Beautiful

Death is the mystery.
Life is the stand alone, surrounded by faces and arms of precious grace.
Marveling at the compassion and central source of humanity, I feel something beautiful.

Without Pam, I would not have known about Chemo Angels. Without Pam I would have never signed up to be a giver of smiles, a taker of hope and a sender of compassion.

Every week, I send packages of smiles to a darling little girl named Alicia. She is two years old as of January and for a present of life, she received a brain tumor that is labeled Pilomyxoid Astrocytoma. She like Pam, continues to smile in all of her pictures and shows us what it's like to battle for a given life. She simply knows me as Angel Rebecca and the giver of weekly surprises. I like it that way.

Without Pam I would not have known what it was like to place such hope on words and pictures. Without her journal, I must admit, I may never have understood....... I fear for Alicia, and I cheered for Pam. I cheer for Alicia and thank Pam for showing us the way to selfless compassion and hope. I feel something beautiful.

I read how often Pam mentioned her Chemo Angels, and the many others who sent her hope and surprise, compassion and delights in her mailbox. The picture of her with arms extended around a mountain of hope is beautiful.

 If you have the means, remember what a card in the mail did for Pam and visit the site of Chemo Angels and sign up to be an Angel of hope and precious snail mail giver of encouragement..............do it to help another, do it to honor Pam.......

Welcome to Chemo Angels  

I thank You Pam, I witnessed, in you, beautiful.

Please visit Pauls journal today. His photo entry of Pams milestones and smile is a testament to the woman we all came to care and hope for. http://journals.aol.ca/plittle/AuroraWalkingVacation/entries/1932

We will remember, we will miss, Beautiful..........

and I think, there are no accidental gardens...........

A Deal is a Deal

A deal is a deal
~~~~
As the memorable line from the show Sex and the City says, "Squirrels are just rats with a designer outfit." I subscribe to that thought. I live in a historical district in my city. Meaning our houses are all old and partially decrepit, but they hold historical history and cost too much, so that makes them speee-cial supposedly.

One of the bonuses of such a neighborhood is old, huge trees which are pretty to look at, horrible to clean up after and play treehouse to ancestral generations of rats with designer outfits.

The little buggers are starting to really irk me. First and foremost, they have shredded and dismantled the majority of my outdoor furniture. When the leaves are off all the trees I can look to the skies and see pieces of my outdoor furniture hanging off the branches.

I understand that they don't quite appreciate that they have 100 bucks of stuffing up in their nest, but they could at least hide the fact they have once again gotten the better of my stuff. I thought I was being smart this last fall when I took down, and tarped my big old patio furniture umbrella to protect it from the weather and the squirrels. Nope, nadda, uncovered it yesterday and discovered the varmints had snuck in and shredded it's beautiful fabric.

Thieves I tell ya......I left one of my shirts outside last fall for a whole hour and then couldn't find it, <don't ask>, low and behold, I see it's hanging 40 feet up in a tree this winter.

I swear, I've tried to make peace with them. I erected a 'squirrel' platform in order to feed them nutritious delights I have to buy special from the local rat store. It's one of those 'thangs ya just gotta do in the neighborhood'

They delight and devour whatever I place in there <and in case your thinking I'm ruining their migration to the sweet tropics or Southern side of the street, I assure you, they NEVER leave no matter the weather> I'm a good food slave. You would think alittle respect could be had between me and the rats with fluffy tails.

~~~~~~~~

Rain. Idaho is bursting with rain lately. April showers bring May flowers is an understatement of downpouring proportions this year. Rain is dandy, it's the perfect enhancement to a sour mood, or a divine cleaner of spirit, depending on how your mood wishes to observe it on a case by casebasis. Fine, thats all well and good. But the problem arises when you have a specific little <irrational, I KNOW> phobia that is highlighted during such water induced days.

Specifically, damn ::shudder:: worms

My entire yard, patio's, sidewalks, gutters, undersides of outdoor furniture, you name it, it's crawling with worms attempting an escape from the water soaked dirt.

I am utterly <an appropriate adjective> under siege.

They have set up a barricade like no other around my house. Back to that whole crazy historical district, the problem is back in the 'day' no one had cars. Hence, garages were unnecessary and there isn't room to address that little problem, so the majority of us have to park in the street. Thats the price of buying charm and good solid walls.........I have to walk down a sidewalk to get to my cars.

I'm certain there is a conspiracy going on, all the local worms got together and decided it would be fun to freak the crazy lady out at 1628 and lay on her sidewalks.

Now, add one mischievous little 11 year old daughter and we've got ourselves a legit problem. Darling Kaitlyn just loveessss to torment me with worms. Although I've threatened life and every imaginable toy and enduring bone in her body, she tests the strength of my threats with daily worm inventory, jokes, showings and holding.

We get up, she races down the sidewalk and comes back to report the largest earth worms she's ever seen are in my path. She gets me anxiety ridden before I open the door. She loves it, I want to throttle her.

Not to mention she's started her own worm farm out back and has been stealing my used coffee grounds for food for them. Just what I need, a smorgasbord for the local worms to go right along with the buffet for the local rats with good outfits.

~~~~~~~~~~~

So I'm standing in the line at a convenience store to buy my coveted Diet Coke. Nothing extraordinary about that, except I hear this little voice behind me say..."nice ass" to which I turned around and look at the man behind me while he contentedly stared at the floor. So, I thought, maybe I was imagining things.

Then I hear it again, "Nice ass"

And this time, I didn't look back.

Then I hear for the third time, "Nice ass Ma'am" alittle louder then before.

Well, I'm the only female standing in a line of 4 guys. One in front of me, and 3 behind me. What is a gal supposed to do when this is going on behind you? Clench the cheeks alittle tighter and hope they are up to muster?

Instead, I turned around and said, "Ok, who's saying that?" And two of them smile, one looks at the cracks in the ceiling extremely innocent like.

One guy pipes up and says, "Well I was looking and it's a fine ass, and your really tall."

Another says, "I swear I didn't say it first, but I was thinking it"

The last, continues to stare at the ceiling, he's having no part of this interlude.

I personally have no idea what to say, smile, turn around and think to myself that at least I know my spendy jeans were worth it. 

Debatable entertainment, but it happens and it's rather difficult to forget.

~~~~~~~
Dedicated with admiration, verisimilitude, idolization,
to Omar Detached And Indifferent Expressions

'I make a large amount of rhymes up per day ~ And when I'm finished go check the survey'

Well of Compassion

There once was a woman who was a glorious well full of compassion. She would offer cups of selfless drinks of her compassion to those who passed by, whether she knew a name or not. Some passerby's would take a sip and move along in their own lives, while others would stop from time to time basking in the taste and relishing in the comfort it provided. The woman would give freely of her drinks of compassion, and find peace and meaning, smiles and purpose of her life.

One day, a man came to the woman's well, he was broken and not well, his mind his worst enemy, his despair emulating through the air. The woman could see the man was in pain and offered him drinks of compassion. He lingered and gulped, he wiped the wasted drips off his chin and proclaimed relief. But the man did not move along like the others, instead he callously leaned upon the delicate edges of the woman's well and asked for more.

The woman looked down into her well and saw the beauty of compassion creating deep depths and granted his request. His need was great, and her well was full. He leaned into the well taking great measure to hold as much of her liquid in his large hands and began greedily quenching his own thirst.

The woman strained against his weight and felt the sides of her well crack, but she did not stop the man, his needs were great and she felt her well was strong enough to safely cradle his burdens. The mans thirst for compassion did not dissipate, drinks and drinks were taken, and he became blind to the sad eyes looking down upon his greed.

It wasn't long before others who had frequented the well of compassion came to seek comfort in it's glory and the woman gazed over the mans back and with sad resignation turned others in need away. There was no room left for others to dip a grateful hand into it's pool, the man had encompassed every inch of the well and would cast hungry angry eye's at any that dared approach.

The woman became tired from his need. The woman held her hands to the water that began to seep from the cracks created from his weight. She looked to the horizons, to the ground, to the sun and realized she was alone with his indulgence. She quietly whispered to the man that her walls were cracking and he was taking every drop of what she loved about herself.

He looked down and said there was still compassion in her well and the cracks were of no concern to him. His need was great and his troubles insatiable. He needed without regard to the pain he began to create to the woman of compassion.

The woman keep her sad eyes locked on the horizon, she could no longer bear to watch the man frolic and dive through her well. Her hands could no longer contain the leaks that had created valleys down her walls, the compassion the man could not hold completely in his hands leaked to the ground.

One day a friend passed closely by the woman, the friend looked upon the greedy man who smiled with glee in his pool of comfort and looked upon the woman of compassion who would not meet his gaze. He called out and asked her why she allowed the man to drink all of her compassion and break cracks into her once strong walls. She did not look up, but put a finger to her lips and whispered shhhh, don't let the man hear you for I fear he will become angry and kick a wall down and then there will be nothing left of me.

The friend looked a bit closer and whispered to the woman, friend, your well is dry and your eyes no longer carry compassion for life, you are already empty, there's nothing left for him to break. The woman looked down, and around, and at her marred, cracked walls and dry well and realized the friend was right.

She leaned down to the man who was crawling on her well floor searching for missed drops of compassion and whispered to him there is nothing left. He ignored her words and continued to scrape and lick at it's barren space. She raised her voice slightly and told the man he had broken her walls and drained her glory.  He raised his hand to her and demanded she create more compassion for his needs were great. When she proclaimed she had nothing left he told her how worthless she had become and kicked and broke down her walls. The woman of compassion kept her eyes on the horizon and sought explanation for her destruction. She did not understand how her glory had turned on her and made her eyes so sad. Alone with nothing, she realized was better then giving everything she had to another's need. Compassion could not help greed, no matter how much she wished the man would heal.

With her realization, the woman that was once full of compassion let a single tear fall from her thoughts and saw that the tear remained in her well. She looked upon the horizon and saw her beautiful friend who called out to her, it's all right to cry dear woman of compassion, for with your tears your well will once again become the gloryitonce was. We can patch the cracks, though they will always remain, we can plug the holes that may spring from time to time, but your well will once again fill to all it's glory.

The woman of compassion, began to cry.

~Though it take a seeming eternity, the well which may currently hold barely enough for the woman's own needs, will one day again be full to overflowing. Though the woman may fear another greedy person, she will one day become as generous as before. Though it seems that will be a far off day, it will not. See, while the woman isn't looking, all around her are secretly pouring water from their wells into hers. One cup at a time may not make a noticeable difference at first, but one day the woman will look down and marvel. And then she will look up and smile.
-Paul  Aurora Walking Vacation ~

I couldn't have written a better ending to my thoughts, thank you Paul.

RH

Charade

Something happened here in my journal, something I've struggled and struggled with lately. A change of mission, a division of purpose, what once was an unscripted stream of conscious exhibiting erratic behavioral writing for me, has turn into something I liken to my 'real 3-D' world.

Meaning, in my 3-D world I am a mute. And for whatever unexplainable reason, this journal has warped into something that scares me into mute, and thats a line I never wanted drawn.

It really pisses me off about myself.

I can't be a mute in every aspect of my life, it's enough to drive me terminally crazy. Therefore, fuck it, I'm taking this journal back from myself, from the oblivion I personally boxed it into. Blame is a beautiful thing and one aspect in life I have no issues wrapping the beauty of its principle around myself. I blame myself, my mind, my perceived expectations and hence will partake on the mission of reclaiming. I doubt it will be beautiful or inspiring. It will be, what it is.........I'm tired of hiding in every aspect of my world and this journal feels like a good place to practice.

~~~~

Issue of mute. Yesterday I answered my phone to a friendly voice. A new moment for me. What I should have told this person was that I have born the full on persona of a mute lately. I have crawled into a cave and refused to speak to anyone if humanly possible. I screen calls from all friends and family, I push as much work as possible off to the minions who devour my scraps like cotton candy. One step from a certifiable depression, or self imposed destruction. During the safe talk and simple topics I should have removed the tourniquet that felt like it was choking me to death and let flow all thats been bottling up in me for so long. I did not. I hate that. I wanted to. I didn't. I am the puppet on a string who is dictated by some unexplainable force that casts a spell of silence. I blame myself of course.

There are all these moments of chance in life. People ask me questions and I have this split second of choice, talk or not. The not, always wins. I have stood in front of some beautiful people in life, and they have asked me point blank, what are you thinking, what are you doing, what are we doing, and the answer is always the same. Silence. I disappoint so often it's become habit. Those who know me, expect this, it's a trained conclusion that I give no choice about.

I shouldn't have told this person life is fine. I should not have put on the happy voice. I should have exposed myself and said, I'm so bone tired today, I'm saddened beyond measure, I miss more then I can bear, I regret larger then life and I am so lonely I can't hear my heart anymore. I should have told them I want to weep for my wasted time and I want to crawl into safe arms and sleep. I should have said I'm not well and that worry keeps me up late at night and that difficult choices are stealing away my dreams. Should have, could have, didn't, the precipice of my cliffs. I had the opportunity, and let it pass once again.

I am afraid, someday they will no longer ask and I will deserve exactly that.

When I wrap myself around the truths of my silence, I must start admitting it's my failure to take responsibility, chance, choice, truth and my fraudulent voice that makes life so dark. There is no natural light in dark, only self made shadows from a tiny little candle. There is no comfort in black walls and red roofs. Where I once found sanctuary, is warping into a self destructive place of loneliness. I'm letting all this life pass me by just outside my cave of despair and cowardliness. I am not a strong person. I think strong people are they ones who shout to the world, hey I'm fucked up today and I'm letting you know it. It's the sniveling cowards that wrap themselves within their own little world to afraid too expose themselves for all they are worth. No inspiration to be found in those words, just my truths.

I'm angry today, angry at myself and only myself. If silence has a sound, it's become deafening in my world. I can barely stand it's tone, it's pressure of time, it's weight of choice. Everyday I get up and stand before obligation and my tourniquet tightens, my cowardliness shows it true colors and I allow another day to pass without battle. I've become the wounded soldier laying in the field playing dead. A dead person is passed on by for the people who can be helped. Playing dead is an idiotic strategy.

Precious moments gone into the illusion of time. If I've concluded one thing, it's that I certainly don't have the passion and fortitude to continue my charade for much longer.