To the White People in my Town...
My son is black. It can’t be hidden, nor would I want to hide it. It is a fact. The rest of our family is white, but my son is black. It makes him stand out. This is obvious by the many people who come up to me while we are out and ask me what his ethnicity is, who ask me if he is “mixed”, who ask, and ask, and ask. I know you are just curious. I know that you don’t realize what you are doing. But you are one by one making this world a place where he is defined by his skin color. It is a hostile act, done under the cloak of kindness, of small talk, of friendliness. You see, there are many people that talk to babies and small children in grocery store lines, waiting for the bus, out for a walk… you ask how old the kids are, comment on cool new sneakers, or toys that make a funny sounds… you ask about school, about brothers and sisters, about days spent playing… but that’s not what you ask about my baby. The thing that people most often ask about… is his skin. Now I know, a lot of you are probably reading this thinking I’m over reacting, you might think I’m being overly sensitive about “race”… playing a card I ought not to bring into the equation. But I’m not. You ask about my son, because I’m white and he’s not. Because you identify with me, because you think I won’t be offended by it, because I’m not black. If I were black too, you wouldn’t ask. That’s what’s offensive. When I was pregnant, I was told this would happen. I didn’t believe it. I hoped that my baby would arrive into a world where I could protect him from this. But the fact is, if a child walks around in a world where everyone comments on the size of his feet, pretty soon he’s going to become self-conscious about them. The same thing happens with skin color. Individually, you are all being friendly, you think that acknowledging the difference is accepting it, but you don’t understand. Collectively, the fact that you seek me out to point out the difference shows me that you don’t accept it at all. I know… you don’t mean it that way. That’s why I am writing this. That’s why I am taking the time to tell you. Don’t comment on the color of his skin, comment on his toy, his smile, or his beautiful eyes…
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
To Educate a Chef
My older daughter likes to cook. She is mastering the art of preparing nutritious delicacies such as macaroni and cheese, Mr Noodles and rice pudding. She doesn’t want my help… she wants my approval when she is finished. She wants me there when things catch fire, boil over, or don’t look like the picture on the box. But the last thing she wants from her mother right now is help. So I stay out of the kitchen. This of course poses quite a dilemma when she wants to cook something that is not on her rather short list of mastered menu items.
Apparently she has also inherited a rather large dose of creativity along with some impulsiveness that leads her to believe that recipes are actually only guidelines. Now, I am quite aware that there are many people who believe that when teaching someone how to cook, one should show him or her the proper way to do things… the home economics teacher is one of them. I understand… you certainly couldn’t have a whole classroom full of students adding extra ingredients to the cookie batter, or cutting their biscuits into bear shapes with cookie cutters. I am not a home economics teacher. I don’t mind experiments… too much. And I pity the home economics teacher that has to teach her to stick to the recipe.
A couple of weeks ago, she asked if she could make cookies. Cookies are something that is usually done with a recipe in this house. I used to make cookies with my kids when they were little, and as soon as they could read, they were put in charge of reading the recipe. She pulled out the recipe entitled “Cookie Monster’s Cookie Dough.” For some reason, with all the hundreds of recipes we must have for cookies in this house, the favorite one is from a sesame street book that I had when I was three years old.
Everything seemed to be going well with the compilation of ingredients, until I checked on her when she was almost done. The normally blonde colored shape cookies now contained chocolate chips and green food coloring. She must have used a fair amount of the food coloring, because the cookie dough was the color of Kermit the Frog or some kind of nuclear experiment. The dough was also pretty dry, and very well worked. I marveled at her ingenuity and creativity and how well she had mixed the ingredients. I was also thankful that the extra ingredients were edible. I then suggested we add peppermint flavoring. When it is so obvious that this batch of cookies already belonged in a science lab, what’s a little extra flavour? Of course, this suggestion was met with much enthusiasm.
Honestly, I was a bit skeptical when it came to cooking these little green darlings, but we did it anyways. She sat in front of the oven door, anxiously awaiting the moment when I would announce that her cookies were done and she could eat them. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled out an entire cookie sheet full of brown and green poops dotted with chocolate chips. They looked gross… exactly like poop from some poor animal, who had been digesting grass. Evidently adding green food coloring to cookie dough does not prevent the dough from turning golden brown in the oven. One more lesson learned. She of course thought they were the most marvelous things ever, and proceeded to eat the entire tray of cookies. We did decide that the rest of the cookie dough was not worth cooking and we ended up throwing it out.
My younger daughter is now attempting experiments too, although so far hers seem to be limited to the same one done over and over again. She puts cheese on a plate, spoons salsa on top and puts it in the microwave until the cheese melts… She then spoons the mess onto bread and eats it for breakfast every morning I will let her… and sometimes when I won’t. Her sister thinks it’s gross… but on a scale of grossness, it’s probably several degrees lower than the poopy cookies.
I often wonder exactly how many of these little lessons L will have to learn before she follows the recipe or her experiments become somewhat less impulsive. I remember, however, the tamale pie that my father choked down the first time I made dinner by myself, the peanut butter cookies that fell apart because I forgot the eggs, and the fried stewing chicken that I so proudly served my ex husband the first week we were married (we laughed hysterically when we found we could actually bounce it on the kitchen floor). So I guess these little experiments are necessary growth in a cooks education… if I could only teach her how to clean up after them… **sigh**
My older daughter likes to cook. She is mastering the art of preparing nutritious delicacies such as macaroni and cheese, Mr Noodles and rice pudding. She doesn’t want my help… she wants my approval when she is finished. She wants me there when things catch fire, boil over, or don’t look like the picture on the box. But the last thing she wants from her mother right now is help. So I stay out of the kitchen. This of course poses quite a dilemma when she wants to cook something that is not on her rather short list of mastered menu items.
Apparently she has also inherited a rather large dose of creativity along with some impulsiveness that leads her to believe that recipes are actually only guidelines. Now, I am quite aware that there are many people who believe that when teaching someone how to cook, one should show him or her the proper way to do things… the home economics teacher is one of them. I understand… you certainly couldn’t have a whole classroom full of students adding extra ingredients to the cookie batter, or cutting their biscuits into bear shapes with cookie cutters. I am not a home economics teacher. I don’t mind experiments… too much. And I pity the home economics teacher that has to teach her to stick to the recipe.
A couple of weeks ago, she asked if she could make cookies. Cookies are something that is usually done with a recipe in this house. I used to make cookies with my kids when they were little, and as soon as they could read, they were put in charge of reading the recipe. She pulled out the recipe entitled “Cookie Monster’s Cookie Dough.” For some reason, with all the hundreds of recipes we must have for cookies in this house, the favorite one is from a sesame street book that I had when I was three years old.
Everything seemed to be going well with the compilation of ingredients, until I checked on her when she was almost done. The normally blonde colored shape cookies now contained chocolate chips and green food coloring. She must have used a fair amount of the food coloring, because the cookie dough was the color of Kermit the Frog or some kind of nuclear experiment. The dough was also pretty dry, and very well worked. I marveled at her ingenuity and creativity and how well she had mixed the ingredients. I was also thankful that the extra ingredients were edible. I then suggested we add peppermint flavoring. When it is so obvious that this batch of cookies already belonged in a science lab, what’s a little extra flavour? Of course, this suggestion was met with much enthusiasm.
Honestly, I was a bit skeptical when it came to cooking these little green darlings, but we did it anyways. She sat in front of the oven door, anxiously awaiting the moment when I would announce that her cookies were done and she could eat them. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled out an entire cookie sheet full of brown and green poops dotted with chocolate chips. They looked gross… exactly like poop from some poor animal, who had been digesting grass. Evidently adding green food coloring to cookie dough does not prevent the dough from turning golden brown in the oven. One more lesson learned. She of course thought they were the most marvelous things ever, and proceeded to eat the entire tray of cookies. We did decide that the rest of the cookie dough was not worth cooking and we ended up throwing it out.
My younger daughter is now attempting experiments too, although so far hers seem to be limited to the same one done over and over again. She puts cheese on a plate, spoons salsa on top and puts it in the microwave until the cheese melts… She then spoons the mess onto bread and eats it for breakfast every morning I will let her… and sometimes when I won’t. Her sister thinks it’s gross… but on a scale of grossness, it’s probably several degrees lower than the poopy cookies.
I often wonder exactly how many of these little lessons L will have to learn before she follows the recipe or her experiments become somewhat less impulsive. I remember, however, the tamale pie that my father choked down the first time I made dinner by myself, the peanut butter cookies that fell apart because I forgot the eggs, and the fried stewing chicken that I so proudly served my ex husband the first week we were married (we laughed hysterically when we found we could actually bounce it on the kitchen floor). So I guess these little experiments are necessary growth in a cooks education… if I could only teach her how to clean up after them… **sigh**
Friday, September 15, 2006
I Am Not A Martha!!
My bible is wet. All 2200 pages are soaked right through. I am not a Martha. Martha would have gone outside at night to make sure everything was put away. Martha would not leave strollers in the rain, garbage on the driveway, and hoses stretched out all over the place. Martha’s kids would not leave their bikes right outside the shed instead of putting them inside the door. Martha would not take the bowl out to make muffins and get distracted. In Martha’s house, if she decided to not make muffins after taking the bowl out, she would put the bowl away. In my house, the bowl sits on the counter until the next day when I remember to make the muffins. Martha would know where her shoes were. But I’m not Martha. My desk is messy. In my house, if you come in the door and you think it’s too messy to take off your shoes, you can leave them on.
I had great plans for when I was off on maternity leave, when the kids went back to school. I thought that for once my house was going to be clean… I mean, what else could I possibly find to do while my kids were at school and I was home with the baby? But I’m not Martha. Things out of place do not bother me. If I am exhausted, I have no problem leaving the dirty clothes all over the living room floor. I don’t mind dirty dishes in the sink. My house is not a health hazard… but I am just… not… Martha. Great intentions, and resolutions will never bring me to the point where I can conceive of that much organization existing in my house.
I have a really good friend, who is a little… obsessed when it comes to organization… at least that’s what I thought. She has kids too… and she carries around a huge bag with her that has every conceivable thing in it that she or the kids could possibly need. I mean, this woman has a suitcase for a purse. If you are in need of anything… Advil, vitamins, needle and thread, nail clippers, extra clothes or shoes in any size… she probably has it in her purse. I mean, if you are going on vacation, you just need to pack her in the suitcase and you’d have everything you need. Me on the other hand… I forget my hairbrush… and I have been known to stop at the nearest Walmart for underwear too. I learned a secret about her though… she is not a Martha either. She just looks like one. In her house, there are things on the floor. In her house, the animals still poop on the kids. In her house, sometimes when you go to the washroom and wash your hands there aren’t any towels. But that’s ok… because I’m not a Martha. And I don’t care if she is either.
My house was cold yesterday. I mean really cold. Summer is definitely over. I tried to turn on the heat, but apparently I was expecting too much out of my house again. There is a thermostat on the wall, but I think it is there for show. I haven’t found the furnace yet. There is a basement in this house. I’ve been in it once. You can only get there through an outside door. All I remember about the basement is that there were shelves that I could store my canning on (the canning is currently all over the kitchen counters) and there was a crawl space that went under the whole house. The problem with the basement is that the door got locked. Before I moved in, someone decided to lock the door. And there is no key. I think the furnace might be down there, but I don’t remember. My dad came over here the other day to fix a plumbing problem, and he tried to kick the door down. But the door is still firmly in place, so I don’t think his attempted show of super human strength did any good. The door is still locked.
So I decided today that I would make a toque for my son to wear at night… because it is cold in my house. I found the box of knitting stuff and emptied it on the living room floor. There is yarn and knitting needles everywhere. I was trying to find the needles I needed to make the hat, but I only found 3 out of the 4 piece set which, if you have ever knitted socks or baby toques, you know does absolutely no good. So in my state of frustration, I thought about my friend… you know the one who looks like a Martha when she isn’t at home… and I thought about her knitting bag (because yes, in her wonderfully large suitcase of a purse, she actually has knitting needles too). Her knitting needles are all in a fabric case that she made out of left over fabric, so she knows where they all are. So, I decide to make a case for my knitting needles too. Leaving the pile of yarn on the floor in the living room, I go on a hunt for fabric to make the case out of. After turning several more boxes upside down, I find some in the garage. I cut it all out on the kitchen table, and set up my serger. This is going to be easy. I am going to fix this problem once and for all and I will never have to search for my knitting needles again. I sew three seams on the serger and decide that I need to iron the fabric, so I go over and plug the iron in. The next seam that I attempt leaves the fabric tangled around the bottom needle and bends one of the top needles. I then realize that I have never changed a needle on this machine before, so I am trying to find a simple way to do it. There isn’t one. I actually need a teeny tiny little screwdriver to do it. I can’t find mine. I looked, I emptied out several more boxes in the garage looking for it. I finally used a knife. I pulled the needle out and looked at it under the light. Size 14. I have some of those. I just don’t know where. I rifle through a couple more boxes looking for them. Can’t find them. I put them on the shopping list. I put knitting needles on the shopping list too.
At this point, my house is in utter chaos. There are boxes emptied in every corner. I was focused. What can I say? I was busy trying to get stuff done. The doorbell rings. At this point I remember that I am supposed to be going to look at a house this morning. I open the door for the real estate agent, go get my son into his car seat, and we go look at the house. I forgot the iron was on. I’m so glad they make irons for those of us that are not Martha. My iron turns itself off. The real estate agent asks me how my morning was. I tell him. He tells me I’m in transition. Apparently I have an excuse. It doesn’t matter. I’m always in transition. I always find some other project that is more important than cleaning my house. BECAUSE I AM JUST NOT MARTHA!!!
And here I thought I’d be bored staying at home with the kids…
My bible is wet. All 2200 pages are soaked right through. I am not a Martha. Martha would have gone outside at night to make sure everything was put away. Martha would not leave strollers in the rain, garbage on the driveway, and hoses stretched out all over the place. Martha’s kids would not leave their bikes right outside the shed instead of putting them inside the door. Martha would not take the bowl out to make muffins and get distracted. In Martha’s house, if she decided to not make muffins after taking the bowl out, she would put the bowl away. In my house, the bowl sits on the counter until the next day when I remember to make the muffins. Martha would know where her shoes were. But I’m not Martha. My desk is messy. In my house, if you come in the door and you think it’s too messy to take off your shoes, you can leave them on.
I had great plans for when I was off on maternity leave, when the kids went back to school. I thought that for once my house was going to be clean… I mean, what else could I possibly find to do while my kids were at school and I was home with the baby? But I’m not Martha. Things out of place do not bother me. If I am exhausted, I have no problem leaving the dirty clothes all over the living room floor. I don’t mind dirty dishes in the sink. My house is not a health hazard… but I am just… not… Martha. Great intentions, and resolutions will never bring me to the point where I can conceive of that much organization existing in my house.
I have a really good friend, who is a little… obsessed when it comes to organization… at least that’s what I thought. She has kids too… and she carries around a huge bag with her that has every conceivable thing in it that she or the kids could possibly need. I mean, this woman has a suitcase for a purse. If you are in need of anything… Advil, vitamins, needle and thread, nail clippers, extra clothes or shoes in any size… she probably has it in her purse. I mean, if you are going on vacation, you just need to pack her in the suitcase and you’d have everything you need. Me on the other hand… I forget my hairbrush… and I have been known to stop at the nearest Walmart for underwear too. I learned a secret about her though… she is not a Martha either. She just looks like one. In her house, there are things on the floor. In her house, the animals still poop on the kids. In her house, sometimes when you go to the washroom and wash your hands there aren’t any towels. But that’s ok… because I’m not a Martha. And I don’t care if she is either.
My house was cold yesterday. I mean really cold. Summer is definitely over. I tried to turn on the heat, but apparently I was expecting too much out of my house again. There is a thermostat on the wall, but I think it is there for show. I haven’t found the furnace yet. There is a basement in this house. I’ve been in it once. You can only get there through an outside door. All I remember about the basement is that there were shelves that I could store my canning on (the canning is currently all over the kitchen counters) and there was a crawl space that went under the whole house. The problem with the basement is that the door got locked. Before I moved in, someone decided to lock the door. And there is no key. I think the furnace might be down there, but I don’t remember. My dad came over here the other day to fix a plumbing problem, and he tried to kick the door down. But the door is still firmly in place, so I don’t think his attempted show of super human strength did any good. The door is still locked.
So I decided today that I would make a toque for my son to wear at night… because it is cold in my house. I found the box of knitting stuff and emptied it on the living room floor. There is yarn and knitting needles everywhere. I was trying to find the needles I needed to make the hat, but I only found 3 out of the 4 piece set which, if you have ever knitted socks or baby toques, you know does absolutely no good. So in my state of frustration, I thought about my friend… you know the one who looks like a Martha when she isn’t at home… and I thought about her knitting bag (because yes, in her wonderfully large suitcase of a purse, she actually has knitting needles too). Her knitting needles are all in a fabric case that she made out of left over fabric, so she knows where they all are. So, I decide to make a case for my knitting needles too. Leaving the pile of yarn on the floor in the living room, I go on a hunt for fabric to make the case out of. After turning several more boxes upside down, I find some in the garage. I cut it all out on the kitchen table, and set up my serger. This is going to be easy. I am going to fix this problem once and for all and I will never have to search for my knitting needles again. I sew three seams on the serger and decide that I need to iron the fabric, so I go over and plug the iron in. The next seam that I attempt leaves the fabric tangled around the bottom needle and bends one of the top needles. I then realize that I have never changed a needle on this machine before, so I am trying to find a simple way to do it. There isn’t one. I actually need a teeny tiny little screwdriver to do it. I can’t find mine. I looked, I emptied out several more boxes in the garage looking for it. I finally used a knife. I pulled the needle out and looked at it under the light. Size 14. I have some of those. I just don’t know where. I rifle through a couple more boxes looking for them. Can’t find them. I put them on the shopping list. I put knitting needles on the shopping list too.
At this point, my house is in utter chaos. There are boxes emptied in every corner. I was focused. What can I say? I was busy trying to get stuff done. The doorbell rings. At this point I remember that I am supposed to be going to look at a house this morning. I open the door for the real estate agent, go get my son into his car seat, and we go look at the house. I forgot the iron was on. I’m so glad they make irons for those of us that are not Martha. My iron turns itself off. The real estate agent asks me how my morning was. I tell him. He tells me I’m in transition. Apparently I have an excuse. It doesn’t matter. I’m always in transition. I always find some other project that is more important than cleaning my house. BECAUSE I AM JUST NOT MARTHA!!!
And here I thought I’d be bored staying at home with the kids…
Thursday, September 14, 2006
To Define Myself
I was walking in the park last week with Z… it was pretty early in the morning, the fog was still thick on the lake. I like to walk in the park sometimes, when my face needs a work out :-) I like to watch people… I especially like to find the people who are surprised to be greeted with a smile… the ones that seem caught up in their own thoughts, heavily burdened perhaps… I’ve been one of those people… I like to stop and chat with the people who just want to peek at the baby… because I feel like in that place, if only for a few seconds, I can be a blessing to someone… a cheerful moment.
Both my girls had the same grade one teacher… her name is Mrs K and she is the most amazing teacher I have ever met. I had inspirational teachers while I was growing up, but for some reason, Mrs K tops them all. She was made to be a teacher and she is passionate about it… passionate about her kids, their families, about learning and teaching… and she inspires greatness in people. Don’t get me wrong… I know people who dislike her, have asked for their kids to not be put in her class… but I think they are few and far between. I met Mrs K when L entered grade one (6 years ago). She sent home a notice asking for parent volunteers, and I said I would… of course, I didn’t realize that when Mrs K gives you a day of the week to be in the classroom, she expects you every week on that day… at first that seemed like too much, but after awhile I started looking forward to that day of the week… when K entered Gr 1, I actually booked vacation time every week to volunteer in the classroom. She has taught me so much about my own children, and has taught me to be a better parent. She engages in life with such exuberance, that those around her are drawn closer to her. She sees each and every child and person who is put before her as the treasure that they truly are, and she makes it her mission to draw out the best from each one of them. We went to visit Mrs K this afternoon… and she was so excited to see Z again (she last saw him in June when he was about 4 weeks old)… she was talking so excitedly about when he comes to grade one… it was funny to hear that considering he’s only a few months old… but that’s one of the keys to understanding Mrs K… she is so excited about what is around the corner… every day is a new door, a new opportunity, and a new chance to create something different… something better.
I feel like God was taking both sides of my head and talking directly into my face… this week He seems be trying to get my attention…
I used to watch daytime TV… not very often, but sometimes when I was home sick, I would sit and watch the crazy people on the court shows. I used to think it was funny to sit there and see how messed up some people’s lives are (ok… it was sick and twisted… ) Now when I watch them, I try to find people who have lives more messed up than my own, because it makes me feel lucky for what I have. The sad thing is, the things that these people talk about often sound very much like some of the crazy things that have gone on in my own life… and I don’t think that makes me a crazy person!!
But it just goes to show, sometimes we are guilty of defining people by the stuff in their life. I understand how some people can be overly cautious about telling people things about their past. It comes from a fear of being defined by it… put in a box where we don’t belong. Though others may be quick to judge some of my sincerely horrendous drama queen moments and define me by them, ultimately I make a decision whether I will accept that definition of myself or not. True definition of who we are is only found in God’s eyes… because He made us and is the only one who understands us completely.
Life is often what happens while you are too busy to notice… but to live on purpose, fully conscious, although painful, is the only way to live...
Someone reminded me that strength is not overcoming on one’s own... but in recognizing that in weakness, to overcome is God's victory... life happens... to succumb to failure is giving up... it is unbelief... I need to stop stumbling up the steps, because I've been given wings... I’ve just got to figure out how to believe that I can fly :-)
I was walking in the park last week with Z… it was pretty early in the morning, the fog was still thick on the lake. I like to walk in the park sometimes, when my face needs a work out :-) I like to watch people… I especially like to find the people who are surprised to be greeted with a smile… the ones that seem caught up in their own thoughts, heavily burdened perhaps… I’ve been one of those people… I like to stop and chat with the people who just want to peek at the baby… because I feel like in that place, if only for a few seconds, I can be a blessing to someone… a cheerful moment.
Both my girls had the same grade one teacher… her name is Mrs K and she is the most amazing teacher I have ever met. I had inspirational teachers while I was growing up, but for some reason, Mrs K tops them all. She was made to be a teacher and she is passionate about it… passionate about her kids, their families, about learning and teaching… and she inspires greatness in people. Don’t get me wrong… I know people who dislike her, have asked for their kids to not be put in her class… but I think they are few and far between. I met Mrs K when L entered grade one (6 years ago). She sent home a notice asking for parent volunteers, and I said I would… of course, I didn’t realize that when Mrs K gives you a day of the week to be in the classroom, she expects you every week on that day… at first that seemed like too much, but after awhile I started looking forward to that day of the week… when K entered Gr 1, I actually booked vacation time every week to volunteer in the classroom. She has taught me so much about my own children, and has taught me to be a better parent. She engages in life with such exuberance, that those around her are drawn closer to her. She sees each and every child and person who is put before her as the treasure that they truly are, and she makes it her mission to draw out the best from each one of them. We went to visit Mrs K this afternoon… and she was so excited to see Z again (she last saw him in June when he was about 4 weeks old)… she was talking so excitedly about when he comes to grade one… it was funny to hear that considering he’s only a few months old… but that’s one of the keys to understanding Mrs K… she is so excited about what is around the corner… every day is a new door, a new opportunity, and a new chance to create something different… something better.
I feel like God was taking both sides of my head and talking directly into my face… this week He seems be trying to get my attention…
I used to watch daytime TV… not very often, but sometimes when I was home sick, I would sit and watch the crazy people on the court shows. I used to think it was funny to sit there and see how messed up some people’s lives are (ok… it was sick and twisted… ) Now when I watch them, I try to find people who have lives more messed up than my own, because it makes me feel lucky for what I have. The sad thing is, the things that these people talk about often sound very much like some of the crazy things that have gone on in my own life… and I don’t think that makes me a crazy person!!
But it just goes to show, sometimes we are guilty of defining people by the stuff in their life. I understand how some people can be overly cautious about telling people things about their past. It comes from a fear of being defined by it… put in a box where we don’t belong. Though others may be quick to judge some of my sincerely horrendous drama queen moments and define me by them, ultimately I make a decision whether I will accept that definition of myself or not. True definition of who we are is only found in God’s eyes… because He made us and is the only one who understands us completely.
Life is often what happens while you are too busy to notice… but to live on purpose, fully conscious, although painful, is the only way to live...
Someone reminded me that strength is not overcoming on one’s own... but in recognizing that in weakness, to overcome is God's victory... life happens... to succumb to failure is giving up... it is unbelief... I need to stop stumbling up the steps, because I've been given wings... I’ve just got to figure out how to believe that I can fly :-)
Emotion
To evoke emotion… that’s why I write. To touch the soul of another person so deeply that their emotions come welling up to the surface… be it laughter, or tears… anger or fear… the emotions are the greatest reward, the greatest compliment a writer can have. So thank you Mom… for being the first person that ever laughed at my writing (may the Adventures of Sam and Garbage live on forever if only in spirit) and to Sue… a woman whose acceptance of who I am, and whose attitude towards life inspired such trust from me that I allowed her to be the first to read these poems. Your tears were more encouragement than you know…
To evoke emotion… that’s why I write. To touch the soul of another person so deeply that their emotions come welling up to the surface… be it laughter, or tears… anger or fear… the emotions are the greatest reward, the greatest compliment a writer can have. So thank you Mom… for being the first person that ever laughed at my writing (may the Adventures of Sam and Garbage live on forever if only in spirit) and to Sue… a woman whose acceptance of who I am, and whose attitude towards life inspired such trust from me that I allowed her to be the first to read these poems. Your tears were more encouragement than you know…
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Wild Encounters
I am so wonderfully blessed by friends. Anyone who knows me knows I love to talk… and although I often feel like I receive far more than I give, I love being able to walk into church and recognize faces, and have people stop to chat. I guess that is just one of those basic human needs… to know and be known, to love and be loved.
I got a short email from a friend the other day asking if I would like to have some fruit… what she didn’t know is that I have been puréeing everything in sight to turn it into baby food. I’m not exactly sure why I am doing this, as it doesn’t seem to be any cheaper than buying it at the store, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, and it has been keeping me busy. So of course, I answered her email with a resounding YES I would love to have some fruit… I expected that she would email me back and we would make some kind of arrangement for me to go pick it up or something… she didn’t email me back, so I figured I’d hear from her the next day.
My son (who is now 3 1/2 months old) has his last feeding of the night at around 11pm and then goes to sleep for the rest of the night… so by midnight I am usually asleep in bed. Last night I slept pretty soundly. I woke up at 5:30 am just long enough to look at the clock, tell myself I had another hour before I had to get up, and roll over to go back to sleep. 5:45am… I hear soft clicking sounds outside the patio door in my bedroom. Instantly I am fully awake and trying to place the sounds… it sounds like wheels moving… the stroller was sitting out there… was someone trying to steal my stroller? It’s a piece of junk, who’d want that stroller? Maybe they got into the shed and were stealing the bikes? I momentarily think about what I’m wearing and wonder if my pajamas are appropriate attire to be confronting a thief… then I think I’m crazy for thinking about what I’m wearing while someone is stealing stuff out of my yard and I leap out of bed, fling open the blind… and I come face to face with a raccoon family, mama, papa and baby, sitting in a box of plums having a wonderful feast and throwing plum bits at each other. I stare at them. They stare at me. I don’t move. Neither do they. They are either stunned, or are cheeky enough to believe that I’m not going to come out there to get them out of the fruit… they are right. What do I do now? Why aren’t they scared of me? Aren’t wild animals supposed to be scared of humans? Isn’t that what they tell you about bears in the woods? Don’t worry, they are more scared of you than you are of them… HA!! Here I am standing face to face with three animals who are staring me down over a giant box of plums… I think they were lying about the bears. I think furiously about how I am going to evict these bandits from my fruit. A baseball bat? Don’t have one. Should I throw a shoe at them? The thought occurs to me that I have just given away all the old shoes, and the only ones within my reach at this point are brand new high-heeled boots that I am still contemplating taking back to the store. I started thinking about a show I watched on television the night before where this city girl goes to Alaska and a raccoon ends up sneaking into her hotel room, holing up in her closet and chewing her shoes to bits. I’m not going out there. Not with three precocious wild animals sitting outside my door. It’s just fruit. Finally after standing there for several minutes stunned at seeing raccoons in my backyard, the raccoons drop the plums and leave. I waited a few minutes just to make sure they were gone… and then cautiously opened the patio door and, concerned that the raccoons might come in my house if I leave the door open too long, I run back and forth as fast as I can bringing in the fruit. There were plums everywhere outside. I decide to leave them there just in case the raccoons decide to come back for more… I mean, the least they can do was clean up after themselves right? They didn’t come back… too bad… they were kind of cute.
Since going back to bed seemed pointless after such a bright beginning to my morning, I decided to check my email and do some writing. Upon checking my email, I found that my friend had emailed me at 9:30 pm the night before to tell me that she stopped by and left the fruit by the back door. I burst out laughing… and sent her back a thank you note.
I am so wonderfully blessed by friends. Anyone who knows me knows I love to talk… and although I often feel like I receive far more than I give, I love being able to walk into church and recognize faces, and have people stop to chat. I guess that is just one of those basic human needs… to know and be known, to love and be loved.
I got a short email from a friend the other day asking if I would like to have some fruit… what she didn’t know is that I have been puréeing everything in sight to turn it into baby food. I’m not exactly sure why I am doing this, as it doesn’t seem to be any cheaper than buying it at the store, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, and it has been keeping me busy. So of course, I answered her email with a resounding YES I would love to have some fruit… I expected that she would email me back and we would make some kind of arrangement for me to go pick it up or something… she didn’t email me back, so I figured I’d hear from her the next day.
My son (who is now 3 1/2 months old) has his last feeding of the night at around 11pm and then goes to sleep for the rest of the night… so by midnight I am usually asleep in bed. Last night I slept pretty soundly. I woke up at 5:30 am just long enough to look at the clock, tell myself I had another hour before I had to get up, and roll over to go back to sleep. 5:45am… I hear soft clicking sounds outside the patio door in my bedroom. Instantly I am fully awake and trying to place the sounds… it sounds like wheels moving… the stroller was sitting out there… was someone trying to steal my stroller? It’s a piece of junk, who’d want that stroller? Maybe they got into the shed and were stealing the bikes? I momentarily think about what I’m wearing and wonder if my pajamas are appropriate attire to be confronting a thief… then I think I’m crazy for thinking about what I’m wearing while someone is stealing stuff out of my yard and I leap out of bed, fling open the blind… and I come face to face with a raccoon family, mama, papa and baby, sitting in a box of plums having a wonderful feast and throwing plum bits at each other. I stare at them. They stare at me. I don’t move. Neither do they. They are either stunned, or are cheeky enough to believe that I’m not going to come out there to get them out of the fruit… they are right. What do I do now? Why aren’t they scared of me? Aren’t wild animals supposed to be scared of humans? Isn’t that what they tell you about bears in the woods? Don’t worry, they are more scared of you than you are of them… HA!! Here I am standing face to face with three animals who are staring me down over a giant box of plums… I think they were lying about the bears. I think furiously about how I am going to evict these bandits from my fruit. A baseball bat? Don’t have one. Should I throw a shoe at them? The thought occurs to me that I have just given away all the old shoes, and the only ones within my reach at this point are brand new high-heeled boots that I am still contemplating taking back to the store. I started thinking about a show I watched on television the night before where this city girl goes to Alaska and a raccoon ends up sneaking into her hotel room, holing up in her closet and chewing her shoes to bits. I’m not going out there. Not with three precocious wild animals sitting outside my door. It’s just fruit. Finally after standing there for several minutes stunned at seeing raccoons in my backyard, the raccoons drop the plums and leave. I waited a few minutes just to make sure they were gone… and then cautiously opened the patio door and, concerned that the raccoons might come in my house if I leave the door open too long, I run back and forth as fast as I can bringing in the fruit. There were plums everywhere outside. I decide to leave them there just in case the raccoons decide to come back for more… I mean, the least they can do was clean up after themselves right? They didn’t come back… too bad… they were kind of cute.
Since going back to bed seemed pointless after such a bright beginning to my morning, I decided to check my email and do some writing. Upon checking my email, I found that my friend had emailed me at 9:30 pm the night before to tell me that she stopped by and left the fruit by the back door. I burst out laughing… and sent her back a thank you note.
This Old House
My father is a contractor. For the last 20 something years of my life, my father has built houses, fixed houses, bought houses, bought land, sold houses, and we have moved… to where ever he told us we were going. (All within the same general area though, so we weren’t changing schools Thank God) He would build a house and then put the one we were living in up for sale as well… which ever one didn’t sell… that was where we lived. It never occurred to me that this moving every year and a half was not normal. It was just the way things were living with my Dad.
The first house I ever bought was a dump that Dad took as partial payment for a house he was building. (No one else wanted the house so he took it in trade) Then he convinced my ex husband and I that it was a good deal and we should buy it. The house had velvet wallpaper in the living room and about 4 layers of different kinds of wallpaper in the bedrooms. It had gold Berber carpet in the bedrooms… you know, the kind that was popular back in the 70s. When we got a windstorm, the yard would fill up with pieces of our roof and siding that had blown off the house. Anyways, sparing the details of how messed up this house looked when we moved in, and the fact that the gold Berber carpet was not redone until after I moved out… because lets face it, when you are have that much stuff crammed into a little house, the last thing on your mind to do is to move it all to change the carpet so the kids can grind their gum bits and fun tack into new carpet instead of ancient stuff. I lived there for 11 years. We moved in when my first child was 2 weeks old and I had a husband, and moved out when my third child was 6 weeks old, and I had no husband anymore. There was an awful lot more stuff to move the second time around.
I’m in the process of selling that house right now… and in the meantime I have moved into an old house that is scheduled to be demolished whenever I can find another house to buy. Talk about idiosyncrasies, this house is a comedy act all on its own. While we were moving stuff in, I had already realized that the electrical was a bit… strange. We have the kind of light switches from the 50s that glow in the dark, and come on huge long panels just in case you want to turn on the bathroom light from the front hallway. I still haven’t figured out why anyone thought that would be a good idea… I mean, let’s face it, it’s bad enough that the younger siblings know how to use a knife to unlock the bathroom door, but having control of the lights from outside the washroom? Now that is asking for a screaming match. In any case, we were moving stuff in one day and I had innocently turned on the kitchen light, unpacked the boxes into the cupboards, loaded up the kids and the boxes back into the car to go back for another load, went to turn off the kitchen light and didn’t realize that I was expecting too much out of this old house. I mean, isn’t it logical to assume that the switch that turned the light on, would also turn the light off? Isn’t the purpose of indoor electricity that the lights go on and off when you want them to? Here I stand, in the front hallway of my house, kids screaming at each other in the car, and I can’t figure out how to turn off the bloody light in the kitchen. I stood there for 10 minutes, I turned on and off every light in the house, and finally, I found a switch that would turn the light off. For about 3 seconds. Then the light went back on. Ok… now I am not a woman prone to swearing. But… I started to feel like I was having an argument with a ghost. I’d turn the switch off, the ghost turns it back on. I held the switch down for several seconds, hoping it would stay off. The light actually turned back on while I still had my finger on the switch. I decided that sometimes you just have to walk away from the problem in order to figure it out… so the light stayed on. I came back the next day with a new found determination to conquer the kitchen light. I put my finger on that switch and the light went off. Ok… now I’m going crazy. What the heck was the problem? Yesterday every time I pushed on that switch the light would bounce back on… Today all I have to do is push the switch once and the light decides it can go off? Did the ghost decide finally that I am worthy of being able to turn lights on and off in this house?
Now I’ve lived here for a couple of months; I know the lights a bit better. We had company come over the other day though, and unknowingly, she turned on my kitchen light. That night I did the same little routine, ran around to all the light switches, couldn’t find one to turn off the kitchen light. Finally I decided that it wasn’t worth the frustration, and I would just go to bed with the light on. It stayed on for two days while I ran around pushing light switches every chance I got, trying to turn it off. After the second night of the light being on all night, my daughter walks up to the panel, pushes in the light switch and the light goes off. We don’t turn on the kitchen light anymore.
I still haven't figured out what God is trying to teach me with the kitchen light... I'm sure it is a metaphor for something... so far avoiding the problem seems to be working though...
My father is a contractor. For the last 20 something years of my life, my father has built houses, fixed houses, bought houses, bought land, sold houses, and we have moved… to where ever he told us we were going. (All within the same general area though, so we weren’t changing schools Thank God) He would build a house and then put the one we were living in up for sale as well… which ever one didn’t sell… that was where we lived. It never occurred to me that this moving every year and a half was not normal. It was just the way things were living with my Dad.
The first house I ever bought was a dump that Dad took as partial payment for a house he was building. (No one else wanted the house so he took it in trade) Then he convinced my ex husband and I that it was a good deal and we should buy it. The house had velvet wallpaper in the living room and about 4 layers of different kinds of wallpaper in the bedrooms. It had gold Berber carpet in the bedrooms… you know, the kind that was popular back in the 70s. When we got a windstorm, the yard would fill up with pieces of our roof and siding that had blown off the house. Anyways, sparing the details of how messed up this house looked when we moved in, and the fact that the gold Berber carpet was not redone until after I moved out… because lets face it, when you are have that much stuff crammed into a little house, the last thing on your mind to do is to move it all to change the carpet so the kids can grind their gum bits and fun tack into new carpet instead of ancient stuff. I lived there for 11 years. We moved in when my first child was 2 weeks old and I had a husband, and moved out when my third child was 6 weeks old, and I had no husband anymore. There was an awful lot more stuff to move the second time around.
I’m in the process of selling that house right now… and in the meantime I have moved into an old house that is scheduled to be demolished whenever I can find another house to buy. Talk about idiosyncrasies, this house is a comedy act all on its own. While we were moving stuff in, I had already realized that the electrical was a bit… strange. We have the kind of light switches from the 50s that glow in the dark, and come on huge long panels just in case you want to turn on the bathroom light from the front hallway. I still haven’t figured out why anyone thought that would be a good idea… I mean, let’s face it, it’s bad enough that the younger siblings know how to use a knife to unlock the bathroom door, but having control of the lights from outside the washroom? Now that is asking for a screaming match. In any case, we were moving stuff in one day and I had innocently turned on the kitchen light, unpacked the boxes into the cupboards, loaded up the kids and the boxes back into the car to go back for another load, went to turn off the kitchen light and didn’t realize that I was expecting too much out of this old house. I mean, isn’t it logical to assume that the switch that turned the light on, would also turn the light off? Isn’t the purpose of indoor electricity that the lights go on and off when you want them to? Here I stand, in the front hallway of my house, kids screaming at each other in the car, and I can’t figure out how to turn off the bloody light in the kitchen. I stood there for 10 minutes, I turned on and off every light in the house, and finally, I found a switch that would turn the light off. For about 3 seconds. Then the light went back on. Ok… now I am not a woman prone to swearing. But… I started to feel like I was having an argument with a ghost. I’d turn the switch off, the ghost turns it back on. I held the switch down for several seconds, hoping it would stay off. The light actually turned back on while I still had my finger on the switch. I decided that sometimes you just have to walk away from the problem in order to figure it out… so the light stayed on. I came back the next day with a new found determination to conquer the kitchen light. I put my finger on that switch and the light went off. Ok… now I’m going crazy. What the heck was the problem? Yesterday every time I pushed on that switch the light would bounce back on… Today all I have to do is push the switch once and the light decides it can go off? Did the ghost decide finally that I am worthy of being able to turn lights on and off in this house?
Now I’ve lived here for a couple of months; I know the lights a bit better. We had company come over the other day though, and unknowingly, she turned on my kitchen light. That night I did the same little routine, ran around to all the light switches, couldn’t find one to turn off the kitchen light. Finally I decided that it wasn’t worth the frustration, and I would just go to bed with the light on. It stayed on for two days while I ran around pushing light switches every chance I got, trying to turn it off. After the second night of the light being on all night, my daughter walks up to the panel, pushes in the light switch and the light goes off. We don’t turn on the kitchen light anymore.
I still haven't figured out what God is trying to teach me with the kitchen light... I'm sure it is a metaphor for something... so far avoiding the problem seems to be working though...
Christine
I have a friend at church, who has got to be one of the most positive and encouraging people on the face of the planet. I mean this woman could be standing waste deep in the middle of a pile of sewage out in boondock ville with no help on the way and find something positive to say about it. (Ok that might be exaggerating… but honestly I’m not sure about that) Anyways, she and I were talking awhile back and she just up and said to me… Elissa you always have a funny story to tell… you really should write them down. Ok well… since then another six months of stories have gone unwritten, and here I am… So look Christine!! I’m writing them down!!!
I have a friend at church, who has got to be one of the most positive and encouraging people on the face of the planet. I mean this woman could be standing waste deep in the middle of a pile of sewage out in boondock ville with no help on the way and find something positive to say about it. (Ok that might be exaggerating… but honestly I’m not sure about that) Anyways, she and I were talking awhile back and she just up and said to me… Elissa you always have a funny story to tell… you really should write them down. Ok well… since then another six months of stories have gone unwritten, and here I am… So look Christine!! I’m writing them down!!!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Papa's Hands
His hands were dark, sure and strong.
They held hers tight as they walked along.
Her tiny feet stumbled as she walked,
but all the way, the two, they talked
of birds and trees and butterflies
and how beautiful she was in his eyes.
And as she grew he always had time
to sit and talk, or share a rhyme.
No matter whether day or night
he'd always help turn wrong to right.
When she was young, he'd tell her stories
of other lands and days of glory.
Time passed and soon twas she
who told of adventures over the sea.
He taught her to dance, and to play chess,
pay attention to what's important, forget the rest.
And as she sat by his hospital bed
Turmoil inside her, filled with dread,
There were the dark, strong, sure hands,
adorned with a simple wedding band.
She knew that he had spoken at last
his final chapter before he passed,
And forever more her heart was seared
with the words of a man she held so dear.
His hands were dark, sure and strong.
They held hers tight as they walked along.
Her tiny feet stumbled as she walked,
but all the way, the two, they talked
of birds and trees and butterflies
and how beautiful she was in his eyes.
And as she grew he always had time
to sit and talk, or share a rhyme.
No matter whether day or night
he'd always help turn wrong to right.
When she was young, he'd tell her stories
of other lands and days of glory.
Time passed and soon twas she
who told of adventures over the sea.
He taught her to dance, and to play chess,
pay attention to what's important, forget the rest.
And as she sat by his hospital bed
Turmoil inside her, filled with dread,
There were the dark, strong, sure hands,
adorned with a simple wedding band.
She knew that he had spoken at last
his final chapter before he passed,
And forever more her heart was seared
with the words of a man she held so dear.
Letter From Heaven
I sat with you in the hospital as they told you the news
He won’t wake again, he’s gone they said
And you cried. I see the pain on your face
I hate seeing you that way… knowing I’m the cause of it all
I lay with you through the night when you couldn’t sleep
When your eyes wouldn’t dry and your heart wouldn’t rest
When you replayed in your head, conversations we had had
When you wondered if there was anything we could have changed
Unsaid words that lay in your heart
Words that tear you up and leave you broken
Words that you have said a hundred times to yourself
But never to me… or so you thought.
I was with you through the week as the phone kept ringing
Neighbors kept calling with flowers and condolences
And your eyes were tired but you couldn’t sleep
And your body was hungry but you couldn’t eat
I am with you now as you sit there wondering what’s next
I’ll hold your hand, even if you can’t feel mine
I’ll kiss your face, even when all you feel is the wind
I’ll hold you tight, even when you think you are imagining it
I will walk with you into eternity until the day that heaven comes
I’ll stay by your side all the while
Watch over you and help you along
What would ever be heaven if you weren’t here too.
All you see right now is a bad reflection of the beauty that is here
A distorted mirror that shows you but a glimpse of the truth
I have not left on a journey that would take me far away
Here I am before you wishing you could see me
But for now my dear, live your life
Know that I am near
Your time will come to see this too
But no need to make it soon
I’ll be here watching all the while
Look for me in the streams of light
In the gentle wind, or the dusk of night
I love you always and forever -Dad
I sat with you in the hospital as they told you the news
He won’t wake again, he’s gone they said
And you cried. I see the pain on your face
I hate seeing you that way… knowing I’m the cause of it all
I lay with you through the night when you couldn’t sleep
When your eyes wouldn’t dry and your heart wouldn’t rest
When you replayed in your head, conversations we had had
When you wondered if there was anything we could have changed
Unsaid words that lay in your heart
Words that tear you up and leave you broken
Words that you have said a hundred times to yourself
But never to me… or so you thought.
I was with you through the week as the phone kept ringing
Neighbors kept calling with flowers and condolences
And your eyes were tired but you couldn’t sleep
And your body was hungry but you couldn’t eat
I am with you now as you sit there wondering what’s next
I’ll hold your hand, even if you can’t feel mine
I’ll kiss your face, even when all you feel is the wind
I’ll hold you tight, even when you think you are imagining it
I will walk with you into eternity until the day that heaven comes
I’ll stay by your side all the while
Watch over you and help you along
What would ever be heaven if you weren’t here too.
All you see right now is a bad reflection of the beauty that is here
A distorted mirror that shows you but a glimpse of the truth
I have not left on a journey that would take me far away
Here I am before you wishing you could see me
But for now my dear, live your life
Know that I am near
Your time will come to see this too
But no need to make it soon
I’ll be here watching all the while
Look for me in the streams of light
In the gentle wind, or the dusk of night
I love you always and forever -Dad
Does it Define You?
Does it define you?
Your skin… your blackness, your beauty
Would you be the same without it?
A child who grew into his skin
Or do you derive strength and personality
from your identity, your category of humanness?
A category of identity that by definition defines you
Does your skin make you who you are?
Or is there a deeper spirit that transcends such worldly notions?
Would you be more comfortable wearing a different color?
Are you comfortable with your own?
Is comfort synonymous with definition?
Or is comfort with the familiar a way to hide from growth?
Does categorizing yourself limit your potential?
Or is knowing where you came from important?
They say if you know where you’ve been
Then you’ll know where you are going
To prevent history repeating its disastrous self.
But what did we learn? What did you learn?
To take voluntarily an identity that is not self determined
So tell me black man…
Do you live in a box of self determination?
Have you categorized your humanness?
Defined yourself by the paint on your skin?
Does it define you?
Your skin…. Your blackness, your beauty
Does it define you?
Your skin… your blackness, your beauty
Would you be the same without it?
A child who grew into his skin
Or do you derive strength and personality
from your identity, your category of humanness?
A category of identity that by definition defines you
Does your skin make you who you are?
Or is there a deeper spirit that transcends such worldly notions?
Would you be more comfortable wearing a different color?
Are you comfortable with your own?
Is comfort synonymous with definition?
Or is comfort with the familiar a way to hide from growth?
Does categorizing yourself limit your potential?
Or is knowing where you came from important?
They say if you know where you’ve been
Then you’ll know where you are going
To prevent history repeating its disastrous self.
But what did we learn? What did you learn?
To take voluntarily an identity that is not self determined
So tell me black man…
Do you live in a box of self determination?
Have you categorized your humanness?
Defined yourself by the paint on your skin?
Does it define you?
Your skin…. Your blackness, your beauty
Old Poetry...
These are things I wrote over a year ago... putting them here so they don't get lost :-)
She Loveth a Wizard
In darkest shroud,
From deepest call,
Through the clouds,
My heart doth fall.
An elvish tale
of the Wizard's maze,
A dragon's lair
In a misty haze.
His eyes, my heart
doth holdeth fast,
Love woven, his art,
the shroud is cast.
My heart is his,
'tis mine no more.
The wizard's kiss,
And magic lore
Hath captured all
That lives in me,
From deepest call
within the sea.
Je Peux Voir Ton Masque
I see your mask - Lion
Strong brow that hides your pain
Quiet words written on a page that no one sees
Holding people at arm's length so they can't hurt you.
I see your mask - Lion
But I know better
through your mask I see your eyes
Deep soul like an unexplored ocean
Soft brown eyes that haunt my dreams
A window on your deepest thoughts
Eyes that betray you
Je peux voir ton masque - Lion courageux
Les yeux silencieux dans mes rêves
Les mots - tes mots - dans mes oreilles
Je peux te voir - je le connais
Âme pure - je t'aime
These are things I wrote over a year ago... putting them here so they don't get lost :-)
She Loveth a Wizard
In darkest shroud,
From deepest call,
Through the clouds,
My heart doth fall.
An elvish tale
of the Wizard's maze,
A dragon's lair
In a misty haze.
His eyes, my heart
doth holdeth fast,
Love woven, his art,
the shroud is cast.
My heart is his,
'tis mine no more.
The wizard's kiss,
And magic lore
Hath captured all
That lives in me,
From deepest call
within the sea.
Je Peux Voir Ton Masque
I see your mask - Lion
Strong brow that hides your pain
Quiet words written on a page that no one sees
Holding people at arm's length so they can't hurt you.
I see your mask - Lion
But I know better
through your mask I see your eyes
Deep soul like an unexplored ocean
Soft brown eyes that haunt my dreams
A window on your deepest thoughts
Eyes that betray you
Je peux voir ton masque - Lion courageux
Les yeux silencieux dans mes rêves
Les mots - tes mots - dans mes oreilles
Je peux te voir - je le connais
Âme pure - je t'aime
Into Every Life, A Little Poop Will Fall...
I woke up this morning early, and was greeted by the sun. I felt like the world was starting again... like the past is washed away, and everything begins new. There are birds that have decided to make a nest in the gutter above my window. They squak and peep at the crack of dawn... they have also pooped on the outside of the window... but hey... Everyone has some sunshine and some poop in their life... it all comes down to which you choose to see first and how you let it affect you. I'm an eternal optimist... I tend to believe the best of people and situations until proven otherwise... I think that is a great quality... when used with the right people. Hope is where we choose it to be... to give up hope is to give up on life... and today, I'm going to treasure the sun... the new beginning that comes from understanding the past and moving forward... because a new beginning is what we all need. To love... to hope... and to live. (that and a little soap to wash the poop off the window...lol) Peace...
I woke up this morning early, and was greeted by the sun. I felt like the world was starting again... like the past is washed away, and everything begins new. There are birds that have decided to make a nest in the gutter above my window. They squak and peep at the crack of dawn... they have also pooped on the outside of the window... but hey... Everyone has some sunshine and some poop in their life... it all comes down to which you choose to see first and how you let it affect you. I'm an eternal optimist... I tend to believe the best of people and situations until proven otherwise... I think that is a great quality... when used with the right people. Hope is where we choose it to be... to give up hope is to give up on life... and today, I'm going to treasure the sun... the new beginning that comes from understanding the past and moving forward... because a new beginning is what we all need. To love... to hope... and to live. (that and a little soap to wash the poop off the window...lol) Peace...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Father
My restless sleep came to an end with the sound of wings beating against the dark of the night. The soft undulating breeze blew gently across my face and my eyes flew open at the disturbance. The room felt suddenly cold and fear gripped my heart. The air in front of my face was strangely darker than the rest of the room. A distorted outline of a besieging creature held his place hovering over my body. Claustrophobic from the proximity of his damnable presence, I closed my eyes. The suffocating smoky breath that spewed from his nostrils filled my lungs and engulfed me like the fumes of a drug. From deep inside a groan swelled into my throat as the creature forcefully invaded my body. A shiver rushed through me and I felt an intense panic take hold.The culmination of every torturous experience, every painful encounter, every arduous ordeal was represented by the clawed hand of a demon that gripped my soul like a vice. His voice was hypnotic, like deep gravel and black velvet; words I drank in like the smooth taste of whiskey to a parched palate. My body felt like lead, his form like a sweet narcotic holding me down against my bed. Utterly transfixed by his presence, my breathing became rhythmic as I surrendered myself to this spirit of darkness.One quick breath of springtime – of fragrant flowers along a sweet garden path… its presence in my room an undeniably distinctive paradox to the smoky aura that consumed me in that moment. My eyes opened to the sight of a small orb of light floating in the corner of my room; a soft gleam shining dimly through the smoke. The trance gave way to terror as I was suddenly yanked back into reality.Oh God! I tried to cry out in desperation but the demon held my throat. His voice, still strangely hypnotic held me captive in his web.Oh God! I struggled against the creature that held me, gasping for breath, screaming inside my head. The more I struggled, the tighter his grip became and the brighter the orb shone. Biting, scratching, clawing my way free… with increasing desperation I fought against the talons. Like sharp blades, they sliced into my flesh, wounds deeper and more painful than anything I had ever experienced. With anguish, I realized I could fight no longer, there was nothing left. I was wounded from the battle, the lacerations were bleeding profusely. I would not win; I could not overcome; I had to give up. My grappling was in vain; this enemy was fiercer than I would have liked to admit. Defeat was imminent and dare I say unavoidable… my strength gave way to surrender and my body, hanging on the escarpment of death, lay still against the blood soaked sheets.Oh God... Help me... My last silent call of desperation, my only hope… And with a divine brilliance, the light burst forth into opulent, illustrious wings that beat the air like the meter of a percussive chorus. With divine swords they stormed the darkness and filled the room with the sounds of their rhythmic dance. I could not breathe as the claw of the demon tightened around my throat, his last effort to overcome his victim with the power of his ominous will. And then….I heard him squeal – a bone chilling, high pitched shriek and at once he let go. With one immense carnal heave the demon was expelled from my spent body, the sword of a seraph through his heart, and I lay exhausted under the angelic protection of illuminated wings.Oh God! Who am I that you would send an army of angels to save me from the clutches of the dark prince? Oh….. Father!
My restless sleep came to an end with the sound of wings beating against the dark of the night. The soft undulating breeze blew gently across my face and my eyes flew open at the disturbance. The room felt suddenly cold and fear gripped my heart. The air in front of my face was strangely darker than the rest of the room. A distorted outline of a besieging creature held his place hovering over my body. Claustrophobic from the proximity of his damnable presence, I closed my eyes. The suffocating smoky breath that spewed from his nostrils filled my lungs and engulfed me like the fumes of a drug. From deep inside a groan swelled into my throat as the creature forcefully invaded my body. A shiver rushed through me and I felt an intense panic take hold.The culmination of every torturous experience, every painful encounter, every arduous ordeal was represented by the clawed hand of a demon that gripped my soul like a vice. His voice was hypnotic, like deep gravel and black velvet; words I drank in like the smooth taste of whiskey to a parched palate. My body felt like lead, his form like a sweet narcotic holding me down against my bed. Utterly transfixed by his presence, my breathing became rhythmic as I surrendered myself to this spirit of darkness.One quick breath of springtime – of fragrant flowers along a sweet garden path… its presence in my room an undeniably distinctive paradox to the smoky aura that consumed me in that moment. My eyes opened to the sight of a small orb of light floating in the corner of my room; a soft gleam shining dimly through the smoke. The trance gave way to terror as I was suddenly yanked back into reality.Oh God! I tried to cry out in desperation but the demon held my throat. His voice, still strangely hypnotic held me captive in his web.Oh God! I struggled against the creature that held me, gasping for breath, screaming inside my head. The more I struggled, the tighter his grip became and the brighter the orb shone. Biting, scratching, clawing my way free… with increasing desperation I fought against the talons. Like sharp blades, they sliced into my flesh, wounds deeper and more painful than anything I had ever experienced. With anguish, I realized I could fight no longer, there was nothing left. I was wounded from the battle, the lacerations were bleeding profusely. I would not win; I could not overcome; I had to give up. My grappling was in vain; this enemy was fiercer than I would have liked to admit. Defeat was imminent and dare I say unavoidable… my strength gave way to surrender and my body, hanging on the escarpment of death, lay still against the blood soaked sheets.Oh God... Help me... My last silent call of desperation, my only hope… And with a divine brilliance, the light burst forth into opulent, illustrious wings that beat the air like the meter of a percussive chorus. With divine swords they stormed the darkness and filled the room with the sounds of their rhythmic dance. I could not breathe as the claw of the demon tightened around my throat, his last effort to overcome his victim with the power of his ominous will. And then….I heard him squeal – a bone chilling, high pitched shriek and at once he let go. With one immense carnal heave the demon was expelled from my spent body, the sword of a seraph through his heart, and I lay exhausted under the angelic protection of illuminated wings.Oh God! Who am I that you would send an army of angels to save me from the clutches of the dark prince? Oh….. Father!
Soul Mates
Soul mates were not created in this world where we hide our hearts behind scars and wounds. So many people go through their whole life never knowing what we know. They search the ends of the earth because somewhere deep inside they feel like their soul mate has to be out there somewhere. It is ironic that the masks people wear to protect themselves are the very masks that will prevent them from recognizing each other. Soul mates aren't a part of this world... they exist in a place beyond earth; where chains can no longer bind, and sin no longer holds us captive, where skin color and geographical locations are not barriers. There shall we see what God truly has in store... Mufasa, what has happened with us doesn't happen with many people on earth. To catch a glimpse of heaven in another person is a phenomenon far deeper than what this world can hold. We belong to each other; we belong together.
I wrote this a few years ago, for the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. It seems ideolistic now... and I have to wonder if soul mates really do exist at all. Perhaps it is only the sin and temptation in this world that prevent us from seeing them... or perhaps we see them, and are tempted until we deviate from the path. I'd like to believe that someday, somewhere there will be someone who will be as safe for me as I am for him... revelations for another day... until then I guess I'm left to wonder if the innocence that wrote this back then, is really only a lack of reality... perhaps I am merely disillusioned. E
Soul mates were not created in this world where we hide our hearts behind scars and wounds. So many people go through their whole life never knowing what we know. They search the ends of the earth because somewhere deep inside they feel like their soul mate has to be out there somewhere. It is ironic that the masks people wear to protect themselves are the very masks that will prevent them from recognizing each other. Soul mates aren't a part of this world... they exist in a place beyond earth; where chains can no longer bind, and sin no longer holds us captive, where skin color and geographical locations are not barriers. There shall we see what God truly has in store... Mufasa, what has happened with us doesn't happen with many people on earth. To catch a glimpse of heaven in another person is a phenomenon far deeper than what this world can hold. We belong to each other; we belong together.
I wrote this a few years ago, for the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. It seems ideolistic now... and I have to wonder if soul mates really do exist at all. Perhaps it is only the sin and temptation in this world that prevent us from seeing them... or perhaps we see them, and are tempted until we deviate from the path. I'd like to believe that someday, somewhere there will be someone who will be as safe for me as I am for him... revelations for another day... until then I guess I'm left to wonder if the innocence that wrote this back then, is really only a lack of reality... perhaps I am merely disillusioned. E
Friday, September 08, 2006
Twilight
Between the light of day and the dark of night
In the place where dreams wake and take flight
Where the Tallows wander and the Jithrod rides
Where Ferries fly and the Withersnails abide.
In the place between wake and sleep
Where time stands still and the dusk lies deep
When eyes are tired from day’s long travels
And a weaver’s tale by fire unravels.
Where fire on the horizon burns
And passion in my heart does churn
Where daylight breaks the still of night
And angels wings spread wide their might.
This is the place where you are in my heart
In a day of dreams that never gets dark
Where I feel your kiss in the gentle breeze
Your breath softly rushing through the trees.
I long for you in the darkness deep
When my body is spent and cries for sleep
Since I saw you last long days have gone
I sit in the darkness and wait for the dawn.
©2005 Arwen North
Between the light of day and the dark of night
In the place where dreams wake and take flight
Where the Tallows wander and the Jithrod rides
Where Ferries fly and the Withersnails abide.
In the place between wake and sleep
Where time stands still and the dusk lies deep
When eyes are tired from day’s long travels
And a weaver’s tale by fire unravels.
Where fire on the horizon burns
And passion in my heart does churn
Where daylight breaks the still of night
And angels wings spread wide their might.
This is the place where you are in my heart
In a day of dreams that never gets dark
Where I feel your kiss in the gentle breeze
Your breath softly rushing through the trees.
I long for you in the darkness deep
When my body is spent and cries for sleep
Since I saw you last long days have gone
I sit in the darkness and wait for the dawn.
©2005 Arwen North
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