The beauty of snow adorned trees reaffirms Mother Nature’s exquisite taste.
Frozen water forms intricate patterns that elicit awe.
From a distance it covers all in non-discrimination, gender-less and fair.
This cold and frosty lace is a crowning glory. The old magnificent trees
Patiently wear Winter’s royal dress. They know the soft and flowery
Warmth of lovely Spring will renew their vigor soon.
My disposition had been befuddled and mired,
As if a mind spell had been cast upon it.
It felt as if all the screws in my head had been taken out
And then put back in without precision.
My energies and mood had been placed within a wave machine,
Cycling up and down. With each low ebb, I would have to wrestle
With fatigue and an undefined feeling of unease.
It is hard to fathom the passage of time when everything
Felt like slow motion. The truth is four years have flown by
Since the pathogen within my brain began to grow.
It took all this time to over throw this mysterious spell.
Its arms held tight around my thoughts, and it felt as if
A civil war was being waged.
This morning I awoke and felt as if a barrier had been broken.
My mood was elevated and heading toward exuberance.
This high stayed with me through out the day.
The unseen phantoms were gone. Whether this is victory
Or truce is still unknown. In any case, a sense of
Celebration is taking hold.
Scanning the Twitter-verse,
Reading random tweets.
Not necessarily following my feed, but rather
Following a chain of people, a chain of thoughts.
One person leads to another, and this goes on until
The redundancy becomes absurd.
The degree of condescension seems high to extreme.
We humans have a need to put each other down.
Perhaps, it is a desire to place oneself above.
Many reach up by educating themselves, then assume
A patronizing stance. I’m up here, and you’re down there.
Sometimes in good fun, of course.
Not everyone falls into this trap, though it is all so easy to do.
A good laugh at someone else, mostly hidden behind their back,
Covered up in the guise of some other silly conversation.
All so smart, so superior, so cultured, definitely not native.
The need to condescend might come from a more deep-seated concern,
Possibly a weakness at one’s core, an uncertainty of one’s own worth.
The posturing of one’s ego holds one up above the rest.
No one wants an ‘average’ designation, and I include myself in this.
All these poses, guises, and masks give off an unauthentic air,
Or a pompous cloud that breeds contempt.
It is no wonder that the belligerent buffoon rises.
The days and nights fold together when I stay warmly wrapped in fleece. No sharp delineations.
The gray landscape turns white as precipitation falls. The black pavement has ridges of white encroaching on the lanes of travel. The noisy plow comes through to crush the rising mounds.
Morpheus has been on my mind since yesterday when I looked up morphine. I saw his naked body pictured with Iris, his female companion. His skin looked as soft and smooth as hers. Both their bodies curved. His reclined while she stood aside.
Then my mind turned to morphemes, morphology, and butterflies. Form and function are always holding hands.
These days my thoughts move around with no direction until they come to rest. My voice is giving way to my listening ear. My daughter seems intent on interruption until I yield.
Darkness falls outside. Still I hear the crunching sound of blades intent on keeping clear an open path.
Today is a better day. I see three Mourning Doves
Perched quietly in a tree.
Their drab brown feathers are cloaking them as they huddle.
The bare branches bend and twist around them
In color harmony. Everything is stark.
The rounded shapes catch my eye. The branches are
Long and thin in contrast.
I thought I saw something ruffle and move ever so slightly.
I focus in to see what I have spotted.
It appears the rounded shapes are birds.
They sit in peace within the barren courtyard.
All the leaves have left.
Another day, another feeling, another poem.
A smoldering burn that won’t go away.
The smoke and heat and residue remain.
Stubbornly saturating the stagnant air.
Tears can’t remove the images and stain.
A feeling of anger is beginning to build.
I’ve been trying hard to knock it down,
Or at least hold it at bay. Senseless and tragic.
An unnamed fury I want to leave behind.
Perhaps, this anger could do me some good.
Not to strike back, but to push me forward.
I am moving forward in my life. The story of mind games and madness is getting old. The new year is bringing me greater peace and a clearer purpose. Since this is my unedited creative outlet, I’ve decided to write two poems today. I’m a secret amateur poet. 🙂
Living life on the run, never feeling like time is your friend,
Always minutes late, sometimes more,
Keeping punctual people waiting.
The rising edge of panic always on your heels.
One thing leads to another. Satisfaction is laughing,
Down the line, steps ahead of you.
The hours pass without restful recognition. The blur, the haze
Is ever-present, washing out the details of the idle.
No time for memory snapshots will leave you empty in the end.
Upstairs and inside I sit. Out the window it’s a foggy morning.
Billowing steam rising from the rooftop blends in with the fog.
The bare branches hold water drops that cling in hope,
Visible signs of tension.
The slick walking stones silently breathe caution.
These seconds of silence are secluded away.
Eventually, sounds do intrude. The snip snip noise of
Scissors bounce off my ears.
This reminder brings me back to those around me.
I look and see heads in books, and hands in penciled motion.
All is well.
The jingle-n-jangle of holiday bells used to set my nerves a jangling. Starting in November, my days and hours used to be filled with making lists of things that needed to be done. Shopping, cleaning, decorating, baking, throughout the whole month of December. The nervous race to holiday perfection had me moving non-stop.
I grew up learning how to prepare for parties and holiday entertaining. My father loved Christmas, and he put a lot of effort into holiday decorating, and indoor and outdoor lighting. He never went overboard, and everything was tastefully old-fashioned. My mother had taken a flower arranging course when she was young and newly married, so the holidays gave her many opportunities to create masterful centerpieces. She would use holly and evergreen branches from our gardens, and some store bought flowers and ribbons. My dad was the Christmas candy-maker. I was the baker of cookies, cakes, and bars. My mother was the pie specialist. My brother was the marinade expert, and grill master. My sister would help my mother with menu planning, and all the meats and other foods. We all cleaned together. The house sparkled from top to bottom. Everything was perfectly choreographed and timed, so that when guests arrived, we could talk and entertain. My dad or family friend would tend the bar.
After I got married everything changed. My husband was not trained to entertain. I don’t think his parents ever threw a party. My husband never cooked, nor decorated, or shopped for Christmas. Most everything fell into my lap. My husband was very good at cleaning, as long as I uncluttered everything first. He would help me in the kitchen with peeling, cutting, carving, slicing, etc. He always looked to me for direction. I’m sure that come December I turned into a royal nag for him. Nag, nag, nag. Eventually, the house got clean and decorated. By Christmas day we were both worn-out.
Slowly over time perfection fell by the wayside. As our parents aged our priorities had to shift. By the time my parents died, I had stopped caring. My mother died in November, and when Christmas arrived, we had a tree with lights, and no other decorations. Nothing had been baked.
Today is two years later. I’m beginning for the first time in a long time to feel guilty about my slipped standards. I’m beginning to take full stock of the situation at hand. I’m beginning to care again, though I no longer feel any desire to nag my husband. He was never taught to worry about what others thought, and I now see this as a blessing.
I know that when I begin to organize again, he will help me as he can, and I understand that I will have to be the initiator and director.
I’m slowly moving toward a mind shift. The tide has not yet turned. So, I’m sitting in my big easy chair with my feet up, and the softly shaded light of a floor lamp is behind me. My plans for the evening are to start reading Chapter Three of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I’ve now read the first four books in this series. I will most likely have a small bowl of candy-cane ice cream to bring in a holiday reminder of the date.
Near the end of August of this year I had a dream so powerful and vivid it has been hard to understand its full meaning until now.
In this dream my vision was very narrowly focused, and my range was very short. I remember hearing a beating sound, or a low rumble. It was hard to distinguish its source. I sensed that there were cloaked figures moving around me, though I couldn’t see any faces. Above me moving toward me I saw a glowing fibrous seed. It was shaped like a valentine heart, and it was 3-dimensional and it looked as if it were throbbing. There was a bright red light glowing within it. I reached out my hand to touch it, and it was placed in my palm. I was startled to feel its warmth. I don’t ever remember sensing heat within an actual dream, and come to think of it, I don’t ever remember seeing such a vivid color of red.
Within my hand this warm fibrous glowing heart continued to pulse, and then I woke up, and all the visions were gone. All I was left with were my own questions.
I knew I had to document this dream and mark it in time for myself. I went online trying to find an image of a heart that was like the one in my dream. The closest thing I could find was the picture of the Cherry wood Celtic heart I posted to my Twitter account. It stands as a reminder and a symbol of this dream. Though, the heart in my dream was very different and much more alive.
I chose the Celtic heart because all the knot-work reminded me of all the intertwining fibers of the heart in my dream. I also chose the Cherry wood because I saw the heart in my dream as a seed to something else. A seed that had future potential.
I now see the heart from my dream as a joining of hearts. It had felt as if my heart had been taken out and then given back to me with a living breathing connection to a higher power that I choose to see as God’s power. It is a forever connection that spans time and space. This is not a connection of physical mass, but a connection of sheer energy.
We all have the power to be naturally gifted with God’s love. We just need to search our soul to find it.
A couple of weeks after this dream I was at work looking out the window at a courtyard of trees, and I was inspired to start this blog. In a way I think the seed heart had given me the idea and confidence to start my very own tree of thoughts.
I had written a book once before over many, many months. I printed it out and mailed it off in a box to my sister. I wanted to get her opinion, thoughts, and advice. She had gone off to Stanford University with a perfect score of 5 on her English Advanced Placement exam. So, I respected her opinion, even though she had ended up with a B.S. and M.S. in engineering.
I never did hear back from her. I asked her about it a few times, and she always had some excuse, and I never knew whether she read any of it. Finally, I stopped asking.
Even if it was spectacularly bad, I would have appreciated and understood constructive criticism and feedback. Looking back on it now, I know that the subject was cliche, and my words were probably painfully plain. I no longer have a copy of this book, and I doubt my sister kept her copy. Her lack of response just reinforced in my mind my position of low woman on the family totem pole. But this was my problem of confidence, and not hers.
Fortunately time and age has tempered my disappointment. My sister and I each have our own lives. She lives far south of me. I still love her and I hold hopes of reconnecting with her in the future. Unfortunately, she was only able to come back for 4 days during the time between my father’s death and mother’s death. She has not been back since then. I think that I’ll have to travel to see her one day.
I now believe that the seed heart in my dream was a symbolic gift to myself with God’s blessing. It gives me permission and confidence to write down my thoughts. This tree of thoughts is for me.
Update 07/22/2024: I wrote this a long time ago. Recently I rediscovered the cherry wood heart that I purchased long ago. I have never worn it since it is not really my style in jewelry. I still treasure it because it is a reminder of how powerful dreams can appear. Here is a quick cell phone picture of it today.
The other day the word “Jarhead” came into my mind, and I knew this to be a word that has been used to identify Marine servicemen. Perhaps it came into my thoughts because it was Veteran’s Day.
I wondered how this label or nickname originated. I read that it has been in use since at least World War II. I read that it had nothing to do with haircuts, hats, or head shapes. It turns out this word “Jarhead” is referring to a Marine’s training to follow orders, regardless of consequences or personal safety.
The image of ‘hard’ on the outside and ’empty’ on the inside is why the word “jar” is used with the word “head”. I was somewhat startled to realize that it was an insult.
The whole military system is based on a chain of command, and it has to rely on men following orders. These orders start at the top and travel down the chain to the ones on the front line risking their lives or limbs. A certain amount of brainwashing, or at least buying into the system, has to take place for this system to be effective. I felt empathy for the low man on the totem pole sacrificing everything. He or she has to have blind faith that the men or women on the top have integrity, and have considered the safety of the servicemen first and foremost above any other concerns.
After what I have been through these past two years, I have to wonder who is really at the top of the chain. My mind felt as if it had been subjected to outside forces, and more than once or twice I wondered if my father’s military training had anything to do with my mind’s susceptibility to these forces. My father had earned a Masters in Electronics and Electrical Engineering at military expense. Now, I wonder what all he had to sacrifice for his education. However, I am left to sort out if this was just my grief wreaking havoc in my brain, or was there any shred of underlying deception by others.
These thoughts sparked several offshoots. I remembered a cartoon show and comics from when I was a girl growing up. It was called Archie’s Comics with Archie, Veronica, and Jarhead. I looked it up online and saw that there was no Jarhead. The character I was thinking of was nicknamed Jughead. He took this name because his real first name was strange, and he didn’t like it. People thought he was lazy and stupid. He was actually very smart and outwitted most everyone, most of the time.
He always wore this funny looking beanie hat or whoopee cap that looked like a felt crown. You can see it in the picture here. It rests above the capital J in the title. He always wore it. The exceptions were rare. These beanie caps were popular in the 1930’s and 1940’s, and they indicated that one was an auto mechanic. The red dot and white dash on the cap is Morse code for the letter A.
We are left with the mystery of why Jughead always wore this cap, and the mystery of what the S on his shirt represented. He never did reveal this. People have speculated, but Jughead never explained it.
I am left with the mystery of why these thoughts come into my head.
movingforwardslowly 