Author: Jana Horton

It’s a sad, sad song:

filled with yearnings, and tears.

It’s a sad, sad song:

filled with longings; unfulfilled for years.

A song of love lost, and yet to be found…

a heart that knows the cost

of turning around-

turning and walking the other way,

turning and walking, while wanting to stay.

A broken woman: needing to mend

waiting- but not willing for Heaven to send

another:

not a brother,

not a mother,

not a friend- but a lover

to hold my fears

to wipe my tears…

to hear my heart before I speak-

to know my mind when I am weak.

I need to cry- need to know why…

A broken woman: waiting for dawn

wanting; and willing, to just hold on.

Night is so long.

Dark is so deep.

I sing my song.

I hope to reap- LOVE

keep- LOVE…

but I walk away, on a sad, sad day.

May the Love that I have sown

come back full grown:

someday

jt9/93

The first sounds of morning excite in me the joyous beginning of dawn.

Quickly grabbing my coffee, I leave the confines of concrete and stone to perch on my morning lookout.

The sparrows are in the lush live oak canopy, in a state of raucous, excited tweet-speech.

The slight windy breeze greets my cheek.

First, I listen.

What is the world saying this morning?

The sliver of silver moon is high in her eastern perch. She is covered, and uncovered, and covered again, obscured, by wispy clouds which are shape-shifting, and changing colors: white, pink, peach, and a strange bluish, pass the sliver of the glorious Moon.

Suddenly she disappears as the light from the horizon hushes her beauty. Dawn’s second movement begins.

The birds in oak perches have hushed as the songbirds have taken the stage. The beauty of their voices and the repetitive voices of the mourning doves speak of the Sun now.

We then see it together.

Bursting forth in magnificence; the ruler of the day. The sun slowly rises.

Clouds are demonstrating an Artist’s diverse palette. Bright orange, purple, pink, coral, red, and blue, with backlight, are apt at revealing Dawns’ majesty.

The birds are quiet as they, and I drink Dawn in silent reverence.

It has begun.

Today and mystery are here.

The wind, the birds, and I sing the Song-of-Morning in the quietness of our conjoined, beating hearts. Awaiting-next.

I think things.
I have scribbled my thoughts down on bits of paper, soggy napkins, and junk mail for as long as I remember.
The few things that I am collecting here are saved for new days. I want to remember the day that I had a thought that was so urgent; it poured out of my head, through my hands, and onto a scrap of nothing. My heart was consumed by the words written that day. The writing was a pressure valve that released me from consumption.
The things that I have written and lost or that I have trashed or deemed unnecessary or unimportant are my gift to the wind. The wind is my most loyal listener. To the sparrow, my little songs sound sweet.
This collection of words, thoughts, memories, and more is my attempt to allow others a glimpse into the mind of my madness.

I am mentally ill.
My illness does not define me, but it is one of the many things in life that has shaped my soul.
There is still stigma attached to mental illnesses. It may always be this way. Yet, in a way, my illness is a gift. It allows me to see things askew. It causes me to see aspects of the extraordinary in the mundane.
My illness is similar to yours if you take a pill to control an organ, have an autoimmune disorder, or a digestive issue, that requires medication, we are not so different. Your body is not healthy without medical intervention. Neither is mine. I take a pill to control a chemical imbalance in my brain.

It is not the illness I would choose if I were to pick, maybe the one who suffers Parkinson’s Disease, or a kidney or liver disorder would trade places with me. We each bear a burden. However, my illness is stigmatized and misunderstood—still today.

I am no longer embarrassed or ashamed. I am thankful.
I am thankful for the gift of seeing things differently. I enjoy writing little ditties to the wind and for the birds. Someday I hope my grandchildren will see and understand who I am and why I love them with no reservations.
I am sure many of the thoughts I log here are irrelevant to most in this generation and in the ages to come; however, some need to hear that they are loved and valued for who they are.
Do not be ashamed to be you.

Be willing to think things.
Try a new point of view. You are worth it.

I know that I use the phrase “profound revelation” too often. It is how I think and see. I find many aspects of life profound.

I am an amateur. I always will be. However, I exist, survive, and thrive. I desire to be a continual learner. I want to remember the young confused me so that I understand the young and confused. I want to be a flicker of hope to them, light in their darkness. I have been in very dark places. I emerged. There is always HOPE.

Do not let this world dictate to you who you should be. You are you. Find out how to love yourself and embrace that in your heart.
Think and believe. You are a gift to us.

Be willing to think things.

(I have written a similar blog, but this is a bit different, as the days after her accident have become years.)

I had a profound revelation today concerning my mom. She lives in Regents Park, an upscale assisted living complex.

Her memory is from day to day. She is my ‘50 First Dates’ mom. (See the cute movie if you don’t understand the reference.)

She rarely remembers what happened yesterday.

The accident that took my dad’s life in the summer of 2018, left my mom in a state of mental limbo. Her brain injury precipitated a dementia that is both cruel and merciful.

She remembers us (for now). Thankfully.

She, however, has no memory of what happened yesterday. On good days that is what you get; my mom, who has no memory of yesterday.

On bad days she works in a twenty minute loop. “I love your sweater.” Nineteen minutes pass, “I love your sweater!” Nineteen more minutes until she again voices her love for my sweater.

It used to drive me nuts.

Frustrated by her continual loop, I’d try to divert the conversation so that I wouldn’t have to hear of her profound love for my maroon sweater.

Then? I accepted it.

My mom was doing what she does best. She was kind. She was complimenting me. She showed her love and let me know she was happy that I (in my maroon sweater) was visiting.

I cannot change the situation in which we find ourselves. I CAN change the way I react to it.

This is my profound revelation.

She is not in control of her memory; of what she does or does not know.

She is not in control of remembering what she has or has not already voiced.

I AM in control of loving her, no matter what. I am in control of making her feel warm and accepted. I can accept her compliment (every time she gives it) with appreciation and grace.

I can show her that I love her and that I am thankful for her kind words and the time we share.

I am thankful for my maroon sweater.

More?

I am thankful for This Mom.

I am a time- gapper.

I live my life caught between six generations. I fill a gap in time that reaches from distant past to unknown future.

I knew and received love from those who were born in the 18th century.

I see the kinetic energy, marvel, and unadulterated love of children born in the 21st century.

I live my life, having been shaped by the love of both great-grandparents, grandparents, parents, children, and grandchildren. Six generations in succession; three before, and two after.

Suspended in time, as I am, I watch from my peculiar perspective as the world unfolds.

I see a few constants. I see a Star for the navigation of my soul. I see both love and hatred weaving their way through history.

Yet, I have my fixed point in time and space as a reference.

I have the shared knowledge of family; their horrific trials, true triumphs, and wrenching tragedies.

Reaching into the 18th century is an understatement, in that I have heard family stories from a time known only to historians and 9th-grade history students.

My knowledge of time is telescopic.

Polaris- the North Star has been the guide for many a mariner.

I have a different guide for who I am.

I have a God-given family, which tethers my heart while fueling faith in Possibility.

I have an unusual gift.

I have ancient eyes.

I stand in this gap in time, and in wonder, I see the past and touch the future.

I am a time- gapper by gifted grace, anchored to HOPE for our Future by the sparkle in my granddaughter’s eye.

Though I wasn’t looking-

I found myself in Colorado,

it was somewhere along an

Archuleta river plateau.

I was in the whisper of the wind

as it sighs through the trees;

in every glistening rock

and every gale-force breeze,

in the cool mountain air

saturated in the Springtime sun,

and I was in the glorious skyline

as the day was done.

So now, the question that I ponder,

what I just can’t see

is if I am in Colorado;

who is that living in me?

5/28/2010

There is a beauty in small inconsequential things

like the iridescent spot on a monarch’s wings

fluttering by and concealed by motion, by flight

unseen, but for a fleeting ray of silver light.

Small things, such as a sparkle of glitter in sand,

a bump on a toad, a freckle on a hand.

Beautiful things: small, tiny, and often obscure,

the radiant, the glowing, the plain, the pure.

Simple pleasures are for simple innocent minds,

who take unexpected joy in these treasured finds.

They seem unimportant in the great global scheme,

but cause a heart to wonder, to reflect, to dream.

Open your eyes fully, and see what the wind brings;

simple beauty in inconsequential things.

08/2010

Life is but a mist or a vapor.

Our years on Earth transitory.

Realizing this is the key to grasping meaning.

Our moments in Time are filled with myriad emotions, sometimes unceasing sorrow, other times inexpressable joy.

Change is a force moving us through Time, often without our consent, or desire.

Meaning, therefore, must be found not situationally, but intentionally.

Is Purpose individual or universal?

Are we nothing more than microcosms in a macrocosmic universe?

Are we moved along by chance and force only: or is there choice?

Pain, suffering, poverty, grief, and loss are not generally choices that are made, but instead, situations that are thrust upon us.

Choice comes in reaction to the situation, not in the situation itself.

Choice is critical, though often uncomfortable.

If indeed our lives are but a stitch in the fabric of Time, where is meaning found?

Meaning is found only in perpetuity.

Intentionally.

Life on Earth is transient.

Time, however; infinite.

I had a strange thought about that which is mine.

Someone was talking about my little brother saying derogatory things about him. The funny thing, is that what was being spoken, was the truth. He did those things. He was unwise in many ways. (In truth, aren’t we all at times.)

The negative words about him, however, caused me to react in my soul differently than I would have reacted, had I heard those same things about any other man.

In my soul I screamed, “yes, but he is mine! He is my brother. What he did does not define him. My love defines him.”

My brother passed away many years ago. He is gone but he will always be mine.

The strange thought I had, has to do with God. Does God love me for no other reason than because I am His? He brought me into His family.

When HE hears derogatory things about me, does He scream, “She is Mine.”

I believe HE does.

I am His. He owns my heart and my soul.

Mine.

A newly comforting word.

Am I who I am because of my DNA?

Am I who I am because of emotional encounters? Nature versus nurture is an age old debate.

I wonder if DNA dictates just my stature, diseases, and propensities; or does it play a significant part in the way I process information in the pathways of thought?

My intellect is certainly partially genetic. Thought. Reason. Ability. Is it ALL dictated by the genetic code I inherited? OR. Is there a spirit, a soul, an inner me who is able to take that which was given to me genetically, and shape it?

Am I able to become who I want to become, or must I become that which I was designed to become?

Nature or nurture?

Both I believe.

A question for a scholar, perhaps?

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