#10 Words…

We woke up this morning with Mama Cass singing in our head. Her words touched us, uplifted, made us nostalgic. Get that? Her WORDS. Yes, the music, the flow of notes also touched us. But the words — long ago, we had sung with her. Today, we did, too. Why? Because the beauty and the heart behind them reached in to touch that space inside us that still turns to words to heal, to express, to hide away and to share.

When we were kids, books were a magnet. The words in a book could say what we dared not say aloud. They could take us away from pain and fear and transport us to adventure, comfort, places the body would never go. And no one, no one, could take them from us. Little did the people who would control and force themselves on us know that we had this refuge. Our mother liked us to read because we were out of her hair, so to speak. We weren’t getting in her way, bothering her if we were outside, in the tree, reading. And read we did. Voraciously. The horrible realities we faced fell away as we read of Black Beauty surviving horrible things to triumph in love at the end. We read of the dog whipped and beaten, called “Ugly Joe” and still moving from one place to another until he was shown love. Words gave us hope. Transported us beyond ourselves.

Now we are going to get personal and we apologize in advance. We devour different writings, poetry, plays, novels, memoirs. But the ones that most inspire? Poems and essays written by Natalia and Annis seem to speak to that part of us that they share with words. Yes. Why? Because we are around them, talk to them, share with them and they with us. So when they put pen to paper we know they are showing us, with words, even more of themselves. We read. We can hear their voices as we read their words. Oh, yes, we love W.B Yeats, Rumi, Gibran, Wordsworth, Orwell, Stegner, and on and on. We have never had the privilege of being in their presence but we have basked in the spoken as well as written words of Natalia and Annis. We do not single them out as we know other writers that speak to the soul–we just figure they won’t take offense to our using their names. (Besides, we admit blatant bias toward the two. 🙂 ). Each time we get to talk with other writers at WOK meetings it is wonderful. And we would mention them, but don’t want to put them out there without their permission. Get it? After this time with Natalia and Annis, we feel they will not be offended and if they are, they’ll let us know without rancor and we will publicly apologize. But for now…

The poetry and essays written by these two authors speak to us in a personal way. We have read enough of their works, talked with them enough, that when they write the simple word love it has a meaning unique to them, their concept. So it means more to us. We have a word we like to use, yet sparingly, when we write and the words need to convey an innermost or deep feeling. The word that is what we consider “Ours” is INEFFABLE. It can refer to special people, special places, cherished memories and accompanying feelings. We don’t throw it around. It is for special times and persons. Those deep and almost untouchable joys carried in our hearts. Crazy, huh? And so, we throw that craziness into the mix by saying that to us, Natalia and Annis have words that reach, touch, inspire, empathize with an ineffable beauty and impact in our lives. And we smile with great devotion to their writings as we hear others compliment their writing, their choice of words and topic. Because we know what it is to draw those words into our innermost selves and let them sit, feed our souls, create their own unique beauty. They say what our heart is afraid to voice but we read those words–those words–and much as when we were in turmoil as children– we are soothed, calmed, spirited away to a better place and to a union with another heart.

Words. WORDS. Heard, read. They never die. They live. Thank you Natalia and Annis. INEFFABLE.

#9 Ugly–the loaded word

First, let us say we have thoroughly enjoyed what other bloggers involved in this challenge have written as precursors to their actual blog! The inspirations, the motivations, the circumstances that brought them to post. It’s really cool and great. We have not shared those types of things because our experience is so diverse and always changing that we can’t say “it was this…” or “this always inspires.” But today, for this blog, we will tell you that the words of our beloved (and we mean beloved) Aunt Tommie have been swimming in our souls and head for awhile. And it is how she defined the word “ugly” and thereby encouraged us to use it similarly. Hence, this blog.

Aunt Tommie always said, “Pretty is as pretty does.” She probably stole it from someone else, but her sincerity in saying it carried a wallop. And she would have gladly attributed it to the original speaker had she known who said it. She was like that. But the real point is, if we called our sister names, or acted out with the intent to harm or hurt, to make ourselves “look” better or superior, she would pull us aside and say that phrase, “pretty is as pretty does,” and then add, “Please don’t act ugly.”

Being a kid, we weren’t quite sure what she meant, but we knew it brought a look of concern and sadness to her face when we name-called or gloated over someone else’s misfortune that we didn’t like. We never asked her about ugly, but we sure figured it out when we became the recipient of someone else acting ugly towards us. We cried and cried to her at the cruelty and the injustice of it since we didn’t know what we had done to warrant such hatred from the person. She listened quietly, had us go over our day step by step at school before we were attacked verbally. Aunt Tommie was so very wise. What it came down to was we had won the award in our class for having had perfect spelling test scores for a month straight, beating out the competition (which by the way, we didn’t know we had, much less cared about) and being slandered as soon as class was dismissed and we were all out on the playground. We heard “teacher’s pet” and “you know she had to cheat to do that well because she’s so stupid in other subjects” and such comments. The comments were agreed upon by the person’s minions who never passed a spelling quiz–but who cared? They beat us out in times tables. To each his own. Aunt Tommie’s comment when this had been nailed down? “People act ugly when they are embarrassed. Or sometimes when they know someone else can do something they can’t. Instead of being happy for someone else, they act ugly to make you look ugly. Isn’t that sad, honey? Such a pretty and smart girl to act so ugly to you. That girl needs a friend to show her how NOT to act ugly.” And she shook her head sadly. We were young enough to understand what she was saying. We could see the ugly she was talking about. And we had not had hatred and vengeance take root in our young lives yet. It made us aware, wanting to avoid acting ugly at all costs.

We grew older, saw more, experienced more. We saw ugly take many shapes and forms. We rarely thought of “pretty is as pretty does” until it was thrust upon us in our teens. Suddenly, everything was about being pretty, looking good, being in style, hair done according to current styles. It was EXHAUSTING! We were skinny. We wore home-made clothes or hand-me-downs. Our knees were always sporting scabs, we chewed our nails down to the quick, and our hands had callouses from yard work and housework. In short, after almost a whole school year of trying to “look good,” we resigned from the pretty group, never having been included anyway. With our particular circumstances and home life, with us being a we, it was just not feasible and became unimportant. And one of the reasons why was because we had other ugly things in our lives to contend with. We had been sexually abused, so we were “dirty,” i.e., ugly. We had been repeatedly told we were “stupid.” Phrases like “you’re as useless as tits on a boar hog” were hurled at us. Once more, we qualified as ugly. Being used, called stupid, never being good enough–yeah, we felt ugly–we knew we were ugly. Regardless that the words were sent to us via ugly acting people. Still, we picked our battles. And with Aunt Tommie’s words coming back to us now, so much later, we weren’t angels, but we didn’t try to return ugly for ugly. And so being “pretty”? Not a priority to us.

We so ignored being “pretty” that we rarely were in pictures, for a number of reasons. We never recognized ourselves for one thing, and it was so much easier to just be invisible, not be noticed, just retreat into learning and reading and our love for animals. We had a natural affinity for those who were considered “ugly” by the world’s standards. As we got even older, we would hear people talk about how ugly someone’s new baby was–and how sad. Sad? We could look on the newborn, misshapen or flawed and honestly smile and say, “Oh my gawd how precious!” Because every newborn human or animal is precious! We dare you to say otherwise! While others gossiped and acted ugly with their petty judgments, we did, we do see beauty. No, we aren’t saints–but why slander a defenseless child or animal? No need to act ugly.

Aunt Tommie died. We know she is reminding us to not act ugly, offering compassion instead. She was a love child and hippie long before we were! But we were discouraged with the state of affairs, a bad marriage, our children suffering at the hand of their father and were up late, watching the movie, “The Green Mile.” John Coffey is facing execution and Tom Hanks, playing the senior officer, asks him if there is anything he can do to make it easier as he knows John is not guilty and will die unjustly and unfairly. John says, “I’m tired boss. I’m tired of people being ugly to each other.” It had been years–literally YEARS–since we had heard that said aloud. The tears rolled down our cheeks. We were tired, too, John. Tired of people being ugly to each other.

Now, we are coming full circle–ergo, this long blog. We who avoid having our picture taken, were caught up in the joy of an afternoon exploration of an older part of a city, feeling free to let our people enjoy every bit of being with a trusted and loved companion, and allowing our picture to be made with her. Later, still basking in the absolutely wonderful feelings, she posted the picture. We were aghast. We had to see how old we were, how awful we looked, how this couldn’t be us! But it was. It is. Full circle? “Pretty” had not been on the agenda for eons. We saw the ugly physicality of our body and wished to be invisible again. We were embarrassed for our friend, having us wander with her, and her never seeming affected by our ugliness. We emailed her, thanking her for allowing us to be with her out in public and apologizing at the same time. She responded our body is not what she loves, but us. We can believe her, in that she doesn’t lie or placate us–she is too honest to do that. And we thought about how and why we joined Writers of Kern. It was not to be seen physically, but to have our words read, heard, and be a part of something that doesn’t look for a pretty body, but rather an open mind and beautiful words expressing the mind and soul of another. But we’ve not always measured up as we have forgotten to dress appropriately to different events there and have caught the eye of those who are conscious of such things. It was not intentional but it happened. So we have laughed to ease their discomfort, disparaging our lack of style/dress to put them at ease and cover our embarrassment at thinking the writing was more important than the presentation physically. We have to accept that we are old and to the world, ugly. That will keep people from seeing us or hearing us–the true selves we are. Our selves have been judged for the DID, for our dress, for our sensitivities, for our speaking out. It’s okay. And now we have to live with the added judgement that we appear old and ugly, when inside, we have empathy, caring, and love to give immeasurably. Ugly outside is not ugly inside.

We understand. We get it. But we will not harbor ugly thoughts or actions. We are not color-blind. We are not unaware. But we see the little girl who is “pretty” being talked to while the filthy little girl with the stained and torn clothing, the disheveled hair, is avoided. Which is truly “pretty”? With children–probably both have kind hearts and beautiful souls. We think about this. We are sad for the surface world we live in. So why blog about it? Because we are “ugly” physically and we will hide behind our thoughts that are not ugly as we write, hoping you will not just see the body. Yes, John Coffey, we are ever so tired of people being ugly to each other. And ever so grateful to those who see and care and will always be beautiful.

#8 Procrastination? Seriously?

Friend texts. “What are you doing?”

Answer: “Thinking about my plans for the day and tomorrow.”

Friend: “And?”

Answer: “And what?”

Friend: “So are you going to be busy tonight?”

Answer: “Not sure yet. Still planning.

Friend: “It’s after 2pm now. What have you got written down or done so far?”

Answer: “Pushy little bugger, aren’t you? I told you, I’m thinking. Planning. Got it all up here in my head.”

Friend: “You’re procrastinating. You haven’t done anything all day, have you?”

Answer: “Not that it is any of your concern… but I did get up, scrolled facebook while I was taking my early morning bladder relief, drank a cup of coffee…”

Friend: “Like I said, you haven’t done anything all day. You have procrastinated and not done anything.”

Answer: “Whoa there! Don’t be so judgmental! It actually takes multi-tasking skills to empty your bladder and scroll the internet at the same time. I got ‘er done though!”

Friend: “Then?”

Answer: “Then what? I started planning, if you must know.”

Friend: “Planning what?”

Answer: “Jesus Mary and Joseph! MY DAY! I STARTED PLANNING MY DAY!”

Friend: “We’re going in circles here. So what are your plans for this evening?”

Answer: “Well, it kind of depends on different factors. You know…if A happens, then B has to be done but if B happens first, I have to figure out…”

Friend: “Okay, okay. I wanted to know if you were free to catch the new movie. I thought it would be fun to see it before it comes out on TV in six months. You know, kind of a ‘I saw that’ and have fun with the people we don’t like by being a spoiler. Anyway, it is showing at 6:30 and again at 9pm. We could catch either one–if you’re free. So wanna go?”

Answer: “Well, I guess. It would be fun. IF I can solidify my plans. You know…”

Friend texts: “sigh 😦 “

Answer: “Okay. Wanna pick me up or meet there?”

Friend: “For which showing? 6:30 or 9?”

Answer: “Well…if I get my plans written down…”

Friend: “I get it. Never mind. I’ll call N. She knows what she is doing and carries through. Keep planning. PROCRASTINATOR!”

Answer: “Hey! Seriously? Me? I told you. I think. I plan. I get everything organized beforehand. Prepared! You can’t be serious! I DON’T PROCRASTINATE!”

Friend: “Let’s face it. You never do today what you can put off until tomorrow, which means you don’t do anything at all. I love you dearly but I would never ask you to help out in an emergency because god only knows how long it would take you to get around to helping. You’d ask if it could wait–and don’t deny it! Talk to you after I get back from the movie. Keep planning.”

Answer: “Have a good time. I’ll write you a long letter describing my dilemma tomorrow so you’ll better understand. I need to work laundry into my plans since I haven’t done it since…I don’t remember when… and am out of clothes. I can schedule it for tomorrow, too, and then I need to…”

Friend: “Right. Whatever. Bye.”

All texts stop. The friend is off to do her thing. The thinker /organizer/planner settles in, picking up pencil to write, waiting for inspiration. Oh, yeah, she better look for a tablet when she’s ready to write.

Procrastinator? Seriously? No. Just thoughtful–for days on end.

Three Wishes

He was walking around the dump, eyes looking for unwanted treasures. His heart skipped a beat! There, lying amid garbage and plastic, was what first appeared to be a metal gravy boat. His mom would love this! He stepped on piles of refuse to get to it, bent down, and picked it up. No scratches, no dings. Awwww right! Using his t-shirt tail, he started wiping the dirt off it for a better look. Suddenly the “gravy boat” took on a life, vibrating and falling from his hands. A wisp of smoke escaped from the spout. He backed away from it, stumbling and falling into the trash. The smoky vapor coming out spoke as it took shape into a little elfin figure. “So what do you wish for, boy?” it said.

The boy, not quite 12 years old yet, took it in stride. “So are you a genie or something?” he asked the shadowy figure. The figure nodded. “And I can wish for something and you’ll make it happen?” the boy further queried. Again, a nod, then the figure said, “Right. In fact, you get three wishes. So what do you want?” The boy grinned. “NOBODY is gonna believe this! NOBODY! But what the heck. Let’s do this!”

He and the wispy figure exchanged smiles. “Well, think about it, boy. I got plenty of time,” the genie said. The boy nodded. Well of course, the first wish had to be to be rich. His mom could quit work, they could have a house, he could have a room all his own with privacy and no little brothers messing with his stuff–“Ok,” he said. “I wanna be rich.” The genie laughed and said, “Now that is real original. But think about it, okay? Are you sure you want to wish for that? Think about it, boy.” The boy laughed also and said, “Yep! I wanna be rich. So go ahead. Do your thing and make me rich.”

The genie shrugged, then said, “You got it. You’re now rich.” And he blew some of his smoke towards the boy. The boy laughed with excitement, and immediately reached into his jeans’ pockets. He pulled out a dollar bill and 45 cents in coins. He looked from the money in his hands to the genie and back at the money again. Then he demanded of the genie, “This? This is supposed to make me rich?” The genie, grinning, asked, “Did you have that much before you came here?” The boy shook his head no, then said, “But a dollar and 45 cents doesn’t make me rich! It won’t help my mom out! Or get us a house with my own room! What is $1.45 gonna do to make me rich?”

The genie seemed shocked. “Really? You don’t think you’re rich?” The boy’s temper flared. “I’m not stupid, ya know! I know what RICH is!” The genie shook his head sadly. “I don’t think you do, boy,” he said. “Oh yes I do!” He glared at the genie. “You’re a fake! A stupid fairy-tale! I should have known! Thanks for NOTHING!” the boy yelled. The genie shrugged, sadly. “So do you want to ask for the other two wishes?” The boy picked up the “gravy boat” angrily and said, “No! You don’t grant wishes! But my mom can use you for gravy. She hardly has anything nice left. So just crawl back in there and shut up.” And he tucked the gravy boat under his arm and headed home. He was angry at himself, the genie, basically the world for duping him.

As he neared his home, he was walking slower and he was depressed. He decided to stop in at the mini-mart to see what he could get with his great fortune of $1.45. As he moved toward the door, he tripped over a man’s hastily retreating foot. He stopped and looked down. “Sorry, ” he said to the man sitting against the building. “No,” the tired and dirty face said, looking up at him. “It’s me who should say sorry. I didn’t see you soon enough to get out of your way. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

The boy looked closer at the man sitting there with a scroungy dog curled up beside him on the cement. “That your dog?” he asked the man. The man nodded, grinning. “Best dang dog in the world! Smart, loyal, and ain’t he a beauty?” The boy grinned back and squatted down in front of the man and his dog. “Is it okay if I pet him?” he asked. “Sure!” the man said. “He didn’t growl or move when you come up so I figure you must be okay. Go ahead! He’ll let you pet him!” The boy smiled, knowing the dog had given him a compliment by accepting him, and patted his head, then caressed the rough fur of his neck and shoulders. The dog rolled onto its back so the boy could rub his belly. The man and the boy laughed together as the boy obliged the dog. “Yep! He sure likes you!” the man said, obviously happy with the dog’s choice of a friend. The boy felt a sense of happiness to replace his earlier disappointment.

After petting the dog, and with his hand resting on the dog’s ears, he asked the man, “You want something from in there?” and nodded toward the doors of the mini-mart. Then he added, “I only got a dollar and some change, but I could get you like something to drink or maybe a cookie or something if you want, ya know?” The man chuckled and said, “Nah, we’re fine. You go get you something. But really, thanks for the offer.” The boy nodded and slowly stood, then headed into the store. He felt good, really good. He saw the store had a hot dog rolling under hot lights and it was on sale, today only, for $1.39. His face lit up. That was something both the man and the dog could enjoy! He stood before the cashier, ordered the hot dog and reached into his pocket. Out came two dollar bills instead of the one. He was shocked, but the cashier stood waiting, so he hurriedly paid him and then ran to the door and asked what the man and his dog wanted on their hot dog. The man started to protest, but the boy said, “Better hurry! It’s getting cold and I can’t return it!” and then he laughed. The man told him, the dog was now sitting up watching him, and the boy hurried to get the hot dog to his new friends while it was still warm. He ran it outside to them, then realized they had nothing to drink. He ran back into the store and asked for a cup for water. The cashier said nothing but went to where the hot dogs were. He pulled another one out and then told the boy to get a couple of sodas. The boy protested and said, “I don’t have any more money, sir. I can’t pay for it, but if I could just get the one glass for water my friend outside I’d really appreciate it.” The cashier said, “I’m not asking for money. The man let you share with him and his dog. Now let me share with you, okay? After all, there’s more to life than money, right?” The boy nodded, stunned.

He sat and ate his hot dog by the man, sharing some with the dog, also. Then he realized he needed to get home, said good-by, and patted the dog once more and knew he’d made two new friends. He felt good. When he got home, he told his mom everything but not about being upset over the gravy boat as he pulled it out and gave it to her. She smiled and hugged him, thanking him, and then said, “I feel like the richest woman in the world!” Shocked, he asked, “Why, mom? It’s only a gravy boat I found at the dump and thought you’d like.” His mom picked up his chin so he was looking right into her eyes. She smiled, as her eyes filled, and said, “I’m rich because I have a son like you who cares about others, human or animal, and finds such joy in that caring. It makes me a rich woman, rich mother, and you–a rich young man.” Then she hugged him so tight he could barely breathe.

He remembered how upset and disappointed he’d been that he wasn’t “rich.” How the genie had told him that the dollar and change had made him rich. Slowly, he looked into his mom’s eyes, really looked. She said she was rich. He had felt good–and rich–with his two new friends, making her happy. That genie wasn’t so stupid and mean after all. It wasn’t money that made you rich. It was the way you FELT inside, the people you could share with.

He went outside to call his younger brothers and sisters in for supper. As he waited to make sure everyone was coming in, he slid one hand into his pants pocket. He laughed to himself. He could feel a couple of bills. He didn’t pull them out to see how much he had now, because he knew it didn’t matter. He was one rich kid. “Thanks, genie,” he whispered. “And I still got two wishes left. You can bet I’ll think about them.” He was still smiling as he went inside to join the others.

#6–“I’M BORED”

“I’m BORED,” the seven year old boy wails loudly. His companions look at him, for a moment, sigh, roll their eyes, go back to what they are doing. Nuff, always bored when something isn’t happening. Sighs heard again.

“Can’t we do SOMETHING?” he demands. Bonnie, ever the nurturing, kind soul, hears and sees him, knowing he needs to do something–but what? It is a large task to keep the hands and mind of this youngster busy so they won’t be left to their own devices. That would create havoc and chaos–and yes, he would no longer be bored, but no one is quite up to setting things right again that he will undoubtedly upend.

“You know, there are lots of weeds to be pulled,” she offers.

“WEEDS!” he shouts with a glare. “I’ve pulled weeds three days now and I want something different to do!”

“How about a nice long walk? Or maybe a trip to the library? You could whip through some animal books there in the children’s section. Who knows? A kind of adventure, right?”

“You have to be quiet in a library,” he counters with disgust.

“Being noisy doesn’t stop boredom, Nuff. But I get your point. So how about a walk? Seeing how many crows follow you? How many animals there are that come across your path? How about…”

His eyes light up. “And garbage trucks? The huge ones that have arms to pick up the cans? and maybe cop cars all around a house or something cool, like that? You know, sirens, and cars and guns and…”

“Whoa! Wait a minute! That would mean people are in trouble, or hurt or…”

“Yeah! And I could be the hero and run in and save them! And then everybody would be excited to see a kid who was so brave and such a warrior and…”

“Remember when we saw a bunch of police cars and you wanted to get in there and mama told you you could get killed and make things worse and kept you from going in to see what was happening?”

“Well, yeah, I guess…but I’d rather get killed in a shoot out than pulling weeds!” he retorts with disgust.

Bonnie sighs. She looks around, searching for something to attract all that pent up energy he carries. One of her other charges, an older boy, offers, “I hear you, buddy. It sucks. Know what I do?”

Nuff shifts his attention to look at the boy. He shakes his head no and the boy smiles and says, “I paint. I get all my paints, even the ones I don’t care if I use or not, take them outside to the patio, and man! Do I have fun! I just close my eyes, see a picture in my head and then try to make it come out on the board! It is sooooo cool and I can change my mind, or make it dark or light, or real or like another world or whatever I want. ‘Course you gotta be able to see pictures in your head and I dunno if you’re old enough to do that, so maybe it wouldn’t work for you.”

Bonnie smiles quietly. The older boy has baited Nuff and it is working. Nuff stands, tall and straight, abruptly, feet planted apart, hands on hips, and declares, “I CAN DO IT! I CAN SEE PICTURES IN MY HEAD! I KNOW I CAN DO IT!”

“Well, put your money where your mouth is, bub! Let me see you do it. Come on–let’s get the stuff together and go out to the patio. But if you mess up my paints…” the older boy warns.

“I can do it. And I promise I won’t mess up your paints, or brushes, or none of it. Come on! I’ll prove it!” Nuff says, and Bonnie throws a grateful look at the older boy as he winks at her and the adventure begins.

Whew!” she thinks. Another ‘I’m bored’ disaster averted. For NOW, anyway.

She Nods pt 3 blog 5

As her mind opens wider and wider, protected by projected energy, she feels a warm heat within. Her inner energy is growing, spreading throughout her body, mind, soul. She welcomes it and feels more and more reassured, knowing answers will be unveiled. I was so triggered, almost panicky by the sounds. I was fearful, lost in a kind of terror of the unknown. And now? I bathe in a comforting and profound sense of the knowledge all will be revealed–with no fear involved–no threat to my being. This is good. Really good.

She feels the energy embracing her senses. Even as her eyes are closed, outwardly, they are wide and inclusive inwardly. The warmth spreading makes her skin feel quiet, ready to feel more. Her tongue savors a taste of ginger tea. Why ginger? It does not matter, it is calming, sweet, sharp. Her nose picks up a scent of earth and she is feeling connected even more. Her ears hear the tiniest twinges of sounds–bells, gongs, banging. Harsh. But still far away. I will have my answers! I am ready to move toward them!

She wills her energy to surround her completely even as she moves toward her goal. All senses are keen, taking her closer and closer as the energy lets her feel free to explore, find, understand. The beauty of all of it is ineffable, enthralling. She is seeing more and more. Her eyes see a door, opening wider before her. She nods. Her skin is compliant, flexible, supplant. She smiles. She nods. The smell and taste of ginger pervade. She nods again as she feels, sees, the earth mixing its atoms with the ginger. She is entering a near state of euphoria in her pleasure with all.

The sounds grow louder but they do not penetrate her senses and demand chaos and fear. They simply are. Louder and louder. But now she sees through the door. A woman and a man stand in a cave lit by torchlight. The noises become louder as she watches bodies push and jostle past her. Angry voices, dark faces advance toward the two standing calmly, waiting. The noise, the banging. Then a new sound. I see smaller bodies huddled, trying to hide behind the man and woman. Their muted voices whimper, fearful eyes watching the advance of those that everyone knows will harm them. They, the small bodies, do not cry out. Would they be heard if they did? With all the rage and banging would anyone hear them? And no words, no sounds from the man and woman. Is this where my answer lies?

She lets all her senses take this in. The clothes, the torches–a different time–a different place. For a brief second, a clutching fear squeezes her being. Then it passes just as quickly as it came. The woman standing in front of the small bodies opens her mouth, a keening wail comes out, deep and penetrating. A long saber is now clutched in her hand. She advances toward those coming towards her. I must help her! I must help protect the woman and man and the small ones behind them! My energy must surround them now! Nothing else matters!

She is the watcher, the observer, and cannot prevent what she now knows has already happened. She watches the woman thrust her torch to set fire to the marauders wearing animal skins, slashing and stabbing with the other hand holding the saber. The man now steps forward, swinging a long chain with vehement purpose. The small ones do not run. They do not cry out. They watch, waiting. The marauders are dying in this counterattack. And yet more and more of them flood the cave with their bodies to take down the man and woman. Will they attack the small ones? She hears the clanging, the banging, the clash of bone and metal, the wails of the fallen marauders in pain at their injuries. She knows what is happening. She has seen this before, lived it before. In this different time and place, it plays itself out once again. Why is she not afraid? Why does she not run? Join in to help in some way?

She watches the woman, the man, their futile defense against the horde that keeps growing against them. She knows that woman. She feels she knows the man but not quite. Her eyes fall on one small boy. He will leave here. She remembers. She sees a crude dagger thrust into the back of the woman’s neck and sees her smile as she lets out one more defiant scream. A warrior even in death. She nods in appreciation and remembering. The man is charged by the assailants, taken down and pummeled by fists, kicks, and crude stabbing weapons. The small ones still stand, eye to eye with the ones who would destroy them. I can’t watch. I can’t look on this! Not the little ones! The defenseless! But she knows it will happen. She knows she has seen it before.

The one small boy is roughly lifted from the bodies around him. He does not fight the strong arms grabbing him and yanking him to the mouth of the cave with triumphant shouts from the slayers. Once outside, a crowd can be seen. Faces blur, but some are clear in their horror at a child being thrown on a platform before them. Others mirror the hate of the child’s captors. A voice demands, “Kill or be killed, you child of Satan! You desecrator of our god!” And a dagger is thrust into the child’s hands. Another child, scared, crying, is before him. She sees the dagger drop from his hands to clank on the wooden platform. She watches the boy close his eyes and feels another presence enter his soul. This one stands, resolute, defiant. It happens. The gong sounds, reverberating, as metal bells clank, the crowd rumbles loudly, demanding obesiance. The gong is struck again. A long curved sword is drawn back by a hand from a black robe. One swipe. The child’s head rolls from it’s neck as the body melts down onto the platform. There is no cheering now. Quiet. The quiet of death. She knows it was her head severed, her body slowly falling lifeless.

This is what I couldn’t remember. This is what I was struggling with. I could hear the sounds. I could not see what was behind them. I understand now why I was so unnerved. Why I was so triggered by these sounds. But I was not open to seeing and remembering. Now I KNOW. MY HEAD WAS SEVERED AT THE SOUND OF THE GONG.

A voice as quiet as a stirring breeze, from within, whispers, “Now you KNOW. You allowed yourself to remember a time past, another life. KNOW. What will you do? What have you learned? What will you do with this knowledge?” Silence. No one will believe me. Only those who have dared to share their deja vu, remember their past lives also, and speak of them. But I do KNOW now. I cannot deny what I have seen, felt, the answers to so many questions I always asked why I did certain things, avoided others, knew innately that there was more to existence than one lifetime. I used what was learned from the past I was unaware of to guide me in the present. What will I do now?

She slowly feels herself returning to the energy surrounding her. This energy and knowing can help shield others, prevent pain for others and myself. I will KNOW the consequences of such actions thrust upon others by choices made to strike out, eliminate, deny, and justify. My energy can sense the energy of evil and destruction. I can shield the vulnerable. I can choose to use what I remember to learn how to better encircle those that are vulnerable, the warriors who fight against this negative and hateful energy with the good energy that comes from KNOWING and learning to use it. I have learned because now I KNOW.

She opens her eyes, gazes around at her surroundings. In this world, yes, I am the alien. The strange one. Was I taught so much in another place and realm? I am not bound here. It’s time to speak with others who also KNOW and understand my space. Aren’t aliens rarely acknowledged, seen, heard? But they KNOW, too.

Aliens are good. Good energy. Rememberances with a purpose. She smiles. Yes, alien to this place. This time. She will KNOW more. She will use it for good. She nods. She nods again. It is good. She nods.

She Nods (pt. 2 blog 4)

She lets her mind play with the idea of an alien abduction. Is this really so far-fetched? Is it any more unfathomable than the places her mind takes her now as it struggles to remember and connect? Why can’t she put it all together? The voice enters her ears, once more. “Are you going to work with us? Are you going to insist on being non-compliant?” She simply nods in response.

Non-compliant? And yet two questions requiring two different responses. Or do they require that? Is this a word trap? No right answer? A catch-22? Would aliens know and be able to use such tactics? They would not resort to such lowly means of manipulation. Too intelligent.

She looks to the direction of the voice. A blurred face appears. A hand attached to a hypodermic. She seeks to lift herself. Regain the feeling and sensation of rising. She cannot. She closes her eyes and lets her body and mind come together to reject what is now known to be harmful energy. She will connect and remember as soon as the threat is gone. When they are repelled and leave her alone. She concentrates, drawing on her energy and the forces she can call on. She keeps her eyes closed. There is no question she will be left alone. The energy in this place that she is in is scattered, unfocused by ego and anger. The voice demands she comply with some remote demands that mean nothing. Without opening her eyes, she nods, and smiles and waits inside herself to repel them.

Another voice. Her eyes remain closed. Then another, another, until the voices are lost in their own discord and self-invented chaos. Inwardly, she smiles, nods. She is stronger, her energy grows. No sting from an injection. No hands touch her body. She waits, eyes yet shut, for the voices to retreat. She has things to do, places to focus her energy when they are gone. A long lasting surge of energy sent outward, towards the voices and they retreat, becoming farther and more distant, until…quiet. She takes a deep breath.

Now to relax and regenerate so I can begin to connect with the elusive yet insistent memory of the sounds, where they are, where they came from. I must refocus. I must use all my resources, open myself to them, let the energy do its job. Now–now, I will open the door to see and to know.

She lies quietly, as still as death itself while the forces that be unite. She is open. She is unafraid. She is ready. She lets her mind wander. Waiting, musing. Am I the alien? Maybe…?

She Nods Blog 3

The voice reaches into her consciousness. A response is required. She nods. Her mind has questions, too. Do you not realize I nod to avoid you? Do you not realize I am not at this moment fully aware of where I am or who you are or what is happening? Do you not see the resignation in the nod of my head?

Her mind reaches back, searching, looking for hidden, shrouded answers. She remembers the sound of the gong. The catapulting of the senses into a forgotten time–at least she thought it was forgotten. Where was she? What was happening coinciding with the gong sound? Emotions wash over her body, making it recoil, get ready to run–no bolt–from a perceived danger. But what danger? When? Where? What was her mind trying to remember even as it tried to shield her from remembering?

The stillness surrounds her–right now. The voice that questioned her has been absorbed into the sterile surroundings it came from. It has no feeling, no intonation, robotic. Hence, it only requires the “nod” in response. All nerves are tingling, responding, waiting for the energy surrounding her to declare itself and allow her to shield from it or welcome it.

Her mind reaches back once more to the tinkling sound of a tiny bell being rung by two fingers. It was the signal the “mindfulness” exercise was over–a return to the study of reality. Now, in a grating and rasping way, the tinkle of the little bell, the word “mindfulness,” and a deliberate observation lacking in speculation or sense of awe–make the process of sound, action, observance repulsive to her mind and one to be avoided. Is it the sounds that trigger her mind and body or the feelings associated with the sounds?

The voice reaches in to her consciousness once more. “Here are your options…” the voice methodically drones on. Her mind does not hear or take the voice, nor its options, in. Already her mind is peeking around corners, trying to connect sounds with places, people, events–so it can concentrate on what is truly important to her life–not options that seem irrelevant now. As from a distance, she hears the question in the voice once more. She nods–again. Why do you not leave me alone? Why do you ask me questions I will not answer? Cannot answer? Have no desire to answer? I am searching within for my own answers–not answers to your questions. Can you help me find the answers to those questions? Stop listing things! Stop intruding into my thoughts!

She feels herself lifting. She does not look around. Gongs, bells, horns, sirens, a shrill cacophony ensue. Her head feels ready to explode! Still, the body is lifting, vibrating, pulsating with feeling and an untouchable mystery of emotions and feelings. Her heart races. Her breathing is almost non-existent. She looks toward a movement to the side of her. One quick, deep breath. Maybe the answers are coming! The memories unveiled! The body lifts higher.

She nods. So this is what they call alien abduction. I’ll have to ask about this, too. She nods to herself.


“If there is something you see or sense as ‘broken,’ do you, without hesitation, try to ‘fix’ it– do you ‘surround’ it with healing– do you ‘watch and wait’ letting the universe play it out?”

Some will answer they do all three, moving quickly from one mode to another with all things coming into play. We who are “fixers” will rapidly move in to remedy the situation, which often consists of putting a “band-aid” on the broken item or soul, as it may be. But the heart says it is not “fixed” and the problem not solved. So we try to surround it with healing vibes, practical and long-lasting answers that will allow the brokenness to heal itself with a little guidance and compassion. Some things, however, are not remedied with either of the first two options and since the factor of the human heart, or the technology/intricacy of intertwined parts cannot be subject to “fixing,” the last option of watching and waiting for the natural forces of the universe to work it out becomes the most viable option of all. And why? Because of choice.

Two young girls stand washing dishes and drying them. The older of the two is in charge of washing and rinsing the dishes, the younger dries and puts them away. It is boring, mundane, and a chore to be done that neither enjoys. Self-absorbed silence surrounds each girl until the younger, in an effort to break the tedium states, “Two and two is five.” The older girl never looks up and says in a tired and bored voice, “No, it’s not. It’s four.” The retort comes, “It’s five.”

Now the older girl focuses on the younger one. “Don’t be stupid. It is four. Now shut up,” she says. The younger girl, realizing she has hit on something to break the silence, says once again, “It’s five.” The older girl now turns her full attention to the younger, still slowly drying dishes. The plate slips from her hand into the soapy dishwater and her voice gets louder, more strident. “EVERYONE knows two plus two is four. Are you an idiot? Four! Four!” A quiet, gleeful “Five,” comes from the lips of the younger girl. The tension mounts as eyes throw literal fireballs from the older girl to the younger one. A voice comes from somewhere, demanding quiet and that the dishes be done.

Quiet ensues with intense eye rolling, glaring, and the laughing eyes of the younger girl. Phase two begins. The older one trips the younger one to show prowess and power over the initial statement. Now the voice from somewhere is standing behind the two of them, breathing heavily over their heads. Fear of retaliation quiets the anger as each girl goes into survival mode. Obviously, the situation “fixed” itself.

The older girl had no desire to “fix” the misinformation spewed by the younger girl but put an end to it through superior knowledge, size, and age. She did not surround the younger girl with healing vibes but demeaned her, totally affronted by the obvious wrong conclusion of a math problem. But this wasn’t a math error–this was a problem that needed to be fixed (or so the older girl opined) and if she couldn’t “fix” it, she would wipe it out, so to speak. Neither worked, but the Universe stepped in and problem pretty much gone.

Now, the older girl has learned to jump in to fix things if possible. Then use kindness and compassion if that doesn’t work. Lastly, she will regretfully, step back and watch and wait, knowing there is little she can do because it is ultimately a matter of choice of the “broken” as to what will occur.

A rhetorical question, but one we woke up with wondering about. Do you carry band-aids around to try to help? Do you send out surrounding healing vibes? Or do you just watch and wait, trusting the Universe to provide whatever solution? Just asking. And by the way, the incident between the two girls happened over 60 years ago and yet is remembered vividly. That in itself has to be questioned, doesn’t it? Will that one ever be fixed? Shaking my head 🙂


NUMBERS are an integral part of every life on this planet–with maybe the exception of animal and plant life (and that is up for debate when you think about it). It starts when we are very, very young and stays with us to our demise. Personally, words are preferable to numbers in our case, and yet if we don’t adhere to the numbers, we will not make it. Period. The end. Fin.

We passed all math courses on a wing a prayer. How many wings and how many prayers are not important, but some college registrar’s office can tell you–they keep the numbers of all that. And we are guilty of passing this on to our children. We taught them to count pennies as little ones. We laughed when they would not trade in 100 pennies saved for one flimsy piece of paper we told them was worth the same amount. That held true at age four and was abandoned by age five as they realized the absolute truth. Our first grader was going to quit school after she realized this profound and universal truth because in her mind, if she could count high enough to make sure she didn’t get shorted at McDonald’s in her change, math was no longer needed. Besides, she was reading at a fourth grade level so why mess with the boring tedium of school. It was a hard go getting her to continue in school. She had a solid argument, we had to admit. Especially as we observed her peers and others.

We get up by numbers. The alarm goes off. Numbers tell us to fudge for another five minutes or bound out of bed to start the day. We keep count of minutes as we dress, eat, walk out the door. We get in the car to drive a number of miles that take a number of minutes, find a parking place that will take a certain amount of minutes, walk from there to the threshold of the place that will pay us a certain amount for being there. We watch the minutes on the clock so we know when to leave and make the calculated return trip to home. Ahhh…numbers!

We go to work out. A fellow sweater/healthy body personage asks how long we have been participating in this exercise regimen. We are asked how much weight we have lost or gained. What is our BMI? What are our inch losses and gains? Oh, yes! How many times a week do we work out and what in calories and cups and gram weight is our diet? Numbers–always numbers.

Do you have a social security number? A driver’s license? What is your age and do you have a pension plan? Do you have health insurance you can afford? Is your income enough to cover your rent, food, emergencies? What is your bank account number? Do you have a street address or post office box number? How old are you because it matters when you age and can qualify for medicare according to the numbers. Do you file taxes? What is your identifying number on your W-2? When is your date of birth? What time of day and what date did a love one or not-so-loved one expire and leave this world? How much was the funeral or cremation? Do you have a certain amount of life insurance for those left after your demise? How much is their stuff worth as you go through it? Dollar numbers, please, not sentimental value.

You buy a car. Or because yours continually breaks down and the cost (Number of dollars) to repair it now warrants the purchase. What year is it? How long is the warranty good? What kind of gas milage does it get? How much is the insurance? Numbers. Research the numbers.

Cave people dealt with this, too. The animal they killed and dragged in to feed themselves and or their commune is just about gone. Enough for one more meal. Time to go out and kill something else or they’ll face starvation. Peasants had to barter and trade to keep a certain amount of food and pay the king’s tax when he came for it. Settlers would survey their food stock, realize it was low, and have to find a way to replenish it, again, so starvation could be avoided. Enough flour and lard for a couple of more batches of biscuits so better find more. How many children you produce depends on how much help you need to keep that roof over your head and food in the bellies.

Today, we look in the refrigerator and evaluate–numerically. Hmmmm… three eggs left. Can two meals be squeezed out of three eggs? Enough milk for two more regular size glasses, but scrimping will make it three, possibly four. Turn off every appliance not being used to reduce the electric bill. Check if you really need that medicine or not. Numbers count. Numbers not being able to be manipulated or changed lead to homelessness, hunger, illness, desperation. Ahhhh…yes we are ALL math majors in life.

Numbers tell us how many people die in a mass shooting, a war, from a disease. Numbers tell you if you qualify for help, if you are going to survive. Even if you are cushy and without worries, the numbers rule. Think about it. And we are so very sad when the elderly get Alzheimer’s or settle into dementia. What ever will happen to them not knowing what time it is, or what date it is? After all, not knowing who the current president is, the year, the date are precursors to being housed in a nursing home. So sad. But numbers, as valuable as they are to our existence, leave us in a haze of not understanding. We have no clue what a six-figure salary would do for us. It is beyond our comprehension. And the national debt? We were overwhelmed with ignorance at billions and completely agog at trillions of dollars of national debt. Are we alone, here? On a more personal level, there are murders committed every day, mass murders, and the numbers overwhelm and leave us with statistics, not human souls once here and now gone. Remember Nagasaki and Hiroshima? Bombs dropped from a certain height, wiping out a numerous amount of human people and destroying lives, but…again, numbers.

Yes, we are numbers. We live by numbers, willingly or not. We know we are case numbers in every office we have had to be seen in. No, we don’t remember our passwords, can’t give you time frames for much of our lives, but someone, somewhere most assuredly can. So in that respect, we can ignore time, gladly. We will fill out our census form, where we will be counted once again. Whoo hooo! But will we write and make the #1 best sellers list? Probably not. Do we want to? The thought is entertaining but not motivation to slave away making it happen. We can thoroughly enjoy a friend’s success and being number one without having to be number one ourselves. Yes, we are reaching a point of being comfortable with numbers as we go to bed when we are tired, get up when we wake up, caring little for time numbers. We don’t desire mass amounts of money, just a comfortable enough living.

Numbers are often driven by need, and/or ego. Okay. We can live with that. We do enjoy winning two out of three (our weakness) but it won’t keep us up at night if we don’t. We laugh at people that keep track of the “hits” they get on social media, the amount of followers. We have a few dear and cherished friends. That’s cool and we can count on them and that is more than enough for us. So the numbers will tell us who will do what in the future via the process of projection, statistics, etc. But remember, with all the numbers we have, all the numbers we live by and adhere to–it only takes one or two humans to make it all or break it all. Now we will take two questions regarding our blog. (HAHAHAHA)

P.S. only 25 more blogs to go ROTFLMAO