sustenance.  What can I say?  I won't apologize for my habit.

Someday we will chat about mustard and pickle relish.

Apples and Peaches

Much of the time I am content.  Most of my needs are met; I am working on the wants.  Some of the peace comes from knowing my calling; some from my minimal knowledge of God, reike and tai chi. Some of it is from my family and friends.  Some peace comes with a thunderstorm, a paycheck, a new piece of jewelry or a Klondike bar.

Those times I am discontented it is out of frustration.  There are things I want but cannot have, at least not now.  There is so much to do that I get overwhelmed and feel myself shutting down.  I sense reality creeping into my dreams and I don't like having to acknowledge it.

It's kind of like munching a Gala apple.  It is crisp, sweet but not cloying; it's juicy, but not so much that it runs down your hands. The crunch is satisfying for the most part, but it isn't what you want this time.  This time, at this moment, you want a peach--a perfectly ripe one.

As you take another bite of the Gala, you imagine how good that peach would taste. The flesh of it is just soft enough. The juice drips down your chin.  It is exactly what you  hunger for....until you get close to the pit and see the little white half of a worm that got to your precious fruit first. Reality has crept in. That peach looked flawless--until you got too close to the insides.

So it is with life.  The day-to-day is filling, satisfying, sometimes boring. Sometimes we have one too many apples.  They become a lunch box staple. We don't even notice them after awhile.  We automatically reach for the Galas or Fujis. They're not expensive, they're sturdy.  The peach--be it a different job, a new home, a new car, a trip to Las Vegas--looks so delicious, and in season for such a short time. We don't look at the price, or if we do, we brush it off because it's a special treat.
Think  about peaches--the fruit, not the euphemism.  If you buy them unripened it is days before they are ready. If you don't eat them right away, they turn mushy, brown, finally moldy. You attract fruit flies. The life of an apple is so much longer! And if they get a bit past their prime, there is always applesauce or apple butter.

And yet, I adore peaches. Albertas are my favorite, but red havens and clings will suffice. Their cousins, the nectarines, are often even better.

I guess the moral is (I often have one. Have you noticed that?) that we should taste the peach in its season--and the cherries and plums, too.  Try things; experience what life has to offer. Just remember that old stand-by, the apple. It can take being tossed into the lunch box, survive winter storage and is a nice gift for a teacher.

The peach may look like the perfect fruit...but be sure you check for worms.

Roller Skates and Dreams

The most aggravating song of all time has to be Melanie's "I've Got a Brand-New Pair of Roller Skates" (you've got a brand-new key).  It isn't just because it is silly.  I like silly songs, like "Ahab the Arab" and  "Purple People Eater".  Of course, I know all the words to that durn tune and some days it runs through my brain like a loop-de-loop.

Does that happen to you, too? A thought, a song, a chant--especially one that you aren't crazy about--sticks in your mind and nothing will turn it loose.

It's the same with recurring dreams.  I have one that comes back so often that I know what will happen as soon as it begins.  The story varies a little depending on if I had burritos or chicken salad before my nap.  This dream never occurs at night that I can remember, only during one of those satisfying afternoon snoozes. I wake up annoyed, reaching for someone--I don't know who.

"Sometimes I think that you're avoiding me.  I'm OK alone, but you've got something I need..."

Like the Melanie song, the dream is always there, burbling about in the recesses of my mind. I try to finish it, thinking that by bringing some kind of closure to the story and finding out who that being could be will mean the end of it.  But no, it's always the same.  I'm thinking it may be someone I love who can't be with me.  Or someone who loves me but can't be near for whatever reason.  Or somebody who likes to tease like an irritating child.

Melanie sings, "for somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world".  Grammar aside,  I understand.  This dream has taken place in Kansas (after watching "Wizard of Oz"), in Hollywood (don't ask), in Casablanca (self-explanatory), in Paris and at home.  I am always reaching for the being, and he, she, it is always out of reach.  We have seen the world, but I never see the face.

"Some people say I've done all right for a girl".  Oh, please.

In the dream I am beautiful.  I sing like an angel, wear long lace and satin gowns and have hair that flows.  I am drenched in jewelry. There are flowers of every color. There is a big window; no matter where in the world we are, the view is always the same--I am looking out over the city, over the lake.

I dance and others stand by and watch my partner and I as we float across the floor.  The room has an orchestra and chandeliers, one of which is made of tiny silver keys.  My partner is neither male nor female, it has no face.  I am smiling; I am obviously happy.  I am always aware of where we are, be it Paris or Rome, the desert or Siberia. The dress changes, the music changes, the dancing does not.  Sometimes it is Santana, other times is is Glenn Miller, occasionally Jackson Browne pops in.

Suddenly the music stops.  Everyone is clapping and laughing.  At me?  I don't know.  I turn to find out why, and my partner is gone--SNAP!  I wake up then, calling a name, but no one hears me.  I don't know what name I am calling.  Only once did I hear myself and that was something nonsensical.

So what does that all have to do with Melanie and her blasted roller skates?  Well, in the dream I am wearing roller skates, the old-fashioned kind that used the key you hung around your neck. A voice sings ever so softly, not enough to drown out "For a Dancer" or "Europa".

"I think we should get together and try them out, you see....".

Afterthoughts

When the dance is done, the dinner is digested; when we have had the last of the wine and the song; when the last blush of sunshine flushes the sky with shades of amethyst...that is when we sit quietly and think about what is and what might have been.

Sometimes the thoughts are random.  What if I had won the lottery?  What if I had studied Transcendental Meditation?  What if I had been a hippie?

Sometimes specific.  What if I had married someone else? Would I have found the life I have today?  What if I had become a teacher instead of a salesman?  What if I had not let my fears rule me?  If the man I love loves another, will I live at all?  Could I be happy in another world?  What if my children were not mine, but the result of someone else's union?

What if I had been born a man? Would I have served my country with honor? Or would I have run when my number came up? Would I be brave and loyal, hardworking or a bum?  Would I have taken up a trade?  Gone into politics?  Would I have been open and caring, forgiving and loving with the person I loved most? Or would I have been cold, indifferent, even mean? Would I share what was wrong and rejoice in what was right?

I want to do what is right.  I try to live the way I think God wants me to live. I try to do my job, love my family, be honest in dealng with others.  I try to stay true to what I believe.  Most days I enjoy living as I do. I am a basically happy individual, and I try to let my inner light shine on those around me, bringing joy when someone will let me into their space for even a little while. I try to be warm, letting my warmth melt the coldest hearts.

Sometimes it works.  Sometimes it doesn't.  Some people make the candle in me burn brighter, like a million tiny flames.  I can feel the fire spreading, touching other souls, giving them a light they can follow out of their self-imposed darkness. Sometimes it fails, the cold breath blowing out the last flicker of love within me, shrouding those around me in thickness so that all they see is pain reflected against pain.

It used to be enough to simply be, but not anymore.  Suddenly it is my mission to touch people and make them whole, giving them a reason to live where they had none, giving them friendship when they had been lonely, giving an ear to their quiet voices.  It isn't enough anymore to sit in my LaZBoy and watch the world falter;  I need to help hold it up.

There are those who will bite the hand I offer, rejecting any attempt I make to show them kindness.  Is it because they don't like me? Or are they afraid to accept my unconditional gift? Or don't they like themselves?  No matter how you look at it, it is so wrong to reject the love of another when it is freely given.

What changed me? I looked inside. I decided what I believe. I remembered the things I used to love.  I opened my eyes to see the wrong things I have done.  I tried to make them right.  I asked God to fill me with enough love that I could give it away, enough light that people would see it in me and want it, too.  I asked for the right words to touch someone's life.  I asked for a new perspective.

Sometimes my afterthoughts are silly ones that don't mean a thing to anyone but my selfish self.  Sometimes they are profound, sometimes they make me cry. Sometimes I am content, sometimes not. There are things I want that I cannot have, there are things I will never speak aloud.

Through it all, I will trust.

Purses and That Ilk

It's a purse.  A handbag.  A pocketbook.  When you have young children, it is more likely a tote or a diaper bag with your wallet and keys among the diapers and toys and seven changes of clothes (including a fresh shirt for you).  I once had  a vet ask me how old my baby was.  How did you know I had kids? I asked, and he pointed to the Nuk I was wearing as a ring.

It is chaos.  Oh, there are a few amongst us who do not use a purse as a survival kit.  Look in the purse of most women and you will find her life story, at least one piece of candy, meds, tissues, pens, make-up and a sewing kit.  On a bad day I will also have double-sided tape, a paperback, Tums, a screwdriver, three washers and a bottle of Kahlua, a Magic Marker, six Do-Its and slightly stale gum.

Her income (the checkbook), where she had lunch or bought that white filigree necklace (the receipts--and please don't tell me you were just admiring the necklace, mister!), her age (driver license), how much is real and how much is Maybelline and a whole host of other information resides in that purse.

She will try to stuff in the camera, hairbrush, tissues and a cell phone in a tiny evening bag.  When it doesn't fit, she will turn her beau's pockets into an extension.  If she carries a big bag, her mate makes it an extension of his pockets--honey, put my cigarettes in your purse, OK? and an extra hanky, my lighter and the table saw I bought at Sears.....

My purse is black inside, as is my wallet, my cell and my camera case. The floor mats in my Chevy are also black.  So when the purse that I have been rummaging in to find the black phone in the black purse lands on the black floor on the way from the Y....well, my car becomes a giant black hole of a purse on wheels. Can't find a thing.

Between my purse and my car I can survive a blizzard in Colorado for a week.  I carry water and a snack or two or three, plus I usually carry my lunch.  I have a blanket, jumper cables and dry socks. I am not without a flashlight and a rain poncho.  In winter I carry those shake-up hand warmers.  There is enough junk for a bonfire, tissues for my nose and my meds in my purse. There is at least one book, a legal pad, phone charger and a take-out directory.  I should get a shovel, I suppose.  Of course, I can't have passengers.....

I can't fathom spending a thousand dollars on a purse, maybe twelve-fifty--on sale.  I want something practical and basic, not like the little silver number I thought was chic until I put two dollars inside and it was full.  I want one so big it aggravates the bursitis, so heavy that my Hubby asks, "What the #$%^ do you have in there?" and such a long strap that I can use it as a weapon if need-be.

NEVER, EVER violate a woman by getting into her purse without--or even with--permission. Her purse is sacred, a private place like a secret garden.  Trust me, nothing bugs her as much as having you hunt through it for a quarter to use at the car wash.

There are days I do without a purse, like I never carry one anymore when I shop, just stuff the phone, money, debit card and ID in my pockets.  I don't carry one when I work, I shove it all in my briefcase. I had one for my trip to Vegas. I guess I could have used a fanny-pack, but they're so darn ugly.

I swear my next purse will not hold a single zipper bag full of cosmetics.  It will have no more than two pens, one small packet of tissue, a few ibuprofen in a classy little pill box and maybe a lipstick. The wallet, of course, and my cell phone...a bottle of water...Tums...a first-aid kit...a paperback..one notepad and my checkbook...a calendar, change for the parking meter and a couple of ones for tips...safety pins...and a bottle of Kahlua.

Ready to go, Honey.

The Throat

I was buying lunch the other day.  Being sixty now and a bit frugal (read cheap), I inquired about the senior discount.

Oh, I'm sure you don't qualify, said the sweet young thing.  His eyes traveled to my throat--no, I wasn't wearing my ever-present choker, and no, he never got as far as my cleavage--just as far as the turkey neck--and promptly took off ten per cent.

I hate my throat.

My face is pretty much unlined thanks to a little extra fat here and there.  My eyes are bright with new lenses from the cataract surgery as well as with a love of life.  But the throat.  Geez.

I won't wear turtlenecks anymore.  I can't stand the tightness.  I like to wear shirts that...uh...accentuate my finer places.  I opted to wear chokers that help to hide the wrinkle (shudder).

When Mom was about my age, she had thyroid surgery.
"Don't worry," said the doctor. "I'll hide the incision in this wrinkle here."
If I hadn't heard him say it, I wouldn't have believed it.  Mom was shocked.  As beautiful as she was, I don't think her less than perfect eyesight ever noticed the wrinkle before that day.

I look at my peers. Some of them have had eyes fixed or chins lifted.  My husband will guess her age. Nope, I say, older than that.  How do you know? he quizzes. Throat, I answer.

Throat and hands, dead give-aways of a woman's age.  Hands, slightly darkened at the knuckles, an age spot here and there, the skin not as taut. The throat, no matter how slim she is, shouts "senior citizen".
It's that wrinkle at the base, you see, the one that swallows the fine gold chain you wore at forty. Don't believe it?  Ask Barbara Bush why she wears those blasted pearls.

By the way, men don't get turkey necks.  Some age well, some don't.  Some wear thick gold chains, but that is for prowess, not to hide anything.  There is no male equivalent of the throat.

I am better in many ways than I was at forty.  I am freer and more open than I was. I have more faith. I see things from a different viewpoint.  I have an insatiable need to have people like me--which astounds me because I never cared what people thought of me before.  I like myself most of the time.  I have discovered gifts and I use them.  I've been told I don't look bad for my age (why can't they just say, "Damn! You look GOOD"??).

If it wasn't for the durn throat, everything would be perfect!

Las Vegas--The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Let me talk about the bad and the ugly first so I can end with a smile on my face, and I hope on yours.

Las Vegas is not a customer-friendly town.  Oh, I'm sure the city itself is...but the money-maker, the famous Strip, isn't. If you have a Diamond card (Vegas-speak for game rewards), you get some perks--free shows, front-of-the-line service, discounts, valet parking, etc.  If you don't, well, you're just another schmuck with beaucoup bucks to spend.

If you go out there on a shoestring, like I had to, you are amazed at how expensive everything is. Pay for the monorail, pay for expensive meals that would be ten dollars at home, pay two dollars for an apple (not kidding), tip him here, tip her there. You can buy t-shirts, three for fifteen, if you can stand the sleazy booth.  You can buy a bottle of water for a dollar if you trust the fellow with the cruddy cooler. You can buy a necklace for ten thousand bucks or for fifty.  You can buy a scoop of ice cream for five-fifty, or a single strawberry covered in chocolate for six-ninety-five.

There are police everywhere--on bikes, in cars, marching the perps down the street in cuffs.  Pit bosses keep watch over the patrons. There is security in every corner.

The worst thing, though, isn't the half-dressed girls in cages--after all, it is Las Vegas and the girls have  chosen to dance for entertainment. No, I didn't find the girls in the casino or in the shows vulgar at all.  What I did find vulgar were the young men and women on the street, driving trucks with pics advertising brothels, and the ones passing out cards and fliers with sex for sale.  OK, call me a prude.

There are escalators everywhere.  You even use them to cross the street! You walk or take the monorail and then walk, every place you have to go.  I may have missed the Y, but I didn't miss the workout.

All that  being said, the Strip is a wonderful place to visit. It must be the combined energy of the shows, the bells of the casinos and the day-lit evenings that power the billions of watts.  The lights are amazing--there is no other word to describe them.  Floodlights, neon, bold and bright, cascading, flashing, pulsing...all I could find to say was WOW.

And the statuary! Two stories high! A spiral escalator that takes you to the top! Ceilings painted as sky, some with brilliant flowers made of glass.  Chocolate cascades from ceiling to floor; baubles glitter in store windows; fountains spring forth in the middle of a courtyard.  Fresh flowers grace the backdrop in one place, the front desk in another.  The garden at the Flamingo has live flamingos, swans...so beautiful amongst the palm trees.

Yes, I had a good time.  No, I didn't win a bundle.  I loved the high-energy shows the best, and the simple fact of not one mosquito the entire week. Nights were balmy and breezy; days hot, sunny and dry--not a drop of sweat to make my mascara run. 

Would I go again?  Not unless I had to.  It's sensory overload for me. Besides, we didn't go dancing. Las Vegas is glitzy and glamorous and there is more money on a single roulette table than I earn in a year.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Happy Birthday To Me

For those of you who are sick of hearing about  my six-oh birthday, the day is here! Happy Birthday to me!  This one is especially important for lots of reasons.

First, it's a round number.  Round numbers always seem more important as birthday numbers, except for twenty-one.

Second, last year's only redeeming quality was the birth of my granddaughter. Enough said.

Third, I've undergone so many changes since my last birthday!

There are still things I meant to do, like take a road trip.  Well, I'm going to Las Vegas instead.  I wanted to go kayaking, but my back gave out.  Oh, I am still going! It just has to wait until I can at least get out of the car without wincing.  I wanted to clean the basement from Hades....yeah, right.  I wanted to lose weight--and I have, just not as quickly as I'd hoped or as much as I wanted. Still time.

I wanted to begin this decade with joy.  I have found some in friends, new and old.  I wanted to find a church, and I did.  I began a fitness program and got my graduation t-shirt.  I started writing, something I didn't plan, but it has been a Godsend.

I have learned to express my faith in God openly, unafraid and without reservation.  I can live in the world and see beyond the material things, yet enjoy them.  I have written down my core beliefs and will defend them.  I am proud to be a Christian.

I wanted to rid my mind of negativity, learn to laugh and love again.  I wanted to dance again.  I wanted to forget who I had become and get back to the roots  of who I am.  That's going well.  I am no longer afraid of being lonely--I have learned to like myself.  (If I don't like me, nobody else will either.)

I wanted to connect with old friends, and they have been a blessing in more ways than you know.  They have given me back my childhood memories and reminded me of carefree teenage years.  They have helped me to find ME. I can be myself with them because they know who I am.

I wanted to make new friends, and I've done that.  I can be myself with them because they have no expectations.  There are no longer any strangers, just friends I haven't met yet.

I have discovered my gifts and my calling.  I am grateful that I've recognized them.  I pray for them to be used wisely, and for  my words to touch one person's heart one time, and to make a difference in one person's life.

I wanted more bling in my life, and more creativity.  Done.

There are still people to meet--a whole slew of cousins, for example.  There are those whom I've injured in some way who haven't forgiven me yet.  I won't give up until I understand why.

There are days I want to run through the sprinkler and shout with joy and laughter.  I cry over everything, mostly because I had forgotten how to cry.  There are few tears of sadness these days.  I am happier than I've been in a long time. There are days when I want to hug everyone in sight, and days when I do exactly that.  I've learned to experience new things as a child would do.  The eyes of a child seek and find magic.

This year will be a continuation of my renewal and growth.  I have so much to see, so much to do, so many people I have not yet hugged.  I have a good foundation.  I can build mansions!

Happy Birthday to me!

Thunder

I love thunder and lightning shows.  I love to press my face against the window pane, absorbing the energy around me.  I love to sit on a porch feeling the spray of the raindrops.

I love a good storm when I'm in a valley, because the thunder bounces from hill to hill in a never-ending crescendo.  I can hear it clap loudly for my attention,and grumble as it rolls restlessly through the forested lands...echoing, echoing...

I love the lightning when it streaks from the heavens or flashes like a thousand neon lights in the distance.  I love the bright forks, more dramatic than any fireworks display.  I love the crackle in the air and the crisp smell of ozone being formed.

I love the rain when it is so powerful that it rushes like a river toward the storm sewer, erupting like a geyser at the end.  I love the way it cleans my car without remuneration and washes my face like a million tears.

I love the wind when it whips the trees into a frenzy, lays flat the grasses and tosses the debris as if it were a tiny tornado.  I love the way it flips my hair onto my face and plays with my skirt as though I was Marilyn Monroe.

I love to watch the gentle waves of the Bay as they build and crash against the pier.  I love the swells as they  reach surfer-worthy status on the lake in a few moments of time.  I love to watch the seagulls as they ride each wave, bobbing and curtsying as though they are paying homage to the power.

Most of all, I love to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. . . listening as it moves farther away...hoping it will come back soon and cleanse my world.

Rumspringe

The Amish have a good word--rumspringe--which cannot be literally translated.  It s the time of a young person's life, usually around 17 or 18, when the youngster is set loose into the world of the "English".  "English" is the term used by the Amish to include anyone not of their faith.  Why they pick on the English instead of Italians or Poles is anybody's guess.

Anyway, during  rumspringe a youth can take in the sights and sounds of the English world previously forbidden.  They can live in the city, wear modern clothes, listen to music, watch TV, drink and drive.  Some get into trouble because they can't handle the freedom.  Some never go home--if they choose the English world, they are "shunned" by their families. Some can't wait to return to the simpler way of life.

I'm a little old for rumspringe. Never in Amish history has a two-days-from-sixty woman been turned loose to experience rumspringe.  If she didn't get the world out of her system at 17, well, tough toodles.

And yet, that's how I feel.  The past months, culminating with my first ever time in Las Vegas, is my rumspringe.  Yes, I have a TV and radio; I drive and play CDs really loud to drown out my singing.  I wear clothes that suit my personality if not exactly Vogue.  I use a cell phone.  But never in my life have I been turned loose to experience the "English" world--until now.

My life has been a simple one.  We have the usual modern conveniences.  I get a new car every four or five years, not a buggy and Clydesdale.   I cut my hair, pluck my eyebrows, wear outrageous earrings and adorn my nails with glitz and glimmer. We are simple folk.  We like rides in the country, moonlit nights and a bonfire now and then.  We are not travelers.  So you can see why this trip to Las Vegas is my rumspringe.

I have every intention of having a good time as soon as the Dramamine wears off and my stomach settles to a dull ache.  I will  enjoy the "lights, camera, action!" of the famous Strip, the big show we will attend and the bing-bong of the casino.  The meetings are an afterthought; I have to go to them to be able to enjoy the rest.  Even they will be exciting, because I will be on the ground floor of a new team launch. 

The "English" world, much maligned by the Amish, is nonetheless useful to them.  It provides a place to shop for material goods, a place to work when farming doesn't pay enough, a place to sell their jam, meat and quilts.  It is the English who buy their furniture, taking great pride in saying their porch swing is "Amish crafted".

So it is with me.  I have no lust to live in Las Vegas, not even off the Strip in the regular sections of the city.  I do not pant for life of lights and noise.  One show with all its glamour will be probably enough for a lifetime.  Yet--here's the catch 22--I have to experience it before I can deny it. The English world isn't where my heart is, but is useful for a break from the monotony of real life.

There it is.  The Amish in their wisdom have seen the truth.  If one is denied (or ignores) the experiences set in front of her, how does she know what she loves?  Not just Las Vegas, but life  here in Erie, PA, too.  If I don't take in a play or ballet, see a rock concert or go dancing; if I don't sip apricot brandy or a mai tai on occasion instead of my usual G&T--how will I ever know?  If I don't sit on a bench at Rodderick overlooking the waters of Lake Erie, or take a kayak on a one-woman trip to the Lagoons, how will I know what I have missed?

Hubby and I have been together for forty-plus years.  Every day lately, it seems, we find out something new about each other.  We are starting to take time once again to experience simple pleasures.  It's time we explored the "English" world.

So my rumspringe begins.  Unlike the Amish kids, mine will only last a few days.  I won't find my heart in Las Vegas; my heart is in Erie, PA.  I won't find the love of my life there; he is in Erie, PA, too.  I won't sleep much, I won't have a shedding 100 pound dog at my feet.  Those, too, are in Erie.  I, too, would be shunned if I gave up my life here for the life of a casino groupie.

No worries, my friends.  When my rumspringe ends, I'm coming home.

At The Y

I will make a friend today.  Somehow, somewhere.

It was unlikely, really. The Y on a warm, clear summer night is relatively deserted.  Only a few of my new friends were there, all of them on their way to classes or huffing on spin bikes or ellipticals.  I resigned myself to walking alone unless my trainer found time to join me.

A woman in red was headed toward me on the track.

"You're going the wrong way!" she blurted. "Thursday is counter-clockwise!"

Well, yes it is. However, today is WEDNESDAY, and I'm walking in the right direction.  I decided not to argue the point. Why bother? It is Wednesday, or I would have put garbage out.  My birthday is on Wednesday.  The newspaper said it is Wednesday.  Why am I even THINKING about this?  I kept walking; she passed me, scowling again.

Suddenly she stopped, approached me and said, "Why the h*** didn't you tell me it's Wednesday?"

I didn't answer, but we did start walking (in the right direction), discussing our foibles, our kids, Buddha and the Y in general.  We exchanged numbers and agreed to walk again.  We have much in common.  I have made another friend.

I expect my trip to Las Vegas to be much the same.  I am going with a friend of several years.  The other team members are unknown to us, yet I am sure we will both come home with budding friendships.  It is a gift, one that I will not waste.

It's like this...I yearn for friends of my past to be friends of my future.  I long for old friendships to grow and to blossom.  I want new friendships to thrive.  I want to begin my next decade being surrounded by people I want to be with.  Everywhere I go, I want to run into someone I can call "friend".

Bev and I may become coffee-klatsch friends, or maybe just Y friends.  We will probably never share secrets, or peanut butter fudge from the bake sale. I doubt we will ever discuss evolution on Facebook, or argue the finer points of politics or religion.  But we can talk and laugh, and we will find a niche in each other's lives.

As I begin a new decade, there are still old friends I want to see again.  New friends can't take their places.  A hug from an old friend is worth a thousand handshakes from a new one.  I can hope that a few years down the road I will be able to say, "meet my old friend..."

TMI

I am a hopeless romantic.  I love to sneak up behind hubby and kiss his neck.  I like it when somebody surprises me with trinkets or does the dishes or takes me out for ice cream for no occasion at all.  I like to hear the words "I love you", "I like you", "I need you", "let's eat out." I like flowers and wine and sunsets, silky clothes and creamy chocolate.  I like t be remembered on my birthday (coming soon!)

I didn't cry for a lot of years, then my heart was opened and I cry at everything--movies, songs, pictures of puppies.  A dance at someone else's wedding was my best hope; now it has become an event.  Being alone used to terrify me; now I have learned that I can be by myself and not feel alone.

The confidence is not without risk.

Last fall I was doing my day off chores, and I spotted a black GTO heading east on route 20.  Thinking it was my husband's car I bared one shoulder, fluffed my hair and revved my engine (actually, it was the car I revved. I just purred.).  Putting on my sexiest wink, I pulled up alongside--and looked straight into the eyes of a thirty-something, or maybe twenty-something, but it sure as heck wasn't my hubby the fifty-something.  Do you know how fast an Equinox can move when motivated? Geez.

"How many GTOs can there be on route 20 on a Saturday?" I wailed to Hubby.
"Apparently at least two," he snarled, unamused.

Was that the end? Of course not.  I saw a friend from high school days at the coffee shop.  Boldly, I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Hi, there" with my brightest smile--to a total stranger.  Same build, same hair, different face.  I quickly excused myself, reaching for sugar packets as though he had been in my way....will I never learn.

"You did WHAT?!" said my friend when I confessed.
"I was just being nice, I thought." I whimpered.  Cripes.

So the shell that I lived in for many a year has to be refurbished.  Looks like I should spend some more time in it.  I am certainly no floozy, though Hubby says I am a bit flirtatious.  I am friendly, that's all.  I no longer wave at GTOs or approach anybody at the coffee shop unless I am SURE who it is.  I don't take candy from strangers, and I wouldn't take a ride from anybody who sings "I'm your vehicle, baby, I'll take you any place you wanna go."

But I will accept the trinket with a smile, the perfume with a hug, the ice cream with a grin. Like I said, I'm a hopeless romantic.

The Calling

The pastor at my church, Pastor Jeff, was truly called to his post; it wasn't happenstance or merely luck, nor an alternative he chose to something far more lucrative.  His notes, his sermons and his booming laugh all attest to his joy at serving his congregation and his Lord.

Do you know what your calling is?  I didn't until a couple of years ago.  It's possible that I have been called many times in my life, as you have--to be a child, a parent. We all are put on earth for a purpose.  It was, however, when I realized it was God speaking to me that my life changed.  Oh, I am only a human with human desires and human imperfections by the multitudes. Once I recognized and accepted my gifts and my calling, that area of my life became, if not perfect, then joyous.

We can make guesses at God's will.  We can ask for signs and portents and believe that  He has given His approval when indeed it is at best ourselves, at worst the devil on our shoulders.  Is our talent a gift? Or is it acquired by our free will?  Can it be used for the betterment of our extended world?  Is it our passion?  Is it His will?  Is it strictly for profit? (Whoa! nothing wrong with profit! I am a capitalist to the core!) Is it useful to the spirit?

I know of a rich man who built a thriving business.  When it was destroyed by fire, his customers collected money to help him rebuild. He opted to give the money to his out-of-work employees.  Yes, he is rebuilding--not just the business but the good will.  Is the business his calling? I believe it is.

I know a man who left a lucrative career to become  a minister.  His wife hated the idea and eventually left him.  His congregation was at odds with itself.  His sermons were technically correct, but without conviction.  He was not a gracious guest in one's home.  He thought ministry was his calling, but his place would have been better served as a director or an assistant where his technical background would have been useful. Far more people left his church than were drawn to it.  I'm certain the Lord has a plan for him; it just wasn't ministry.

When God speaks, He does it with authority--be it a whisper or a cacophony of angelic choir.  He speaks only truth.  If we listen, we can hear the direction He is sending us.  It will feel right; there will be no doubt.  We will see the indescribable light of satisfaction and feel the passion of knowing it is from Him.

Callings are easy to spot in another.  The passion with which an artisan shows his work, the compassion of a gifted nurse or the genius of a teacher, the pride of a baker displaying his wares--you can tell who is called and who is earning a paycheck and nothing more.  We recognize it in the doctor who crams in the patients and hurries them out, or the attorney who collects a fee but doesn't try his best.  We all know parents who should have been childless and pet owners who should have pet rocks instead of living creatures.

The differences between a want-to-be-there and a have-to-be-there in any field is palpable. A calling is more than ability to do the project.  It is a place of passion and purpose that gives something to others, be it laughter or service, and glory to God.

I have learned, during my journey to become whole, what makes me crazy and what I love.  Some things, like housework, I have to do whether or not I want to.  Other things, like dancing to live music and sipping gin and tonic, I had forgotten that I love.  Some things, like weeds, I barely tolerate.  Others, like being with childhood friends, I cherish.  I was blessed with the opportunity to have them back in my life.

The  job I am taking is a step I needed to take.  It isn't enough hours, but I will get a part-time job to take care of that part.  It's got a product line different from what I have done for decades; I see it as a challenge.  It came to me unbidden at  time when I needed change.  I didn't even interview for it.  It was meant to be.  I relish the chance to begin again, but is this a calling?  No, just work.

My calling is my ability to speak without fear, and to write those things I feel.  When I put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, I pray for the words that will touch one person, one time, and make a difference in one life.  Maybe I will help someone to know God, or make them laugh. Maybe one person will see that I am talking directly to him or to her  and hear what I have left unsaid.  As I prepare to put my essays into book form, I recognize my gifts as God-given and pray that I can use them wisely.  My words are my calling.

So, why did God wait so long to call me? Maybe I wasn't ready to hear Him.  Maybe I was called to do other things first, like to be a wife, mother, grandmother--or to learn who I am inside.  Maybe it was my stubborn human-ness that kept me from paying attention.  Today is different.

He has called me.  Lord, I have heard You!