Boston, may hope overshadow the sadness

I look at what I wrote four hours ago about the beauty and peace of a spring day in the South, and I am sad. Dark clouds of hate have burst forth in Boston since then. They've taken the gift of light from the day we'd been given. 
Please world of my fellow humans, at least the few my words reach, let's begin a movement of emphasizing the beauty of being alive. Let us send hope of a world without violence. Let us stop shouting about our differences and start finding our similarities. Let us love one another, at least here, in our own country. Let us not destroy. Let us focus on the wonderfulness of our world, not on the evil thoughts of a few. Let us reach out and hold the hand of peace. Amen.

Time to Leave?

Soggy. That's how my right side feels, above my butt, below my ribs, with a knife made for sharp stabs protruding from it. It's what I've gained from sitting, listening to the rain for too long, and typing gibberish about moments in time.

I cock my head at the airy tap-tap of tennis shoes headed down the stairs. His tread is lighter since the attack. Before, the steps were like rocks being dropped one at a time, huge breadcrumbs leading to destruction. I'd heard him, ignored the warning. Minutes wasted.

"Going running. Hi George. Leave that inside when you're finished." He says the words loud enough for our "good as it gets" neighbor to hear, happy enough to twist the knife in my back.

I try to get to my feet, but the planks of the floor smack my face. It hurts. It hurt when he was laying down new ones and hit me in the head with a 2x4 last year. I got up then. I can get up now.

My hands slip in the wet goo of my insides spilling on the hardwood. Eight quarts, two probably gone in the first couple of minutes. That leaves me about six to live.

"Linda?" George drops the rake he'd borrowed, envelopes me.

"No." I think I say the word, push at him, but he doesn't let go.

"Forgot my phone. What's happened? George, what the fuck have you done?" Boulders landing, unmistakable, right outside the evidence pool of red. "Hold on, Linda. I'm calling 9-1-1." He backs away. "Help. The neighbor attacked my wife."

"No." The word takes all my breath. It will take a minimum of ten minutes for EMS to get to our house.

Last time, he'd gotten in nine punches before then. Said I'd be dead, if he'd wanted me to be and he'd get away with it. Said keep your mouth shut. I'd told them all was okay. I figured they were too late to save me anyway.

He edges forward, smirks.

The scarlet pool spreads. I am ready to go. Not one quart at a time though.

"No." My focus shifts from the man outside the red zone to George the Good. I take his hand, press it to my wound. I hold on tight to the moment. It isn't quite right for leaving. This time, it's not too late.

Equal Rights

Equality
To be honest, I am scared to post the below, and I don't like that in myself. But, I'm not very courageous. It is easier to remain silent on controversial subjects. Then again, no one may read this, but it's important for me to change me. So, today, I'm daring to be brave. For me the right thing to do is speak up.

Look at my new profile symbol. To me, it is a symbol for unity and equality. Those are words I learned as a child. They are words/meanings our country is built on, I was taught. I believe that we strive hard to live up to them. It's one of the things I love about being an American.

We citizens have experienced growing pains understanding those two words. Pain that has hurt many, but helped even more. For over 200 years, we've slowly learned about unity and equality, and we've been able to change, see others as equals when we never could before.  We have a chance to learn an even deeper meaning for unity and equality as an outcome of the events of today. I pray we do.

I take the right being discussed in the Supreme Court today for granted. Many can't.

To form a civil union - in our country called marriage, with the one you love and with whom you share your life and assets, should be a right of all Americans. No question. "Equal rights" is part of the USA foundation.

So for today, though the box I chose to live in may be of a more conventional color than someone else's, I am hoping for support of a deeper understanding of equal rights in the United States of America. So what if their box is painted like a rainbow and mine is pink and blue. As the Supreme Court listens to arguments on fellow American's rights to marry in California, I hope we all focus on unity and equality. My status symbol represents that.

Turkeys, Horses and This and That

Mother Nature, Mother Earth, I apologize for my grumpy attitude yesterday. You sent me SUN this morning and I bounced through my French doors on the way to the barn. You even made my horses happy.
Kash, the youngster in the horse brigade was nose to the ground chasing the turkeys in the field. The big Toms sounded like old men gargling after a night at the pub, tails fanned in defiance. The hens scurried, as best as feathered butterballs can under the fence. Our dogs chased the squirrels into the trees, the Toms strutted off and Kash headed to the barn where the other horses waited for breakfast.

I fed the crew, and turned out the cat. Last I saw, she was stalking a shadow behind the horse trailer. It's going to be that kind of day. Energy filled, looking for excitement, chasing the sunshine. Thank you ladies for today and I bow to your wisdom. Today wouldn't feel so special if I hadn't had yesterday to remember.

Talking to Mother Nature

Rain, wind, cold, outside my French doors, Mother Earth is shrugging off her winter wear and searching for her spring bonnet. "Next year," I grumble, "I hope you're better organized." I slog my way to the barn, throwing mean thoughts at her. She rumbles back. We have these kind of conversations often, especially this time of year.

The downpour makes me feel persecuted. I push open the stable doors and scurry inside, filled to the brim with bad humors.

Then, as usual the magic happens. Rain on the metal roof, soft nickers, crunching hay, the sounds of being in a good place, settle me. Scents of soft horse necks, fresh, rinsed air, well-drenched ground, reduce my hunger for sunshine.

I stand for a while in this place I love, soaking in the peace of a stable in bad weather. It is where it all comes together for me, where positive obliterates negative. I think of ill friends, those troubled and in need. My needs are so trivial in comparison. In this place, I realize somewhere there is a peaceful place for them, too, and they will find it. It is no longer an "I hope" thought, it is truth. I feel I've been given a gift of knowledge and make a note to self to write it down.

Kash rattles his bucket. Life hums into my quiet wonder. It is okay. All will be okay. A raincoat of satisfaction slides around me, makes my tasks easy. I toss down hay, clean stalls, freshen water.

Chores finished, I see the horses are restless. I understand, open their stalls and watch them head to the pasture. A little water won't hurt them. I do not rush back to the house, but ease from the barn, wander from puddle to puddle. Rain kisses my face. Perhaps, Mother Nature isn't disorganized, perhaps she is wise? Perhaps, I should apologize to her?

I stop outside my French doors and think about that. She did help me see things from a different angle, but was the rotten weather really necessary? Sharp wind and cold water smack the back of my neck. I look up with a glare and say, "If you bring sunshine tomorrow, I might say sorry, but not today."

Weather, I Wish

Weather, I Wish

Straight down like glass bullets, the rain targets the earth. The thunder, invisible shot in the sky, causes our dogs to move, restless, anxious, listening. I look outside. The atmosphere is very disturbed. I watch for lightning. I like to make a wish when I see it.

The canines circle, settle at my feet. Ears pricked, bodies tremble, the message is clear. Danger.

Poor innocent dogs, I think, they don't have a clue what's going on. I murmur reassurance, confident, perhaps a bit overly so, lightning choses its victims at random, that all will be well and the bad weather will pass without inflicting pain. Why do I think this?

Sometimes, before a storm is near, I see the worry in the dogs eyes, or cows lying down in a field, and know I'd better get the outside chores done. Today was one of those days. The hay is in the run-in and I'm in the house. I've learned to read some signs and feel unafraid, confident. I'm so smart…Or have I simply been lucky?

My ears prick. Stories begin to swirl around me. I listen to sounds hard to understand. Another storm is brewing, but this one is an inner one. The thunder in my head is making me restless, making me cower from visions I try to avoid, the senseless deaths of innocents, the hatred some have of those different from themselves, the irrational fears of misguided souls. I feel like the dogs, I don't have a clue as to the 'WHY?' behind the chaos. Sometimes, what happens outside my French doors makes me sad, makes me tremble.

My melancholy eases as the dogs settle and the sky stills, and in an instant, hope takes its place.

If, we humans learn to watch more closely, learn to listen better with our feelings, then won't our world have a chance of being a haven where all are safe from the storms created in disturbed minds?

The weather I cannot control begins to rumble, again. Lightning flashes.
If, we cannot be safe, then my wish is that we will always be lucky.

Weather Report

This morning clouds smoke by like steam from an old train, moving on, moving on, glazing the tops of trees with silver, teasing the light trying to stop at our station. Makes me want to take a little trip back to a time of linens on tables, sipping from china cups, curious peeks from windows as towns sat still and passengers made up stories as to the lives lived outside train windows. 
If the wheels ceased turning, doors slid open, and people ventured forth, what would they find here in Paradise today? At Misty Hill, a cardinal kissing the earth, wind chimes flirting with a song, "It's quiet here, just enough music to soothe the soul" a robin, red breast puffed with pride in greeting, would meet them, outside my French doors.

On the Right Side of the Fence

A bit ago, I stepped outside my French doors and breathed in the silence, trying to clear the jumble of thoughts in my head. My body stilled and slowly I began to hear, the peep of a wren, the caw of a crow, the trill of a bird I do not know. Spring teased the mid-February morning and I stepped off the porch and wandered between the broken acorns and long stem grass.

My gaze slid to the right at the sound of a soft sigh. Horses stood watching me. I wandered toward them and they toward me. We met at the three board fence. I bowed my head and saw tiny blue flowers straddling the barrier, indigo bits of happiness shared between us. That was the answer I'd been seeking.
My hand wandered to soft ears, silken noses. One yawned, the other nuzzled and I could feel myself sliding into that place called peace. Wishing all such a moment today.

Night of Nights

            Night Of Nights

            On this night of nights

            Snow squeaks under my boots

            Sounds like little Christmas mice

            Fighting over cookies and milk

           

            I remove one glove, then the other

            Loosen the girth, slide the saddle off

            Give my chestnut mare a quick brush

            Several pats on her warm thick coated neck

           

            A blue glow from a bright star

            Forges a path across the winter landscape

            Reveals neat hoof prints that mark the way

            From whence we have come

           

            Yes, we

            Though I traveled undetected

            Upon the broad back of my companion

            Could I prove I was there

            Perhaps not

            Take it on faith I will say if challenged

           

            The place journeyed to

            Found several years ago

            When I dropped the reins

            Gave my mare her head

            Feels close to Heaven

           

            Tonight, this night, I left prayers

            She trimmed around the tombstone

            Upon which the light always shines brightest

           

            Infant boy-A child of God- the inscription reads

            Each year it is the same and each year

            I marvel at the sight

            My mare moves so unerringly to

           

            Animals in the stable talk at midnight

            Or so it is said

            In honor of a birth long ago

            Does my mare speak of the wonders we have seen

            I do not know

            Will have to take it on faith

           

            Our yearly trek complete

            I lead my mare into the barn

            Settle her in with sweet feed and carrots

           

            Gloves back on, I give her one last pat

            Pull the heavy wooden door closed

            Shut in the incense of horses, hay and miracles

            Snow squeaks under my boots

            On this night of nights

           

Home Invasion

My husband comes home tomorrow. He retired this spring and I've grown used to his presence. His two week absence nibbled at the corners of my mind, taking bits of pleasure from the days of doing exactly what I wanted, when I wanted. Funny, how I see this now, after years of his being gone for work, and me, always full of independence, knowing I could survive without him, filling my days and nights with me things.
These resent months of having him here, every day, learning bits about him that forty years hadn't revealed, made me realize I'm not quite as independent as I thought. Sure, I could, would survive if he were gone, but... My husband comes home tomorrow and I can't sleep tonight because I am happy he will be here, robbing me of time alone.

Writer's Tag

Beautiful writer, Linda Simoni-Wastila tagged me in a fun lucky seven post. Here are the rules, which I copied from Linda's post:


1. Go to page 77 in your current manuscript

2. Go to line 7

3. Copy down the next seven lines as they are - no cheating

4. Tag 7 other authors (Done on Facebook)

Below are the seven lines from my manuscript "Painted Black".

 Maddie would keep an eye on Mr. Green while I investigated once he was home. That is if he got to come back home. And, if I learned anything more, anything that looked like a real threat, I’d tell Beth Ann and Mike.

The grade grew steep and I pushed in the clutch to downshift. The gears made a grinding noise, the stick frozen in place. I pumped the brake, smelled rubber, prayed they held. Faster and faster I sped. These roads and this car were now on my hate list. A semi loomed ahead. I jammed the clutch in, jerked frantically at the shift knob.

Let The Good Times Roll

A trickle of irritation ran beneath the hair on his scalp. He hadn’t come here to chit chat. He gulped from his glass, and glanced at the gold watch he wore on his right wrist. Then, as often happened, his mood shifted. His mind slithered in another direction. He felt an enjoyable stir deep below his navel. He relaxed, licked his lips.

“Laissez les bon temps roulez. Know what that means?” he said.

“Let the good times roll. I understood your bastardized Cajun French. I might be a North Carolina good old boy, but I’m not ignorant like some.” The old man raised his eyebrows, stared at his son. “If you’d spent more time working while in New Orleans, instead of partying, we wouldn’t be having this meeting.”


The good heat in the younger man’s belly turned to fire and he seethed as his father flipped open another ledger, pondered the numbers. He visualized a crack in that egg-shaped dome of a head. He began to move, wound across the elegant study, his dancing Cobra’s mind masked by a lazy smile. Large brown spots aged the back of his father’s hands, reminded him of the skin of a horny toad. The muscle along his jaw jumped.


“Wonder if young women like fairytales?” he said with a pleasant uplift to the last word. His tongue flicked in and out tasting the smell of the old man in the air.

“Fairytales?” His father drew his brows together, quirked his head to one side.

“Yes, I wonder if one’d kiss an old frog?” He watched his prey flinch from the sting of the bite. A rush surged through his veins from the inflicted pain. A broad smile loosened his jaw.

His father’s face deepened to the color of a ripe plum. He stared out the window, thumbed the ledger. The rapid flutter of the pages sounded like a quail flushed from tall grass.

The younger man’s chest expanded as he uncoiled his spine, stretched tall. He took a pleased breath, felt in control, pointed to a scatter of blank paper lying on the desk. Time to set things in motion. It was growing dark.


The old man scowled, shuffled the pages, tapped them into a neat stack, and laid it aside. He dragged a four inch thick ledger toward himself, paused, patted the saddle brown leather cover. Gnarled arthritic fingers fumbled it open.

“These old books talk to me.”

“Write the codicil.” The younger man flexed, admired the thickness of his forearms. The muscles rippled beneath the tawny skin of his jacket. He made fists of his hands. He wouldn’t mind a little physical persuasion exercise. It would relieve the tension.


His father frowned, straightened, shook his head. “No, we need to straighten things out. Point of honor. Need to give you a chance to right your wrongs.” He leaned back in his leather chair, swiveled, shoved the ledger onto a shelf. “Been doing some research.”


The younger man tensed as his father picked up a folder and drummed his fingers on its top. Ba-du-rum, ba-da-rum.


The sound hammered against the younger man’s brain. He gulped from his drink. Surely, the folder contents didn’t concern him. The old geezer didn’t have the tools or the brains to follow his trail. Blood pulsed up his neck, heated his face. He jumped from foot to foot.


“Watch out.” The old man moved a porcelain horse. “You’re restless as a hound after a bitch. Come back when you’re under control.”


“Sure thing Pop.” His glass hit the desk with a bang. Liquor sloshed out, spilled upon the polished mahogany surface. He felt a slight ease in the invisible hands around his throat, coiled his arm around his briefcase, and pulled it to his side. His father narrowed his eyes, lowered his chin, scowled.


Control. It was becoming his mantra. Ironic, since it’s what his father had always lectured about. Hold it together and his father would cave and fix the will. He always did. Time to leave.

He pushed through the door, let the screen slam behind him. The sound of ice rattling in a glass chased him outside. He pictured the old man wiping up the mess he’d left behind. It was a father’s job to clean up after his children. And, a son’s job to take care of his father. Anger pounded in his head, snaked through his control with the abandon of a Mardi Gras dancer. He whirled and re-entered the house. Laissez les bon temps roulez.


















He shouldn’t have slammed the glass down. It was a mistake, and mistakes could be dangerous. Fury heated his face. He backed away, pivoted on his heel.The old man was right. He needed to leave before he lost control, blew the whole deal.“I apologized. There was no need for you to change your will. Write down what I told you before you forget.” He stroked his upper lip, waited.

Horse Of A Lifetime

Artist’s Image


1979-2012

If, you are lucky and a horse lover, you have a dream and perhaps the joy of experiencing a once in a lifetime equine. I was one of those lucky people. In 1985, a six year old thoroughbred, housed in a shed in a backyard in Indiana poked his head out the window, and I fell in love. He was lame, had rain rot and an engine so big that I, a novice rider, couldn’t control him. My trainer said walk away, the vet said walk-away, friends said, run, but I couldn’t. The handsome fellow had snatched a piece of my heart and if I left it would stay with him.

I named him Artist’s Image. He never refused a fence and carried me as high as I dared go in the eventing world. Image then carried our daughter to the upper Three Day levels. The horse loved to gallop and jump. He was bigger than any dream I ever dreamed and gave me years of joy.

Today, at the age of thirty-three, in a pasture showing a promise of spring, beneath the warmth of the sun, I couldn’t refuse him one last fence into a pain free tomorrow. I wish I could have been on his back when he took it, experiencing the power and courage beneath me one more time. I knew he’d gallop it fearlessly, as only he could without my help. He’d never needed my guidance, I’d only been a passenger. This time, I said a reluctant good-bye and walked away. That piece of my heart he’d snatched so many years ago? It stayed behind and went with him.

February 14th $$

I say Happy Valentine's Day with mixed feelings. The unrealistic expectations created by the "Buy" industry has turned 2/14 into almost a certain guarantee of disappointment. The wish for a happy day can never match the fantasies of floating on air, showered with jewels and kissed by roses. What I wish is for everyone to find happiness in their connections with others today, with friends, work buddies, strangers, to realize that that smile you share means something to the one receiving it. If I see you, send me a smile. That's what will make February 14th special. Happy Valentine's Day for real.

Tulips instead of roses to make you smile.

Weather or Not

Heavy rain, hail, tonado touchdown
yesterday
Carolina blue and candy pink sky
Nature's lesson for today
Somewhere out there
Is the answer
Or not

Light

I woke up before the sun, the dreams following me into the dark of the new morning. It would be the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow, craziness hovering just out of sight, its poison infecting those I love. The only solution was to descend to the level it lived on, beat it at its own game. But that would give it validation. Crazy would act crazy until it forced the sane to play its game. Suspended between night and day, I realized I could not play Evil and I was not God.

My eyes lifted toward the window. A hint of baby soft pink stained the mountains. Would I travel across them? Seek to make sense of the irrational? For a moment the color fooled me into hoping. A sigh washed across my thoughts, a prayer whispered its way toward the dawn. There was no answer, the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow.

Light filled the sky and I stood up and stepped into my world.

Warrior Mountain

Up on our mountain property this afternoon, we sat in the silence and watched hawks soar below us. They rode the currents of the wind, a wing tip here, a dive there, playing with the day. I looked out over the piedmont, a vast ocean of green, watched the sun crown the mountains, the shadows blanket the valleys. This Earth of ours is a special world and on this day, I soared in my mind with the redtails consumed by the joy of being part of it all.

Rain on Me

It quit raining for a little while and feeling smart I went out to empty the horses water trough during the break in weather. I scrubbed it without getting myself wet and was very pleased that I'd avoided the water from that and the rain from above. Then, I set it upright and dropped the hose in. I stood back and crossed my arms, thinking this is going to be a good day. The hose agreed. It went on a wild snake dance celebrating the moment, and soaked me from head to foot before I could get it under control. Think I'll take a hot shower(since I'm already wet) and go back to bed, this being one of those kind of days.

One Nation under God, indivisible, with Liberty, and Justice for All

On this, the tenth remembrance day of a tragedy that rocked us as individuals and our nation’s soul, I feel the sorrow, the fear, and the love triggered by the attacks. Most of all, I feel the love. My hand floats gently across the flag, folded in the triangle shape when given to my Mother upon my step-father’s death, the flag that draped the coffin of a man who served long before 9/11. I remember shaking it out of that triangular shape on September 11, 2001, climbing onto the rail of the front porch and securing it to the edge of the roof. I marveled at its size, it takes a lot to cover a coffin, and I realized it takes even more to kill the soul of a nation.

As it unfolded in the breeze, the sense of security it gave me against the attack upon our country was something I hadn’t expected, a gift passed on from an older generation of survivors. The day seemed endless. I watched the unfolding of events on TV. Reporters told of rescue workers never hesitating in New York, air travelers giving their lives in Pennsylvania, and our government rising from the rubble in Washington and still the flag flew. My gaze strayed from the scenes on the screen to the scene outside my window. Our flag was still there. It danced in the wind, lifting its stars and stripes toward the heavens, lifting my sorrow for our losses into an over-whelming sense of pride in the strength of our nation.

Today, ten years later, as my fingers stroke the stars of my step-father’s flag, the Star Spangled Banner plays in my head and the question at the end of our anthem lingers in my heart. Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave…

“Yes, it does,” I whisper as I unfurl the flag, “o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

A Real Good Man

One of my son's high school swim coaches in Kansas, Greg House, died this week. He was 61. The outpouring of notes from young people who swam for him is amazing. The man inspired them all to be more than they thought they could be, to never give up and to believe that by working together anything was possible. There were more than 600 posts in a 24 hour period saying this over and over. I have no idea how many have posted now. One man, one teacher, by being there, setting standards, and believing in abilities these kids couldn't see in themselves, has given our country almost a thousand strong, honorable, giving young adults. Rest in Peace, Coach House, you've earned it and I thank you.