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Mother’s Day is not a happy day for all. Some have memories of being abandoned or  neglected by their mothers.

Some have problems from being over-mothered.

Some mothers are accidental and some are planned.

Some mothers had no choice, and some were forced.

Nature can give or take mothership away. Some grandmothers are given a mother extension.

The Holy Spirit seeks to comfort those left out of love. This comfort is often pushed away.

I’m a mother with a heavy load, and I’ll never be a grandmother.

The Holy Spirit hovers around me trying to help and humor me. I’m trying hard to have an open heart.

I’m lucky in that my mother was a good one.

 

 

I’m under the weather and having dark thoughts caused by all the media madness that surrounds us.

One story has children being killed, starved, and denied access to basic human needs.

The next story has a celebrity shaving his head. The juxtaposition is thoughtless to say the least.

I need to turn it off.  Our human obsession with rubber-necking is ruining us all.

I stop to eat some pears in syrup. I’m waiting for my head cold and sore throat to pass. My leg is slowly improving.

I’m anxious to get back to work to hopefully help some children.

The days of summer are ahead, and lengthening my media-free time is my goal.

My thoughts are turning lighter, though I’d almost welcome a sun eruption to wipe away all the vanity that passes on our screens, and this includes my own.

I have to focus on all the good that technology brings to us. I have to have faith that the good can conquer evil.

Channels of power control our human flow, our exchanges, and our lead positions.

The masses below trust and follow. All struggling to make a key connection.

Money is king, greed is the engine, and hopes of a better life fuel the upward flow of bodies.

Bodies that are willing and ready to be the moving parts.

Zooming ahead, racing forward, cutting corners, and leaving tons of waste behind.

Their tracks cut deep, mowing down obstacles in their way. All is done to reach the sky.

Have they forgotten that food comes from the land? Maybe, they have plans for lab grown food or pills, or maybe they don’t need food.

The oxygen thins at high elevations. Do they wear masks?

I’m immersed, entwined, entangled with the Earth.

Engulfed in its ethos, sunk in its mud, swayed by its winds.

Raindrops are on my head with the Sun holding court behind the clouds.

I’m a mere mortal hypnotized by all the raw power surging around me.

My body tremors. I will not relent. The blood in my veins was born fighting.

The history of who I am and where I came from is embedded in every fiber of my being.

I don’t want to let my predecessors down.

My body aches, my tears stream down. My morale has been savaged.

I stand alone, and yet, I stand.

Now that I’m living in real time, all the maladies of age are coming round.

My left leg is giving me trouble. My doctor ordered a hip x-ray. Everything looks fine.

I might need physical therapy. Epsom salt soaks is what I’m settling for right now.

On top of this, I lost my voice this past weekend. Congestion and mucus are messing things up.

I keep assuring my daughter that I will live. Though, to be honest, her need of constant care is wearing me thin.

In the past when my stress piled up like this, I’d turn to the numbers, convinced I could rewrite the code of my life. This approach just made things worse.

The other day the identity property of addition got stuck in my mind. Something plus nothing equals something was my take-away.

The good news is that I’m back where I started, which is not such a bad place to be.

Sitting outside in the sun helped my spirit. I would have liked to have gotten down in the dirt to pull weeds, but my leg will need a little more time to heal.

I don’t know why I titled this entry — Out of Sync: Never on Cue. It just felt right to me. There was no need for reason.

As the breezes stream past me, feelings of loss can still reach inside and twist my heart.

All the reasons for my choices are not clearly rooted; sometimes impulse had the upper hand.

No matter how hard I try to keep spite from rearing its ugly head, it still can strike me out of nowhere.

Yesterday is gone, and focusing on today will hopefully dim any regrets obstinately holding on.

I pray that optimism will pave the road in front of me, and consideration of others will help guide my choices.

In the end, I will not run away. I will stand up for myself.

I never knew that the word ‘poach’ could mean to sink into mud until I looked the word up today.

I’ve always associated the word with eggs. A poached egg is one that has been cooked either above a simmering liquid or cooked within it.

The word can also mean to gain access to something illegally by trespassing on someone else’s property.

Reading the definition gave me a creepy feeling.

My husband’s nickname for himself has always been ‘Mud’. However, I have never called him this.

The madness that I have been pulling myself away from these past several years definitely had given me a feeling of having my mind and soul trespassed upon.

The old French word ‘pochier’ means ‘to enclose in a bag’.

Thoughts of being some kind of bag or egg or egg sac toyed with my mind during my years of paranoia.

Now, it all seems so laughable, and yet, the question of whether I really was a poached egg did cross my mind as I read the definition.

The weirdness and absurdness of it all leaves me no alternative but to shrug it off, and force myself to get busy doing something else. Maybe forgetting it is the best solution.

It does not help matters that the letters of the word ‘poach’ adds up to 43, and the digits of my birthday, that is quickly approaching, adds up to 34.

I was saved when I realized that the word ‘grace’ also adds up to 34. I have decided that I will dwell with the idea of aging with grace, and forget about all the negativity.

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner I’ve been thinking about the meaning of love.

Anybody who has been reading my tree of thoughts has to know by now that my brain got tangled up within a net of numbers.

The panic and anxiety disappeared over time as my mind slowly worked to untangle the mess. However, my relationship with numbers will never be the same as it was before all this happened.

Now that I’m a little past middle-age, my definition of love has changed since I was a hot and bothered teen. Many people confuse love and lust. Love is far more valuable than lust, even though the latter can be terribly tempting.

Love means consistently showing up to help and support one another through good times and bad. This kind of love involves unpaid time and personal sacrifices.

Nothing is more consistent than 24 hours a day for 7 days a week. We often write this as 24/7.

Today I wondered what the number would be if I used the slash bar as a division bar. Since old habits die hard, I picked up a calculator and divided 24 by 7. The digital screen showed the numbers 3.428571429. I then added up all the digits and I arrived at 45.

I already associated the word ‘love’ with the number 54 since l=12, o=15, v=22, and e=5.

So, after all this nonsense, I determined that 24/7 does indeed equal love.

This is for my Sunday meditation. Through years of soul-searching and profound sadness in my personal life, I’ve come to realize that God is in the air.

Each and everyone of us can breathe God in. We must sit alone in nature or in some other sanctuary away from other voices. We don’t need someone in authority to tell us what to think or do. Each of us is capable of breathing in God’s goodness.

If we meditate and listen away from other’s propaganda, God’s word will slowly begin to communicate with our own individual hearts and minds.

It is getting harder these days to get away from all the angry noise. Everyone wants to bend our minds and hearts for their own intentions. Each and everyone of us has our own unique perspective and we need to have the courage to hear our own hearts, especially when the pressure builds.

Some in power want to take away all our quiet sanctuaries. They don’t want us listening to our own hearts or the voice of love and mercy. They want to drown it all out with the roar of their rhetoric.

God’s mind and heart works through us when we take the time to listen. He wants us to have faith in ourselves and in our own hearts and minds. We must have confident faith in ourselves and in God. He loves us. He is not an angry God.

 

Forward and onward are synonyms. I’ve been pondering their meanings and applications. They do have distinctions.

When I think of the word onward, the image of marching soldiers comes to mind, perhaps a parade, perhaps Christian soldiers.

Onward implies motions like actors in a play. The director moves the play forward.

The word forward appears to be more anchored. Maybe this is because it reminds me of foreword, which comes at the front of a book.

Both onward and forward divide up space into partitions or wards.

Forward seems more psychological like the flow of ideas. It does not necessarily require the movement of weight.

Both imply movement towards a goal.

Working together they can move mountains.