Category: Pieces of Me

In deep darkness, as the birds still slumber, I hear the wind begin to stir.

Cool night air and wind play together with fallen leaves, tossing them up, around, and down.

Atmosphere, clearly enjoys the bright sheen of Stars’ glorious light.

Freshness and mystery abound.

Earth sighs.

Deep speaks to Deep, as soul and Spirit commune in this rare and quiet moment before the awakening Sun brings with her.

Alone with Twilight, I hear the Voice of God. The quiet, unmistakable voice of Love speaks in Twilight’s sweet breath.

I listen as leaves skitter by.

I hear, before the Wide-awake-of-our-weary-World.

I hear.

Violet was the incubator who brought my precious gift to me. I am ever thankful.

I met Violet just once.

It seems harsh to see her as a birthing machine rather than a beating heart or a living, breathing soul. However, Violet wrote the rules, and demanded compliance. Unquestioned compliance is what she was given.

Ours was a non-relationship.

She relinquished a valuable treasure, while disinterested in the rate of return on her investment. Did she invest anything?

I am thankful, yet stunned, by Violet’s nonchalance.

I am eternally grateful for the gift I received; mother and child, and the outcome; precious, unconditional love.

Violet was not a flower.

She was an incubator who gave birth to my mother.

Clyde was ninety-two years old when we buried him. He was not old enough. This earth, however, took its toil on his rugged frame.

Clyde’s obituary stated, “He never met a stranger.” I added those words. If I wrote it now, I would phrase it differently. Instead, I would say, “Everyone Clyde met was a Friend he didn’t yet know.”

Clyde was my mentor, friend, confidant, and grandfather. Clyde taught me the power of unconditional love. I learned so poorly.

Clyde was. He was slyly humorous, intentionally cantankerous, and genuinely wise, and humble.

Clyde taught me to think. I was a young girl in the 1960’s. I was supposed to aspire to baking, cooking, and mending. Clyde taught me to drive a tractor, find horny toads, and be me. He was the one person in my life who wanted to know who I was. He wanted to know who I wanted to be. He asked me what I thought, and listened intently to my answers.

Clyde acted as if my words and thoughts were important. He wanted to know what I had to say. He encouraged me to talk when other adults, encouraged me to be quiet.

I am who I am, because of my grandfather, Clyde. When I wonder what to do, and how to act, or react in difficult situations, I remember Clyde.

I remember his gift of unconditional love. It may be the most powerful tool in the arsenal of self.

Can I continue lessons which are so difficult to apply? Can I love others with the profound love that seeks selflessness? I cannot.

I will however, try. I will try because Clyde lived.

Clyde was.

Is everything always okay?

Time; was it planned before it started?

This awkward moment we had today;

it is startling, have our ways parted?

Death. Why cry? Death-of-self should I say

could we leave it hanging half-hearted?

I cry at the loss of this new day,

ending before it ever started.

As an adult, I offered counsel to my aging parents.

It was sound advice.

I studied many of the topics, read countless scholarly articles, and humbly, so as not to offend them, presented my conclusions concerning their predicament.

My rather opinionated parents listened quietly to all I had on my heart and in my mind.

My gentle and kind ‘peacemaker’ mother then told me this:

“When your children and grandchildren are the ages of our children and grandchildren, come back to us then. We may then be able to take instructions from one we raised, and from one we have loved from the moment of her birth.”

I learned a lesson that day. It serves me well to this moment in my decision-making process.

Choices that I make in the present may differ significantly from the choices I will make in the future.

If I continue to choose to grow in wisdom and knowledge, and favor with God and man, I may look back and realize that I have been unwise in counseling another.

However, I will seek to find Wisdom. I choose to grow older, wiser, and to become more well-read.

I choose this path because my mother directed my thoughts and my footfalls.

I choose to follow in the wisdom of one who is a giant in a world of Lilliputians.

I am not a satellite orbiting your planet.

I know a Woman who was married to her Job.

She was having an affair with Society.

Each day she fooled Job and Society into believing that her alliance was unequivocally, unquestionably, moral and authentic.

Each Entity trusted her implicitly.

Job was her only loyalty.

Society was her only lover.

And then?

The Earth collapsed around the Woman.

Society looked on with morbid fascination at the horror and destruction. Around-the-clock coverage of the Woman’s predicament was broadcast.

Job threw her a rope, provided food, water, and a promise. The Woman would be rescued.

Following the rescue, Job evaluated the Woman’s capacity to perform her essential role. Capacity was lacking, however, Society painted Job as Her hero. Victory was proclaimed to the clamoring masses.

Society and Job shook hands and moved away from the collapsed devastation: Woman.

Around-the-clock-coverage stopped. The World no longer cared.

Around-the-clock surveillance began. The Woman’s soul was bared.

The Woman, destroyed and betrayed by her pitiable dalliances, caught a glimpse of Light at last.

Without Job or Society, Woman found the spark of Self and Sanity:

a woman I know.

I had a horse.

Her name was Clementine.

It was a misnomer. She should have been named, Woman-of-War.

Clementine was a gigantic beast-of-a-horse. She was trained as a rodeo horse, a polo pony, and a Sheriff’s Posse horse. She was a registered bay mare.

I came to own Clementine by happenstance.

We were destined to meet.

We shared uncanny similarities, unknown to everyone, until now.

Clementine sang songs to my wounded heart. I gave her a part of my soul.

There was a song long ago that went, “Oh my darling, oh my darling, Oh my darling, Clementine, you are lost, and gone forever, dreadful sorrow, Clementine.” My Clementine is, sadly lost to me now. It is a dreadful sorrow.

Another song was titled ‘Camptown Races’ and was popular not long after the American Civil War.

The lyrics are a lilting song of horseracing. In this song, the one betting on horses would rather bet on a bob-tail nag (of a horse) while letting another bet on the bay (horse). Perhaps the Nag was symbolic of grit and determination, while the Bay, aristocratic privilege. Maybe?

I think the song’s winner puts money on the Nag. I will always bet on the Bay. The grace and ease of a bay mare’s gait is beauty in motion.

The last of Clementine’s songs, I sing only to myself. It is a refrain from the popular children’s game from the deep past. ‘London Bridge.’ The refrain, “Take the key and lock her up, lock her up, lock her up, take the key and lock her up, my fair Lady.” This song wrenches my heart. My Clementine was my Lady. She had been beaten and abused, but we formed an unlikely bond, a deep restorative love. Clementine, however is now locked away from me forever.

This song I never sang to my Clementine.

Now. I will explain.

Before chance brought us together, Clementine contracted a condition that potentially, without treatment, drives a horse insane.

She was wild and unstoppable. If she was spooked or mad, she was a very dangerous horse.

In my deep need for a horse’s love, I was introduced to Clementine. My tiny, young daughter needed confidence, and I needed a horse.

We worked with Clemmie’s owner and trainer, who found that Clem loved and trusted my small girl and me.

We trusted and loved her.

Our relationship started slowly as the trainer taught Little Girl how to lead Clementine, then how to mount and ride her as I led Clementine, and finally how to ride her without a lead. My tiny girl could then have her friends mount her horse as she led them around our pasture.

It was a time of pure pleasure.

As time passes, little girls grow up.

My own need for a horse was to love and be loved by her.

To me, a horse is an unmatched power, controlled by a small bit in the mouth or by the force of pure love. My Clementine’s love was pure love given, without force applied.

My need for Clementine had nothing to do with the need to control or master her.

My need for Clemmie, was the need of one broken soul for another.

There are so many Clementine stories and memories.

I learned more from her than I learn from most people.

She understood my words, my thoughts, and my needs. If you have never owned a horse, you may find this ridiculous.

Do you have a dog, perhaps? Is your dog empathic and empathetic to your needs? If so, you understand now.

She was ‘My Darling Clementine.’

Had she raced, and there had been those who bet against her, they would have regretted not knowing my Clementine before losing their money.

The last and sad song?

I sing the refrain from ‘London Bridge.’

I had to take the key and lock up my Fair Lady. She was badly torn by viscous barbed-wire. A family veterinarian saved her life, but barely.

I had to give her up.

A gentle, kind woman who loved my Lady, found her a home with wild and free horses on a ranch.

Somewhere, where she is lost: where she is gone forever, is my Darling Clementine.

Somewhere she is free, as I am now.

We were destined to meet.

We are Women-of-War, restrained by the powerful force of pure love.

‘Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But perhaps it was only an echo.’

Lois Lowery- The Giver, 1994 Newbery Medal winning book. (Read it.)

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.