We are born, to soon learn, that we are going to die.
I really don’t know about other people’s inner lives. Communication has a way of drifting. It’s ethereal. And yet, it’s can be heavy, as a tombstone. An albatross. A spirit of unrelenting fear. Or, it can be as equally uplifting as a hot air balloon. Raising you above, to elevate you, and present a wide angle view. A unique and exhilarating vista.
I have experienced both.
I am a part of humanity. I accept it. I surrender. I give in.
The silence is deafening. So much so, that I hear the mill droning on. It’s creating the low lying pollution, blanketing our island. Someone is taking advantage of this situation. The non-happening, of everyone staying inside. Of course, not all. There will always be dare devils.
The image above is of a Phoenix. I plan to have this tattooed on my back/shoulder. I have an appointment, on my birthday. That is if the parlor is open.
I have a passion, for helping others. I don’t always get to help the ones that I would like to, but I do get to help. And along the way, I can’t forget myself. Givers must have boundaries, because takers don’t. (if you’re looking for information, that is a jewel)
The comment above is written by a life long friend, Mary Ann. As teenagers, I thought that if I didn’t help her, she would surely get hurt. We had so much fun as kids. I would have her sit above the tire, on our antiquated, Ford tractor and go as fast as I could, “bajaing” across a plowed field, trying to throw her off. Her job was to hang on.
Then there was the day, we flew out over a ravine, her in the seat of a rope swing and me, standing on the sides of the wooden board that supported her. We would jump off of a platform, high up in a pine tree. We would swing out and circle back, coming back to the tree trunk and missing it by inches.
Our antics go on and on. The beauty of youth. The best part of younger years.
I search for the right answers. I will survive, until I don’t.
Following a death, engulfed in grief, people can take on the energy, of an out-of- control fire, behaving erratically and moving in a direction, that creates a veering and unpredictable path. They search for a target to blow their vaporous, hot air of anger. They want to hurt someone. Modern day mourners zero in on their quarry and begin to hurl their bombs. Hate filled words are the ammunition and cell phones are their technological armory. Continue reading Blocked and Deleted/Yet Another Battle in a War I Thought Was Over
Remember friend, as you pass by ~ As you are now, so once was I ~ As I am now, you soon shall be ~ So prepare for Death and follow me.
This is an epitaph from a relative’s tombstone. Words that I grew up with. My grandmother, mother and aunt, use to take us to the cemetery, after Mass. It seemed appropriate to visit the dead, on Sunday.
To walk with head bowed, looking at the dirt and envisioning the emptiness. The nothingness of the after-life. It looked like a weird neighborhood. The tombstones had addresses that were years; one – to the other. The personalities living on in quirky sayings, that haunted me in the week.
Here I am, waking up in this foreign land. Three weeks ago, I was settled in my casita; making my life, building new and mending what has been tattered and torn.
A phone call changed everything. A fall changed everything. My eighty-two year old father-in-law, sounded weak. We knew we had to go home. Home, to our other home. The tickets, the TSA, the missed beats in my rhythm. The changing of tunes.
He’s no longer with us now.
One day that will be me. None of us get out of life alive.
We wake up in one dream, we sleep, and we wake in another.
The day that I died was a typical day. A weekend day like any other for us. He had left the house with one of his buddies and had managed to steal some drugs from the local pharmacy. I was so upset. WHY? Why do you have to do that.
This was at a point in our lives, where I was the one that was going to keep him straight. I was going to keep him out of jail. We were going to have a good life. Continue reading A Sprinkle of Death