Lifted

     Every year at this time, I  turn my thoughts to writing my annual Christmas poem. Some years, the writing comes quickly, and I feel as if it were truly a gift. Other years, it feels stilted and contrived. Nevertheless, I still put to paper something. It is my curse and my blessing. 
     Celebrating Christmas at the darkest time of the year helps to bring some people up from the despairs of SAD and into a brighter place where sparkling lights and traditional songs lift them up. Others, annually dread the holiday as a day of little light and mounting pressures and dysfunctional families; it is, for them, a time when hidden sensors in the brain trigger dark memories and cause unexplained anger and dismay. I once saw a man from my car window as I waited in a bank drive-through, years ago during the Christmas holidays, tear a marble writing table off the back of the wall with his bare hands and pound on the ATM machine until it was practically pulverized. He then ran across Highway 50, in Orlando, as if demons were chasing him. Needless to say, I exited the area quickly and called the bank the following Monday to tell them what I had witnessed and why their drive-through was vandalized. It was a sad scene. I hurt for that man even though I never knew who he was or what became of him. He left on foot. He needed a lift in more ways than one.
     As the magic day of December 25th approaches, like that man at the bank,  due to unfortunate circumstances, I feel both the pressures and sorrows of family pathos, but fortunately for me, I have a natural buoyancy that always forces me to the top and reminds me of the incredible blessings I have received.  My prayer for all this season is to feel that buoyancy, that sense of wonder, that feeling of "liftedness" at least once this holiday.  Then, wrap it up in some leftover Christmas paper, and carry it into the new year. 

Lifted

It’s about that time of year,

that time of love and cheer,

when friends and family meet

and talk and share and eat,

that time when church bells ring,

and angels in tennis shoes sing

in choirs across the land,

that time when thoughts return

to days gone by so long ago,

to nights so dark one star did glow

to show the world so far below,

that we are finally 

lifted.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Linda 2018 Christmas Poem

Done!

Weeders

     I regularly find myself in awkward positions on the ground, stretching my body to pull a handful of milk filled weeds that give me rashes and chap my hands. I can't help myself. I exchange poison spray for manual labor.  There was a time when I could practically pull a thistle barehanded with minimal damage, but my sixty-two-year-old hands say enough and chap and bump and burn. Even still, I regularly find myself in awkward positions on the ground pulling weeds. I am, and, hopefully, always will be, a "weeder".  It sounds weird, but often in my crouched down pain with discomfort spreading across my lower back, I say a silent pray of thanks for my weeds. They have taught me much.

    Weeds have taught me how to be task oriented. They fill in one bed and then another, sometimes randomly and sometimes in heavy patches. They call out when I walk by, and only because I am a "weeder" do I hear their call. "Nanny, nanny boo-boo". Yep. That is what they say. They demand attention, and if ignored, they gather all of their friends and create large weed crowds that put their weedy voices together and yell, "NANNY, NANNY BOO-BOO"! That is when it is too late, and I am in for long painful bouts of bending, stretching, stooping and pulling. Giant garbage bags fill and get heavy as I drag them to the street. Weeds demand I stay on task, or they swamp me.

     Weeds have taught me vigilance. Without vigilance, they win.

     Weeds have taught me patience. Hang in there, slowly, surely, the bed will be cleared.

     Weeds have always presented me with quiet time. After heeding their call and beginning the process of removing them, they stop shouting. Methodically, I work through them, quietly squatting near the earth, under the sky, often in the sun, stopping, occasionally, to lie down in the green grass and stretch out my back, staring at a blue sky with white clouds.  Weeds remind me of my relationship with the earth, and though I sometimes feel dismayed at their tenacity, I always feel a certain level of thankfulness for their presence and the fact they have chosen to speak to me.

Peace. Love, Linda

Thoughts and a Poem

The older I get, the more I feel gratitude for the gift of a loving mother and father. Life is difficult at times to maneuver, and I am not saying my parents were perfect, and I have made my fair share of mistakes due to a very hard head and a will like a rock, but I am saying I knew unconditional love, a rare gift, indeed. Because of that, my foundations were firm enough to withstand in spite of my self made earthquakes.  

It wasn't until I became older that I started processing that my  "normal" childhood was not as common or as "normal" as I assumed, and I learned of the pain and difficulty that permeates the lives of adult "children" who grew up without unconditional love. I believe that could be at the root of much of the anger directed at the world and each other today, hence the poem:

Someone Elses Mama

She played her tune on the fiddle

as the children laughed and shouted,

and danced so hard they fell to the floor;

then they cried and whined and pouted.

But they loved their dear, sweet Mama

and they feared their dear, sweet Mama,

as they twirled to the heat of a song not so sweet

while the air left the room with each beat.

She played her tune on the fiddle

as the young kids danced for the crowd;

they slipped and dipped ‘til exhausted

then bent at the waste and bowed.

But they loved their dear, sweet Mama, 

and they feared their dear, sweet Mama,

as they twirled to the heat of a song not so sweet

while the air left the room with each beat.

She played her tune on the fiddle

as the sons and daughters swirled,

but they never met in the middle

and the chords were all awhirl.

But they loved their dear, sweet Mama,

and they feared their dear, sweet Mama,

as they twirled to the heat of a song not so sweet

while the air left the room with each beat.

She played her tune with no fiddle;

the adults in the room looked grim,

but they whirled to the tunes of their childhood

as the mama’s smile waxed dim.

They loved their dear, sweet Mama,

and they feared their dear, sweet Mama,

as they twirled to the heat of a song not so sweet

while the air left the room with each beat.

Not one of my happier by products, but life is not always pretty. However, their is sufficient grace available for us all.

Peace, 

Love, Linda

Who Are Your Navigators?

     Sitting in the front seat of the car with a wrinkled map in my lap, my passenger foot brake planted firmly on the floor and my blood pressure elevated, I followed the winding red and blue lines, reading the fine print and randomly shouting, “Turn here!” It was always a disaster waiting to happen. We eventually arrived at every destination on our vacation agendas, but not without numerous stories, some quite dramatic, and various mishaps and detours. Traveling was different in the 80’s, and everyone in the car had a role. My role was navigator, not because I was an experienced traveler with vast knowledge of golden roads and magic highways. No, I was a navigator by default. Nik was too young to read a map, and Darren was in too much of a hurry for me to drive.

     Like those vacations, life is a journey.  Oftentimes, we don’t even think about where we are going or how we are going to get there, but that is not the worst problem that plagues many. Our biggest handicap is we don’t even stop to wonder, along the way, who is our navigator. We are following randomly placed navigators in our life or ones who show up at a convenient moment and become our navigator by default. This can happen in our spiritual life, our political life, our family life, our social life, our work life. I think that covers enough that you get the picture.  I am sure the miraculous presence of deliberately chosen navigators brought a small band of soccer players out of a dark, wet cave against all odds.  I am sure the mama duck navigating twelve babies across the lakeshore road at peak traffic time delivering her waddling family safely to the other side is because she was meant for the job. We can survive life following default navigators, but if we want to thrive, it is time to stop and ask- who are my navigators?

Peace. Love, Linda

Don't Miss the Morning

     It's summer time, a time to sweat and complain, a time to rush into the AC and off baking parking lots, a time to cherish the rain and gripe about its frequent occurrence. It's just summer time, and as I drove to the shop, I sped past colorful shiny reflections in still ponds, bursting bushes laden with pink and white crepe myrtles, deep green clumps of trees and thick grasses, and I really didn't see them for what they were until a little bird in the big, green oak outside the shop started a trill that caught my ear. I was pulling the blue recycle bin off the curb to the front of the building and getting ready to open the big garage doors for business when it stopped me in my tracks. I looked at the incredible blue sky and  a white wisp of a cloud, I breathed in the coolest air of a long, hot day and felt its calm. I stopped and stared at the pink laden myrtles by the road, and said a prayer of thanksgiving for another beautiful day of life. Yes, it's summer time, a time to sweat and complain, but while you are at it, don't miss the morning.

Peace. Love, Linda

Dreams for Our Children

     My daughter is a Taurus in every since of its definition.  She was born in the spring, and with a will of iron, she started her life journey.  At times, I was flummoxed as to what to do with her when she was very young. She was loving and talented and funny and bright and had a head like a rock. She wanted control from the time she popped out of my womb with such force the doctor almost dropped her. She was magnificent then, and she is magnificent now. However, we look at the world the same in some ways and very differently in others, which brings me to my dream.

     We were together on a journey to who knows where, Nikky and I, and at the point I remember the dream vividly, we had reached a summit, quite high and steep. It was like a giant sand dune we had to conquer. We stood side by side and looked down the high, steep precipice. I felt, not dread, but a sense of peace, confidence. I had done this descent before. I knew that all I had to do was put my back to the cliff and dig my feet into the dense sand and somewhat slide my way down. I looked at Nik and was ready to direct her with my knowledge when she put her hands over her head in a motion used for diving into a pool and immediately plunged down the side of the cliff. I took off my way, anxious at first, for her safety, but soon realizing we had both landed securely at the bottom, and she had not broken her neck, as I had temporarily feared.

     We have dreams for our children just as our parents had dreams for us, but our children are not us. If we teach them to be independent and set them free, they grow strong, survive well, and conquer sand dunes...head first. We give them our knowledge when they are young, and if we are smart, we learn from theirs as we grow older. God bless our children. They are the living dreams for our future.

    Peace. Love, Linda

The Creature from the Swamp

Yes. It is another day, and I am recording a vivid dream I had last night. Nonsense to many, but that really doesn't matter to me. I feel compelled to write it down before it escapes my memory. The dream goes like this:

I, and several other unfamiliar people, were in a school cafeteria. Most of the tables were gone, and we, for some unknown reason were milling around a raised stage when I looked to the open double wide doors and an enormous, lumpy alligator slipped into the room. I made everyone aware of the swamp creature's presence, and told everyone to jump on the stage and form a barrier out of chairs, tables, etc., whatever we could find to block the creature. One large folding table remained on the floor in front of the stage. The giant alligator, which now looked as if it contained two large animals in its belly, ignored us on the stage and walked under the folding table where it remained for awhile. We, too, remained awhile on the stage. We watched nervously, waiting for the next move of the big creature. When that move came, it was anticlimactic in nature. The big, ambling beast walked out from under the table and slowly headed for the door. That's it.

And on that note, I end this posting. Peace and be safe in the storm. 
Love, Linda

Things Are Looking Up If You are Looking Up

     Daddy used to wake up in his old age and say, "It's a good day because my feet hit the ground."
No matter what life put in front of him, he had a remarkable outlook most of the time. For Daddy things were looking up. I was talking to a "dooms dayer" at the shop yesterday, and he was saying his friend had the food saved up, and he had the guns. Well, that's one way to look at the day, but I like Daddy's way. Daddy and Mama both read the Bible, and Mama taught me verses to memorize. I think it was a valuable tool in their lives to nurture their positive attitudes.

However, reading the Bible, like listening to the news, can leave you feeling pretty depressed. It can scare the hell out of you. I hear that from some people who are scared to death of prophesies to come. It can, also, make you feel safe and secure. That is because the Bible brings to us what we bring to the Bible. We were created in God's image, so we, too, are creators. We create our world, and if you look at the true history of things in our world, things are looking up.

I woke up this morning with this verse on my mind. I like it. It makes me feel good, especially in light of all the "gun" conversations lately. I am sure we will figure this out, especially with such passionate, intelligent youth growing up to clean up my generation's mistakes.

Isaiah 2:4

And he shall judge the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.

Find joy in this day. Peace. Love, Linda

Make Me Like Spring

Make me like spring, God

fresh, vibrant and green

though the rains don't yet fall

renewals grace all.

Make me like spring, God

creative and free

though desolation's in sight

soft dew forms at night.

Make me like spring, God

fragrant with peace

though smog fouls some air

fresh winds clean with care.

Make me like spring, God

and let my life glow

in a land tuned to sorrow

spring shines on tomorrow.

Make me like spring, God.

Make me like spring.

Peace,

Love Linda

What If Jesus Were a Jane?

I sometimes look at the world around me and wonder how we reached such a point in civilization since we are supposed to be the most intelligent creatures on earth. After all, we still have war. At least, at this stage in my life, I don't fret about it any more. I have an acceptance of my journey that is no longer fraught with bouts of depression or dismay. Through out the years of trials and hard headed tribulations I have brought upon myself, I have discovered peace,
accompanied with an enormous, tree hugging, snowflake,  whatever you want to call it, acknowledgement of Grace with a capital "G".

My positions  do not always make my opinions cherished, but my desire to share my thoughts brings to mind Jesus, popular, but not with every crowd. It  did not stop him from sharing his Truth. He was born to do that. I think some of us may be. I like to think that. Insert emoji here, but it seems inappropriate. 👼What the heck!

I have trained my brain not to fret as I used to; yes, it is possible to do that. However, I still wonder,  at times, about random things in general in the terms of  "what if". From one pondering comes this poem I am about to share. The women's movements of the day,part of the natural rising of dirt to the surface due to a lack of deep cleanings, may have been in the recesses of my mind when these words came to me. Don't burn me at the stake; I am not a heretic. I love Jesus. He was, and I believe still is, very cool.

What If Jesus Were a Jane?

What if Jesus were a Jane

in a world drenched with pain

that special kind of rain

that sticks to the skin

to the end?

What if Jane had a plan

for salvation for all man

turning can't into can,

that radical kind of thought

that can't be bought?

What if "can" won the day

and her plan was "the way"

and her life our Easter play

that isn't very fun

always ending with the Son.

What if that Son were a Daughter;

would her story just be fodder;

would her role be carry water

from that water springs forth life,

would that Jane become a wife?

These are questions in my life.

Well, I am not sure what anyone should do with this information, but as I said earlier, I am compelled to speak my peace. And on that note, peace.

Love, Linda