To Know Her is to Love Her

Are you aware that October 20th is the official holiday of “Sweetest Day”? Yep. I got an email notification this morning indicating as much. The irony in this case is that I just sat with you last evening and I can see you’re laden with worry, but you are as silent as you are strong. There are some times that happen when the bother is allowed to pass on its own. This, however, is not one of those times.

Something has you tied up; something has you withdrawn. I have my own lists of guesses as to what that might be, but more than guessing I think that you need to be reminded often of what everyone else sees when they look at you. I’m taking a leap here and speaking for most, if not all, of humanity when I say that we see strength. We see ability. We see and experience a beauty of you that is incomparable even the definition of beautiful. We see the most-incredible springing to life of a being that God could make. We see, and most of us know, that the process of becoming can be a slow one. …One that is not easy, not always happy, and certainly not light - But one which is worth it. Particularly when it is someone as becoming as you are.

You will be taxed with this weight. You will be responsible for an incredible load that seems, at times, too much for someone so young, so trusting and non-judgmental. Quite frankly, you will be responsible for this because God gave you a heart that is entirely too big for your body. It was no mistake – there is reason even in that. Mostly, because you can carry it and ultimately, because it is the process of blooming. So let that spirit shine on – forgive often, worry less, and let it be. Exist in some acceptance that there is plan and there is purpose for you. And if nothing else, know that I plan to celebrate Sweetest Day with you, if you’ll have me. Times like these are sought after by many. You are at the helm dear one – so shine on!


…and we see love.

The Legacy

At some point in every parent’s life, I believe you reach for the idea that you might be so lucky to leave behind a legacy with your life. By example of living well and learning much, you want for your children to replicate your good deeds and recall your greatness. You wish for the difficult times to evaporate into loving memories of how doing right is always harder, but always worth it - how your efforts as a parent made the life you led momentous to the life your children will lead.

When you reach for this legacy, what used to be personal highlights: anniversaries, birthdays, the coming of age, sleep – they lose importance against the needs of your family. Nearly overnight your husband and children are prioritized. You bask in their happiness, their joy and accomplishments, taking little to no credit for what, intrinsically, you know has been in due part to your being their mother. You just smile.

This is how a legacy is born – where the rewards are reaped years beyond the seeds being sown. But aspirations for great heights, for excellence as a human being, for repenting those mistakes made and finding they were grand gestures to completion – they were counted. And eventually, maybe on the eve of some forgotten anniversary or the happening of another birthday – every piece falls into perfect placement ~ your legacy is born.

That is today.

You have done it Mom. You have been the action and reaction to what it means to live on Faith, and act on Love. We, as your children, are indebted because there is no greater accomplishment than what we have been granted as a Mother. There is no reason to ever not try harder and appreciate more, because we have front-row seats to excellence in life.

Thank you Mom.

And Happy Birthday.

Evermore,

Your Children

This Ain't Nothing

Friday’s mental siphoning usually happens on the drive to and from work. Considering options, the weighing of alternative routes, and roads less traveled – it generally shows up in blips and blurbs of thought. Today being a Friday, the course continued as I ticked away the minutes following 18-wheeled flatbeds and milk haulers up the Thruway. I give friendly waves to the milk haulers. I figure we need them to know they’re important and are of the few and proud left helping to feed this country.

My mp3 player buzzes on with the song Every Reason Not to Go and I am reminded of my dear baby sister playing that same song and singing along as a reminder to my brother. At the time, he was dreaming of the consideration to work at crop harvesting and the very idea of him leaving left all of us excited, yet sad. He stayed; for now. But I could hear her singing as I listened and put my blinker on to move into the right-hand lane for someone who appeared to have a much more important place to go than I.


Thoughts: *every reason not to go…how about every reason TO go? How about that? Let’s see, number four-hundred and seventy three would be:


 - No matter the direction you point from our house at the center of Main Street, you would find friends, family, love


- Where we work hard with the feeling of sweat on our shirts Monday through Friday, and even Saturdays – but we pray for the chance to do it again the next week


- Where Sunday morning church service is a reminder to do better, to do right and to do the best that you possibly can every day


- Where street signs stand as memory markers for years of reminiscing on what it means to be raised well


- Where greenery flourishes: happy plants equal happy heart


- Where there’s good food on the table and music in the air


- The stars! January through December they’re outstanding, all wrapped in a blanket of Milky Way and falling periodically through the night sky with just the right amount of time to place a wish


- Where accountability marries responsibility – that’s a good one


- Community – have we forgotten? Family, friends, neighbors working to support encourage and understand each other – that makes a community


- Where I will write my books, paint my art, raise my family, teach and cook and clean and entertain those well off and less fortunate than I which gives us culture.


- And mostly – the reason to go: Family. (They are my heroes, they are my weakness)



All that I could muster at this point, was the desperate plea: “God, please protect us and show me how…”. As I spoke, a car pulled in front of me from the right and my shuffled mix of songs switched to the next in line. The crystal hanging from the rear-view mirror dangled like a pendulum and I look ahead to the car that was so hasty in their driving. That’s when I noticed the license plate ahead read: “UR VALUE”, the song played on with the words “This Ain’t Nothin’” and the sun shining through my windshield passed through that pendulum and showered me in rainbows. Promise. Remember the promise.



And there was peace.

The Right to Write: Monarks

I am mostly raw. Bare bones adjusting turns to keep Spring winds from gusting through my rib cage and bringing about too many gasps from the floating head on top of a spinal column with slight curvature. Yesterday’s ravens made carrier pigeons look as bedazzled as a peacock – as they laughed mockingly at my forward (slowed, but still forward) movement to make things righted again.

At 12:23pm I received a phone call from the school…something, something full body rash…something, "yes, pick him up."  Engage instinct. In less than an hour I arrived at a monitor affixed to a brick wall and adjusted my dress in the mirrored doors. I pushed the big, black button, wishing it were red and then answered the static-ridden “*garble, garble can I help you?*” from the wall box.

“Yes, I’m here for my son”. The doors unlock.

And as quickly as I am inside, the desire to get back out again jumps to the front of the line. I go through the motions though: sign the pink sheet, initial, date, half-smile, palm breath-check, quasi-admire art work that’s outdated, sigh on the inside, decide which one of the three clocks in the room I want to reference for the time (they’re each different) …and wait.

The waiting part gets the most response. Similar to visiting a zoo to find the lioness on the outside of the bars – you’re gawked at. It is the perfect opportunity for onlooker to throw supposition and what-if theories into the wind and see whose gossipy ad-libs are most favored. Like, “maybe they let her out on purpose?”. I could have saved the Monarks time by proclaiming them all winners and chewing on my arm or sucking on the end of my sweater sleeve. That seems too easy though. I’m not sure what my latest ailment by their count is anymore. I would have to throw the wow-factor in there if I wanted to trip them up.

I started thinking *maybe unkempt and woodsy…or becoming a deliberate fashion faux-pas…possibly painted and rail thin, make them think I’m depressed and medicated*. I stopped when I realized I had just described 78% of the population or thereabouts. Turns out that acting normal and keeping it together is more of a host for presumption than drooling on yourself or eating random paint chips. I had thought myself amusing for wearing dangly earrings that clanged against my necklace like wind chimes; certainly, straightening my hemline before being seen publicly would make them wonder. Eh, anyway.

I queried the art work for origination, read something about a “community of learners” and counted floor tiles on my way to the classroom. I waited again. And then two, three, four ladies came out, gave me the once-over and then returned to their learning den. Lioness. Outside. Bars. No words uttered, but I filled in the script with what I knew was being thought: “Oh, yyyoou’re his Mommmm, ohhhh…”. I almost wanted to do the thought-process aloud for them: “Now you take what you see and add it to what you thought you knew about me. Just like legos! See how they don’t match? Yea, that means that one piece doesn’t fit with the other one. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make sure you have the right information to go with the correct observation, okay? Ohhkay.”

*big smile, lots of teeth*.

Not long after I had my son in-tote and we skipped out the front doors; saying goodbye to the wall box until our next showing.

The Road

I remember the day you were sick and would only calm your crying when I would rock-a-bye you in the blue chair that now sits on my front porch. You were four when I left and hard as it was to go, it was something I needed to do. More than a decade later and my actions are driving to get my family home. Funny in a way – how I left, collected my own little family and now want to show them what I had (have) as a wonderful life.

So why did that late night conversation wear on us so? I think it’s because we wish for time that has passed too quickly while we might have been asleep and desire to change the circumstances that leave us wondering now. And you – you’re more awake that I was at your age. In the words of John Lennon, “you may say that I’m a dreamer…” yes, I am. A blessing and a block dreaming is. For me, dreaming is a coping mechanism (for escape) and a planning tool for reality…for manifesting.

And for us – this whole journey, both my independent journey and yours…have been intertwined and crossed many times o’er. They’re supposed to be. In a way, they have been reflections for the other person. Kind of like me running a test, failing, and relaying back to you not to do that same thing. In that case, I’ve been like a researcher. In the meantime, you encourage, inspire and assist with so very much of my life that I’m forever indebted to that huge heart of yours. And both of us walk, talk and speak the line. We try to anyway and that is the point. To continue doing what is right, what is best and what should be done, regardless of the circumstances we find ourselves in. I know that I get stuck somewhere between want and need at times. When I think that things should just be easier, be clearer…be over, and they aren’t, that is the real test of faith. For the moments in time when things could have gone differently we have to recognize them as insights for that moment. We are here. And here, we are together.

The Recipe

Blue and clear glass canning jars with the lids reused, were washed and placed bottoms-side up in the dish drainer in preparation. Yes, there was enough room on the shelf high above the food products and deliberately out of reach. The red step ladder was placed beneath and the curtain pulled back to disclose the space that would soon be closed up for good.

Bitterness went in the first jar with the lid fastened tightly and the jar pushed all the way to the left. Jealousy was next and the contents were siphoned down as the jar was tapped repeatedly on the counter to get the product to settle. Anger, resentment and jaded went into wide-mouth containers. It seemed she had bulk of those, though spite, malice, fury, cynicism, and annoyance ran a close second. Every pain and poison was poured and ladled into their new glasses houses. Some blue, some clear – they each had a home and would hereby be measured by volume, not by weight as they were far too heavy to carry any longer.

Hatred, in its abundance took up the space of three jars – the biggest ones. Four quarts each made a full dozen in quarts of poison. Shameful. What was left after that, she swept from the floor and wiped from the counters into a dust pan. This was promptly emptied into the toilet and flushed. Twice. Regret, envy and worry were the last to go and were layered like a sand sculpture, revealing swirling folds of red-hued pain now encased in the tallest of glass testimonials. She guessed that this might cure her affliction with heartburn hereafter.

And then – like a cookie crumble-crusted and cream-filled hot pocket of goodness, she started again. Faith was the bottom layer and a requirement for this home-maker guru. Courage, adventure, and determination were mixed to a fulfilling base. Spunk, bravery and valor would be blended with spirit to develop a savory crust but would be set aside for the moment. Flavors and energy had to marry while she folded mojo, moxie and grit in on themselves to balance such a rich concoction. These were her most favorite ingredients – splashes of moxie and drizzles of mojo.

The nourishment was sure to be satisfying, yet leave her hungry for more. It was designed this way as an ideal fuel source. The taste would be inspiring; the delivery impeccable. She gave thanks in advance for what she already knew would be bestowed upon her. Joy, peace, contentment and calm were whipped to a stiff peak and refrigerated only until she could pour on the mojo, moxie, and grit sauce, which had become exquisitely aromatic. Lastly, she grated a fine coating of trust over the top and set down her tools.

A step back. Idyllic temptation.

While it baked to a convection perfection she would draw closed that curtain on the top shelf and wipe down the counters. And salivating in anticipation, something about her just knew that this was the answer all along.

Evidently

1995 was the year of the penny picked up and measured in due profit to her cause.  

Of late, she militated wanting to say something valuable but stifled it for the solution of vagueness she knew it marinated in.  With a deep breath in pulled down past her diaphragm and into the belly, she mustered the courage to back up all statements with faith that all would be well in the end, everything would work out as it was supposed to and the push and pull of what to do and when was the exactness of free choice and humanity. 

The surging pulse grew from the inside.  It beat like a base drum from a far-off hillside but grew closer every time she feigned her preparedness to speak.   She had a buffet of thoughts and subjects to choose from, yet it was never enough of that one thing to expedite the voice.  A dull “well” would usually surface, followed by the ever-anticipatory “Nothing”…still, no golden-globe.  

What kept her silent?!  Heads up, tails up it didn’t matter.  Friend or foe, she would listen and friend or foe she would empathize.  Yet, there was still nothing to be said about the greater challenged she was facing.  Mornings were similar to evenings…similar to afternoons and the same as the in-between times.  Silent. Nothing to say. The swell of energy for verbiage would often result in tears and they ran back down the face; materializing as the unspoken words she sought.

What goes up...

Evidently, she was not supposed to speak right now. Proven perspective when one sense is not 100% the other senses magnify to make up for the loss.  Logistically then, not speaking actualizes listening.

Turns out what is more difficult than speaking what she is not exactly certain she should speak of?...listening without speaking.  Tasked.

Brick by Brick

A solar flare at 5am burst rays of light through dusty drapes and shone like spotlights on the many home projects not yet completed. “Yeah, yeah” I murmur as I turn the other way and flop down on my feather pillow just in time to have the alarm blare in my face and blink 5-2-2…5-2-2…5-2-2 a.m. until I fist pound the snooze button on top.



My definition of friend has changed, as has how I define commitment, achievement, passion…depression. It could be that Cinnamon, the nurse practitioner was right when she told me that I didn’t “look depressed” five years ago. Curious if she would change her opinion today? Of course, does it matter when the greater challenge is taking someone named “Cinnamon” seriously?

I am five months into the greatest defining moment of my life today and yet it’s that solar flare highlighting my stagnated home projects that controls my thoughts. To be honest, those thoughts also compete with a failed political system, rising gas prices, the search for employment and neglectful parents. I go to work each day thankful for the consistent schedule yet yearning for the impassioned mind of being home and being free.

A friend spoke just today of this wrestling jive. The “rebuild to fall” of everyday situations we plan and ponder, create, step back, admire and then *crash*. The Jenga brick supporting most of the weight gets pulled too quickly and the tower falls down. In that respect, we are somewhat of a thick-headed …no, persevering population huffing and puffing in our tumbled messes and then reorganizing until we have another base on which to build. Brick by brick the plan is reconstructed with adjustments made where we guess our weak points were the first time.

The supports of strength come through on our rebuilding with the relationships we cultivate; prioritizing those closest to us first and fashioning our thoughts of hope and faith with functionality and some linear logic – at least enough to get those mental blueprints stamped approved. As it was, I am a particularly mutable substance transformed with all things musing and dissolving into a useful element of empathy. How depleting this can be. I am committed however. So my choice is really not a choice, but an assured response to do what is right, necessary and expected of that mutability.

Rebuilding ...

Cessation

Downside: My face is breaking out as if I’ve just hit puberty. I grab the extra-strength cleanser received from my dearest esthetician friend and slather my pores to shut them up. Morning rolls around and I realize I fell asleep in my day clothes again with my knitted scarf choking the stale air out of me as it is still wrapped around my neck. The cleanser has managed to create pools of sloughing skin on my chin, right cheek and left temple. Joy.

I make a mental note to reorganize the bedroom later and put those pillow cases in the laundry. Turns out that fleece bedding, though warm, wicks away all moisture and does nothing for your complexion. Those pesky sun spots are off-setting the dry skin patches now that I look closely at my reflection in the iridescent lighting of a cold, tin building.

How did I end up here?

If I had a belted jacket and some padding to slam myself against, I might feel more secure with this placement. And for as much as I know I shouldn’t say that, my hurdles of stalled motivation are growing larger by the day. So far this morning, I have adjusted the thermostat four times and tried to rework the dirty looks I am inspired to give to the guard who is never lacking a sarcastic retort. I recount the times that my heart has smiled in this most recent past and I realize that it hovers there; my heart. It stays in a place of comfort, afraid to push out into the cold because we are not quite ready to step ahead. There’s no boo-hooing, just adrift. My daily conversations with God tell me to wait – that I have put it out there and now I must just wait. Physical symptom number one which occurs when I become impatient and stressed…my eyes twitch - that’s happening. Just behind my left eye socket an irritating little finger scratches at my temporal lobe reminding me that I am not quite where I want to be and can do nothing about it at the present moment.

Buggers.

Barely, if at all.

I have barely acknowledged the velocity and impact of a life unexamined, or in right perspective - acknowledged the continuance of hurt from those elements of a life unexposed.  I want to write, to paint those stories of news for experiences which have led me to this place.  I am afraid.  I want to expose those tyrants that draw blood and do not stop - though it seems for all my efforts, they continue without pause, and (particularly) without remorse or countenance. Their faces are hidden in ways that escape me. I see them for whom  they are but to outside persons, they are as normal as the definition.  All that said, I write in metaphors and operate in hallucinations.  Why?  It is painful. It's brutal.  The struggle day in and day out with what I have been left.  I care not for the material, but rather for the emotive context of things.  And that is exactly what was bruised and battered. 

Although I sound like I'm whining, I'm not.  I'm simply pissed.  ...and baffled.  And aggravated at this exchange.  If you could see him.   See the way that he operates in daylight versus the behavior that happens when I show up on-scene.  And how does one get that part into the light?  It is not for lack of trying, I assure you.  A year ago I wrote a resolution that led to the impending New Year.  I swore I would be more forgiving, more outright, more...forgiving.  And in honesty, I have.  Yet he does not forgive me.  I am tired of struggling with my thoughts and emotions with no return but a beat-down via those powers-that-be.  Those same powers that promise to uphold the law and "protect and serve". What a joke.  Truth is, I want a return.  I want an apology, and a listening ear as invested in my speak as I am when I promise to listen.  I want someone, something to make this right and so far, it just drags...on, and on...and on...and on...and on.

On some days when the sun is high in the sky and I listen intently to the silence, I am fine.  I can understand and progress on blind faith. Most days are like that really.  Blind faith.

After the Facts

Fact 1: My son is continuously abused by his father

Fact 2: The courts, to this point have been unable to properly attend to the needs of this situation or assign accountability in order to keep my son safe.

Fact 3: My son is honest; yet frustrated, hurt; but maintaining, strong; and growing all the wiser by the day.

Fact 4: The litany of charges against said father (see also “Pop”, “Abuser”), psychological turmoil and abuse at the hands of said father, and undeniable harm is a real and present danger for my son Every. Week.

Fact 5: “The Hitch” (see below) happened only a week ago. This means that juggling the emotions, the hurt, the upset and anger is something that will take time to contend with.

Fact 6: Abusers are enabled by those closest to them (e.g. family, friends) who fail to, or cannot see the truth

Fact 7: My responsibility and role as mother means that I must, at all times, protect the physical, social, emotional, and psychological well-being of my child to the absolute best of my ability.

_______________________________________________________________________
Given the facts – the unfettered allowance for the transgressor to continue violating the rights of others means a little boy is berated, conditioned and abused continuously. Please refer to those facts as I explain the following:

Abuser fights for every-other weekend visitation because he play-acts as if he cares about the time spent with his son. Abuser is granted weekend visitation, plus Monday and Tuesday evenings for a few hours. Law-guardian (a.k.a. : Abuser’s second attorney of record) supports this arrangement as it was she who rallied for Pop / Abuser to have more time in support of her “that Mom is alienating” claim - unsupported as it was. I could carry on volumes about the law-guardian’s moral reprehension, but I’ll leave that for another day. This is about the abuser emboldened by a failed system. So, my son returns from a weekend visitation having spent little to no time with the person having claimed he needed more time, and Monday’s “long talk with Pop that I didn’t like” bore statements akin to brainwashing. As proof, I present (and paraphrase):

“Because you’re honest and tell your Mom what’s happening here, you are making (my second wife leave)…she’s leaving me and it’s yours and your mother’s fault.” “…I cannot continue being a father to someone who makes up stories just to hurt me, or get me in trouble” “Your Mom records everything that you say so she can get me into trouble because she just wants to take you away…You are misunderstanding what I did to you…you hit me as much as I hit you, right? I wasn’t drinking when I did that to you…when I and my (twenty-something) cousin mocked you and punched you, I didn’t kick you or laugh at you…we didn’t do more of the same actions when you asked us five times to ‘please stop’…you imagined it and you helped do it too…you hurt me too, didn’t you?...are you sorry now?...do you see why you can’t tell your Mother what happens here?...if you keep telling her and other people, than I can’t be your father, you understand?”.

This amounts to a sobbing and depreciated little boy questioning, at the end of the night, what he did so wrong that the man who fathered him, not only blames him but “doesn’t love me, Mom”.

After-the-facts torture and abusers will always abuse.

Fact 7: My responsibility and role as mother means that I must, at all times, protect the physical, social, emotional, and psychological well-being of my child to the absolute best of my ability.

Skeletons & Seeds

“Geronimo!” she yelled as she put two argyle sock-covered feet into pant legs that were not flared enough at the bottoms. She was beginning to like herself on the outside and love herself on the inside though she still battled those demons of self-doubt and questioning. She was always questioning…if she had done the right thing, enough of the right thing…if she could do more. Just the evening before now, she had been inspired to paint – and pulling a cigar box of water-colored pigment from beneath her plants, dropped a picture of that little boy who breathed life into her world. She’d picked it up and ran her hand across the heart-shaped framed face of her then six-year-old pictured in his red tie and black fedora. Had three years gone by that quickly that it felt as if it were yesterday? Yes, they had.


She knew he was learning, growing and experiencing everything – understanding only a fraction of it, similarly to her own situation. What concerned her most were the affects that many, many, too many to count situations of abuse, neglect…of psychological warfare upon her child, were having. Intrinsically, she understood that the Mom title afforded her the “best preventative medicine” award, but time moved so quickly. Too quickly. It was like that skeleton and seed analogy she’d drawn the other day; the similarity between the strength of a skeleton and potential of a seed.

She had walked past the wind-blown and weather-worn remnants of a lily seed pod for months. There were no flowers remaining, no foliage, and no green - just the skeletal remnants of a pod which had, at one point, held the seeds for another year of beauty promised by that unseen potential. Had she been there in that garden in September, she may have cut them back when the flowers faded, thinking that besides helping the plant to rejuvenate roots before autumn, nobody enjoys looking at the stalky reminders of a summer almost gone. But she wasn’t there in September, or even October. On the first day of February, she found those skeletal memories and recalled the passing of another year. The pods had transpired the wind, all elements of accumulation and even a quick judgment by the would-be gardener, had she been present. They were beautiful, those masterpieces of transparent mirrors between what was and what might be. She picked them and put them in a vase to admire. To remind. What had her perspective overlooked or neglected when she was certain she was seeing the whole picture?

Mostly, it is the difficulty with the space-time continuum. As in – there does not seem to be enough space to ignore what happens to her little boy all the time. Reflections. She reminisced on those lilies again. They were thought to be dead, used up, done – and yet, she picked them because they were perfect. Like her little boy – no matter the wicked elements put-upon him, he was still perfect; beautiful. He was worth preserving with her greatest concoction of preventative medicine. And at this point as a weary traveler, it may come down to a huge “Geronimo” of faith.

The Hitch

Bullies don't ever stop being bullies. Much like leopards - their spots remain the same.  There is a movement on against the antics of bullies and those that support such foolishness.  The greater good is that bullies are not welcome in most social spheres.  The hitch is that in this case, the bully is dad.  An individual who laughs at a little boy's tears and is maddened by any support in spite of his own freakish behavior. I seek for another name or title, but most of what I conjure is depreciating and (though valid) doesn't encompass the full range of destitute that belongs to this ... thing.  Let's back up a bit, shall we?

7pm: we're waiting in the driveway.

7:10pm: through a dim driveway light comes the sullen figure of a little boy, dragging behind him his belongings with drooping shoulders.

7:12 - 7:20pm: come the story of how said thing taunted and teased, punched, smacked and kicked him while he attempted to gather his things because his mom (me) was waiting outside. The bullying went on for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty...where thing and thing's cousin made fun of my little boy. He mentioned that as he raised his hands to his face in order to deflect a blow from dad, dad's cousin kicked him in the side.  And as he fell to the floor and asked no less than five times to "please stop" - Dad and cousin told him that he would be caught in many a fight because he's "a pussy"...that he should tear off the ear of his opponent and show it to him/her and that they would then go into shock, rendering him the winner....that he needs to "learn how to fight" (said through slurred and staggered speech as supported by the empties around the house)...that he probably had his card turned in school (a behavioral modification in the classroom) because you were looking at other boys' *expletive* (parts)... and that he wasn't to "bullshit (his) mother when you tell her this story".

7:21pm: Gasping cries evidenced this little boy's hopelessness as he proclaimed: "He says he loves me but he acts like he doesn't. I don't like him. I'm not going back".

7:22pm: "I'm not going back there".

7:23pm: "I'm not going back".

7:25pm: "Mom, please don't make me go back there".


7:27 - 9:58pm: Now finally asleep in his bed, my mind continues to stir with heavy emotions and bitter, bitter anger.  Bound by words on paper that entail every detail of life, I feel I am rendered as helpless as I know my child feels.  In good conscience I cannot take him there -- allow him to be entrusted to the "care" of a thing that is no better than an immature imbecile who revels in loathsome antics that serve only to belittle, disparage and depreciate others. If he can get in a tormenting punch, or slap, hit, kick, shove, or festering tease - he does.

And yet, I - as a mother, am supposed to be accomplice to the delivery of my child to a person that should not have anything to do with, or around children.  Bullies = abusive parasites / parasites = bullies. Have to remove the feeding grounds.

The Shovel Theory

Here's how it works:

Take any person and hand them a shovel. It doesn't have to be expensive, or fiberglass, or colorful ... just a shovel.  What would they do?  Personally, I have no less than six ideas right off the top of my head that I could, would, should institute a shovel into in order that they work.  The man (and/or woman) with a quote-unquote blue collar would know exactly how to incorporate a shovel if handed one.  And the suggestion of getting it for free? Bonus. 

But to the politician, the professional talker or the famed representative that thrives on nepotism and one hand washing the other - my guess is that they would be rendered speechless.  That, or they would think me a lunatic.  For several years I have disclosed one such shovel theory to my friends and family on the occasion that we have a few moments to chat and eat and laugh.  And tonight, that shovel theory reached a whole new level.  Now, the shovel theory lends its well-conceived intellect to what we're calling the "Get to Work" campaign for government officials. 

I propose that we collect shovels.  One by one, those shovels are mailed to each state/district representative with an enclosed motivational speech to read: "Get to Work".  The follow-up campaign to this is documentary photographs of real, honest and hard-working individuals who show their hands in a picture with a nicely fonted  sub-statement to read: "I have callouses, do you?".  See to the working person, the shovel is useful. It is an assist, a tool, a means to an end...it is necessary.  Yes, to some it may be little more than a prop, but still - I would bet they have callouses to show they can use a shovel to produce something.  But to the persons elected to positions of power that do the talking for all their constituents, a shovel is nearly useless.  Heck, if it was a pen they would be more obliged to motivate.  An embossed pen and the promise of your vote, and they'll send a postage paid Christmas card.  Excuse me, holiday card. 

So what to do?  I'm thinking that I shall begin tomorrow anew by collecting those pennies that I subconciously pick up on the sides of sidewalks and store fronts and beneath store shelving - and I'm going to save.  Save until I have enough to buy the first of what will become many, shovels.  Sent straightaway to the congressman or woman of my district with that enclosed notation: "Get to Work".  I will most-definately include a picture of my hands since they do have many the callous and I'll begin documenting the responses.  Donations will be gratefully accepted and we might even get so far as to embossing handles and creating memorabilia in honor of those hard working individuals and families who know all-too-well what it means to work with their hands day in and day out without the expectation of gratitude.  And if Washington doesn't like my shovels.  I'll give them to those that will truly appreciate. 

PS: I do have a PayPal account.

Gratefully,
Shovel Theory

Shed

A bow is drawn slowly; elegantly across the strings of an instrument singly sweetly to emotion: it bleeds.  It is a weeping, sorrowful song that enlightens. One long elicited note that sings to reconciliation and suddenly, there is a sense of clarity.  In the distant, there is a strumming - a smooth beat which summons strength. What is brewing?

Ability.


And where from here?

...only God knows.

Truth Has its Pardons

Here I sit at 11:11 in the p.m. recollecting the day's events.  I have glorious friends who fill my life to the brim, children whom I am proud, yet stern with and a love that makes an endless smile spread across my face.  Thinking so fondly of those whom I love brought me to the sequester of the online world in late hours, the time where one sits and somewhat mindlessly stumbles through the pages of the communication age.  I signed in just as I should to my photo portal, and entered under the search bar for "soul mate".  Just that - two words that are entirely meaningful and would certainly pull up symbolic photos which I could promptly copy and paste to my love's page. A momentary reminder that I think of him now, thought of him just a second ago, and will think of him in just another moment.  Soul mate. 

I get the hour glass and take a spot of wine.  Hmmmm.....

"No searches match your query".

Lame.

Dumb.

We are the communication age! We have all facilities at our fingertips to think, inspire, create, regress, and transpire into something, all things...great...and nothing matches soul mate?!  I am utterly irritated.  Just for a moment though.  Because after just a thought or two I realize that communication or not, creativity and then some, and with a splash of technology in this little ranch house - the point remains that the feelings, the inspiration for life still (Only) exists in life.  Soul mates do exist and I bet my last and only two dollars on that fact. There is reason for our plodding.  A masterful technological piece of machinery is, itself skeptical and intolerant of those situations it cannot replicate: i.e. soul mates. 

Take a back seat technology and communication outside my speech.  I laugh at your insignificance yet depend upon it (to an extent), I take note of your indecision and am enthralled at the hierarchy of love yet again.

Praise, praise.   Thinking more highly of our accomplishment, I offer you a toast Lovey -- even high tech industrial science doesn't know what to do with a love like ours!