Lessons Learned

Yesterday was our son’s birthday.

27

Gack.

When did THAT happen?

I had lunch with him today. I love having lunch with my son. He’s great fun to be around. He likes to laugh just like his dad. Life surrounds him. We talk of so many things including his life plans.

We spoke of his dad and how hard this 5 year thing seems to be…like constantly being poked by the Grief Monster with a pointy little stick.. (Daughter has said the same thing.)

We spoke of the lesson’s we’ve learned on this journey. Amazingly his are really no different than mine.

We decided:

Life’s short.
Death sux.
Tears are cleansing.
People matter.
Family is important.
Love lives on.
Laughter is healing.
Joy is there if you look for it. (this one takes time)

I will never take any of those things for granted ever again should I live to be 100. (which is a distinct possibility considering the longevity of my maternal genes.)

We made wonderful kids together. I’m glad they’re more like their Dad than me. He was a good man.

I miss him.

Beyond the Ridge

I swear I don't know where these are coming from.

Have I turned another corner, but am not yet aware of what it is?

Who knows.

Here's today's:

Beyond the Ridge
I wait just beyond the ridge for you

No matter where you tread

I’ve already been there

A step ahead to check the way

This road is long, filled with snags

To trip and cause you pain

Curved and winding, steep and jagged

To steal your breath away

Many feet have trod this path

This one so rocky and steep

Many tears have washed these stones

Same as the ones you weep

You are not alone along the way

For many walk here as you do

Seeking peace for a heart tired and sore

Company as the journey continues on

I do not leave a visible path

The way must be your own

And I will be there when at last

You find your way back home

Always

Poetry has come to me since Jim's death almost exclusively when I have been feeling sorrowful.

What I wrote today has come from a place not so dark and not from my own point of view. I find myself surprised.

Always

I am as I always was
Near unto your heart
Behind the chair
My hand on your shoulder
As always I was in life

I am as I always was
Loving you dear and true
Though my body left this place
My spirit is always within you.

I am as I always was
Your harbor in the storm
My light within in yours
To guide your path to mine

I am as I always will be
Alive within your dreams
Warm, breathing, strong
Holding you as you sleep

I am as I always will was
Are and will be
The compass to your ship
Upon this turbulent sea

Fear not losing your way
To land on stranger shores
My light lives within you still
To find the place where you will stand
Afraid to live no more.

Ruminations on 5 Years

May 24, 2007.

5 years today.

How did I get here?

Once upon a time I could not imagine 5 minutes without him let alone 5 years. Yet, today, I am grateful…for his life…for mine…for the ones we shared together.

5 years.

And, I am still standing.

His memory in my soul is as fresh as it was the day we met.

He survived 3 heart attacks only to be taken by the living thing he feared most in this world…

A snake.

He would find a darkly humorous irony in that.

5 years.

I still miss him more than there are words to express.

His own words, written at the death of his cousin/friend almost a year before his own, not found until at least a year after, live with all the other cherished memories of the man who touched my heart:

"Here is my wish for the family ~ Each morning as you look into the mirror may you see him looking back at you, for he is a part of each of you. Each night just as you drift off to sleep may you feel a gentle kiss on your forehead. May you feel his hand on your shoulder urging you on in life until the time he can hold you once again in his arms."

To my Jim…December 3, 1950 ~ May 24, 2002.

I will always love you and I will always miss you…you remain the better part of me.

Reality

Daily Horoscope for Sagittarius

It may seem like the firm foundation that you have been seeking is very close, even if it's still just out of reach. You nostalgically long for a lost certainty that could guide you through the choices ahead. But your potential growth may depend on your flexibility and your willingness to let go of your dream for stability. Be open to fulfillment in the present moment and not in some distant future. Monday, April 9, 2007

Yanno…it’s really inconvenient when my horror scope gets into the crevasses of my mind and ferrets out where my fears live. Even more inconvenient when it prints it out there in black and white making me look at it.

Since the world turned upside down almost 5 years ago a sense of firm foundation is something I have struggled find.

I liked my old life, dammit.

It was good…it was bad…it was fun...it was a pain…it was normal...it was crazy…but beneath it all was the foundation of me and him…him and me…Jim and Jo…Jo and Jim.

When Jim died, I felt as if what kept me stable had been vaporized from beneath the house that was our lives.

Despite my own frugality and eventual sound handling of ¼ of the salary I was used to living on…I lived in fear of making an economical mistake of such a catastrophic nature to land me on the streets with no home and no way of caring for myself. (Stephen King is alive, well and living comfortably in the confines of the sumtimes useless gray matter passing itself off as my brain.)

I used to tease my younger sister of being so tight with a dollar that it wouldn’t pass through an opening the width of a baby’s hair. I’ve come to regret that teasing with the unwelcome reality that I now emotionally live where she did for so many years as a single parent.

As much as I fancy myself a free spirited, fly by the seat of my pants, grab the brass ring kinda woman…there is also a sort of sea anchor behind me. While I continue to refuse to miss out on the joy that can be found in this altered life, I still struggle with the balance of living with abandon in the here and now and concern for being able to take care of myself in the nebulousness of time.

There is no longer the innocent, blind trust that there will always be someone there to catch me when I fall.

Welcome to Reality.

Happy Birthday, Lover

3 years ago you took my hand and haven’t let go since.

How do I tell you how much your presence in my life means?

How do I tell you the depth my love for you reaches into my heart?

How do I tell you how grateful I am for the joy you add to my day?
Your voice, your laugh, your smile, your soft blue eyes…they all speak to me each time I see you.

Perhaps these words will do.

Click the link below for the song:

Everything I Do: "1. (Everything I Do) I Do For You - Bryan Adams
"

I love you.

Evolution?

It has to be one of the great ironies of my life that my husband had to die for me to get what he tried to teach me for the entire breadth of our marriage…

I am a person, complete and whole unto myself…

Loving and caring for another person in your life is a compliment to the person you are…not the completion of it.

After 5 years without him in mine…I finally understand.

Sometimes I am such a slow witted, dumb fuck.

Memories

In the back of a dark closet a memory patiently slept for me to rediscover and unzip its contents this morning....

My wedding dress...

Sitting on the floor fingering the aging lace on the simple, high bodiced, oh-so 70's A-line dress my dearest aunt so lovingly made for me to wear that stereotypically sunny, Southern California Saturday afternoon, July 31, 1971 came flooding back as if it were yesterday...

sights…

smells...

sounds...

feelings...

memories...

such loving memories...

so many folks now gone who shared that day with us…

not the least of those the man for whom the reason existed...

and memories of another day nearly 31 years later for which he was also the reason…

memories…

20 years old...

I thought I knew so much about life back then...

sigh

So long ago and yet…

still…

yesterday…

The lessons learned since that day.

And, yet to not know the more to life at all.

Standing in the sunlight of those precious memories…I miss him.


The Way We Were (Barbra Streisand)

Mem'ries,
Like the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories
Of the way we were

Scattered pictures,
Of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another
For the way we were

Can it be that it was all so simple then?
Or has time re-written every line?
If we had the chance to do it all again
Tell me, would we? could we?

Mem'ries, may be beautiful and yet
What's too painful to remember
We simply choose to forget

So it's the laughter
We will remember
Whenever we remember...
The way we were...
The way we were...

I'll never forget.

Phases

Phases…I’m going through them again. Full moon…waning to the unseen New Moon…waxing again to that which is full.

Serenity flees when I don’t feel well. Unsettled and mentally disorganized.

I swear that little “germ” was driving a half-trac…all over my bones.

I hate being sick…it makes me whiny, wimpy and weepy…brings back shadows lurking behind unseen corners.

Even so…the visit is short…stronger for every fall back into the grey mists of memories, I look for that well worn path and come right again…or as right as I’m going to get at any rate.

Searching Rhapsody for some Outlaw Music to bring some bounce to my step…there it was…

A file named…

Grief Music

aka Music to Cry By…

aka Songs for Dark Nights of the Soul…

Guaranteed to drag me into the black, oily bog of the swamp of death’s misery much the same as an alligator submersing its prey into the watery deep until rot and bloat soften it for razor sharp teeth tearing into bits of edible fodder.

(sigh)

No need to open it…I know what’s in there:

I Grieve – Peter Gabriel
Angel – Sarah MacLachlan
I Miss My Friend – Daryl Worley
Grace of God – Keith Urban
You’re Still You – Josh Groban
To Where You Are – Josh Groban
Remember When It Rained – Josh Groban
Chances Are – Bob Seger
Against the Wind – Bob Seger
Ventura Highway - America

The list goes on…so many more…many, many more…

Hours of music for one demented enough to listen to them on purpose.

I was…I did…hour after hour…tear after tear.

Ending with the one whose video is guaranteed to put me on the floor:

Probably Wouldn’t Be This Way – Leann Rimes

I probably wouldn't be this way
I probably wouldn't hurt so bad
I never pictured every minute without you in it
Oh you left so fast
Sometimes I see you standing there
Sometimes I feel an angel's touch
Sometimes I feel that I'm so lucky to have had the chance to love this much
God gave me a moment's grace
Cause if I'd never seen your face
I probably wouldn't be this way

Somehow feeling the pain helped me feel the love. I needed it to be connected to him in a way I could not seem to feel otherwise; swallowed in memories of a past gone in the space between heartbeats with no thought of a future in sight.

Looking back from the vantage of almost 5 years, I can only wonder how much mental health was truly found in those purposeful sojourns down that hall of horrors. Why did I feel the need to subject myself to the self-flagelation of that masochism when I was already haunted by the sheer absence of his presence in this house, in my heart, in my soul…in my life…at every turn.

Madness.

Pure…simple…grieving madness.

That folder has not been opened in well over a year…mayhap even two. I don’t feel that tug…the need to deliberately drag myself down that dark road…more to the truth of it…I don’t WANT to visit that place any more…there is nothing living in that place..

His life…his love…his essence…live right here…inside me.

I could toss it…but, don’t.

Yet, just like that cedar chest full of memories I know it’s there. In some shadowy and twisted manor I am comforted by thought that I can go to either if I am yet again willingly decided to torture myself.

It is fact that…

Life will never be the same.

I will grieve his loss the rest of my life. Yes...grieve...actively missing his physical presence here with me. Actively learning to live without him in my living, breathing world.

I am not the woman now I was then.

It is also fact that I live…I breathe in rejuvenating, living air…life has color, texture, richness to it once more…I’ve even allowed myself the daft decadence of thumbing my nose in death’s maleficent face and loving again.

I WILL survive…I DO survive.

All because he loved life…saw purpose in experiencing joy…loved me...and I loved him… always will.

Perhaps it’s time to make a file called Songs That Make Me Smile.

In the mean time I’m listening to Gretchen Wilson, Bonnie Raitt, Bonnie Tyler, Annie Lennox, Emmy Lou Harris and every other strong minded, outlaw woman I can manage to find in my Rhapsody files.

(image courtesy of Royalty Free Images)

Christmas 2006

As gift of love is to be shared, I take what I learned from one who loved life, his family and me and share it with another heart as wounded as mine.

I am grateful for the love of my past life and for the love of the life I now share with my Handyman.

And, so, I march on...me and my drum...pa rum pa pa pum.


Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum.

Happy Birthday,,,

…to me.

56 today.

See I had this long, thoughtful post planned out. Talk about where I am in my life and how I feel about it…the things I appreciate from an altered view.

Yada, yada, blah, blah…etcetera, etcetera.

Waking up in the wee hours before light thought of tinting the sky…this is what I found from my Handyman.

(Plus cards from the dogs and George Kitty. How cool izzat?)

Screw the grown up stuff…

I’m gonna go play…

feed the inner child he so obviously knows is there.

Boo-Yeah.

I’ll catch y’all later.

Happy Birthday to meeeeeee.

Justice

July 31, 1995…My anniversary…forever etched into my heart as the day a beautiful soul was so heartlessly and brutally removed from this world.

After 11 years, 4 months, 29 days, a two day jury trial and 20 minutes of deliberation there is finally justice for her.

Justice for two now almost grown children who spent those years without their mother.

Justice for the husband who lived under the microscope of suspicion.

Justice for the parents who lost their only daughter.

Justice for the friends who can no longer laugh with her.

Only 17 when he committed the crime, he will not face the death penalty. Life imprisonment with possible parole in 20 years (universe forbid)

And, yet he is also implicated in the disappearance of his former fiancé 4 years ago. She looks remarkably like my friend.

Should the investigation proceed to a point where he is put on trial and found guilty the penalty could change.

What is the value of his also losing his life?

It will not bring either Dana or Heather back.

It will not change the years each family has mourned the loss of their loved one.

A life for a life?

Is it justice?

Is it too easy a sentence?

Living the remainder of his years locked away from the world…his life…his own children…would that not be a more hellish punishment? Equal to that of those who have suffered for Dana’s death.

He’s lived with his actions as a free man for over 11 years; making a life for himself; starting a family. Will it make a difference behind bars?

What is the greater justice…for Dana…her children…her husband…her family…her friends?

I don't know.

What ever the justice truly is - may she finally rest in peace.

Reframing Life

You’d think with change being the single most constant in the first 20 years of my life I’d be used to it. Growing up a Military Brat change was inevitable. I was a living Joseph’s coat of many colors. Just as I’d get used to one spot Uncle Sam would request our presence in another.

That pattern continued even after Dad retired. He simply had itchy feet and by the time we settled in a west coast beach town in 7th grade I’d changed schools 14 times…revisiting some more than once.

In soon to be 56 years, I’ve worn the changing frames of daughter...student...friend...wife...mother...grandmother...widow.

Change.

You’d think I’d be used to it.

But, no.

Change throws me into a temper not unlike that of a toddler forced to go to bed. Or a teen being told, “No. You may NOT have the keys to the car.”

My travels on this grief journey have been much the same…fought tooth and nail, stumbled through as the bull in the china shop with “NO, NO…I will NOT go!!” being wailed at every turn.

I have not gone “gentle into that good night”. (Dylan Thomas)

I’ve not been full of grace and charm.

Not the genteel woman wearing her grief softly as though looking through gauzy curtains.

Not for me the internal examination of whether I am doing things in the right order or according to some predetermined plan for the widowed. After my embarrassing realization at the one year mark that things did not become “all better” because of a number, I truly realized what a lonely, rocky path this is.

Had I known then what I know now I’d not have been so arrogant to think I could do this trip alone. I’d have eaten that humble pie sooner and asked for help. This is damn hard work and doing it alone sux big hairy donkey balls, as my son puts it.

I have fought that demon called Grief. Lost numerous battles with the many headed monster with the attendant emotional scars to prove it. Won a few…enough to remain standing…bruised but not beaten. Hidden away in both an emotional cave and within the cocoon of alcohol only to discover…”Damn...He’s still DEAD and I’m still HERE.”

Slow to learn the lesson.

Slow to realize with finality that here is where I am and that my railing against the world and my miniscule place innit will not change one damn thing.

I do not wallow in the sorrow any longer. The shadow of Death remains, but I am no longer cowed by it.

I AM changed. I am NOT who I used to be.

Unwillingly changed by the passage of 4 years, some months and several days…here I stand wearing yet another frame to my life…a window upon a world I’ve had no idea how to survive except that written above. I may not be proud of each step I have taken to get here, but I AM proud that I am still standing and that I can look back on a life full of more smiles than tears.

I AM a survivor.

And, I will NOT “go gentle into that good night”

The poem:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT (Dylan Thomas)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(This post was prompted by a conversation with a group of creative people whom I’ve come to greatly admire for their view on the world. Thank you for the inspiration.)

Daddy's Hands*

Daddy’s hands were soft and kind when I was crying
Daddy’s hands were hard as steel when I’d done wrong,
Daddy’s hands weren’t always gentle,
But I’ve come to understand,
There was always love in daddy’s hands.
(*Daddy's Hands by Holly Dunn)

My Handyman has hands like that. So, did my Jim and so did my Granddad.

As I watched his hands work to put together this wagon for his firstborn grandchild’s first birthday, I could not help but think of the other two strong men in my life and the chorus of that song.

Roughened by years of working with wood, he yet has a gentle touch with all he meets. How fortunate are the people in this man’s life.

And, how grateful I am that he is in mine.

(Thank you to My Handyman allowing me to photograph his hands while at work.)

Daddy’s Girl…

was born at this moment...10:36 pm…34 years ago today.

Coming from a family of brothers only, he was besotted from the instant she rolled her eyes around to catch his face in her baby vision. Theirs was a precious love affair from day one to day last.

5 birthdays have passed without him to tell how much he loved and was proud of his girl.

Today…I cried like I have not cried in a long time for all that he has missed and all that his girl continues to miss without him here to love and guide her even as a young adult raising Papa’s girl on her own…but…that’s another story.

Happy Birthday, baby girl…I love you and I wish I could give you your old world back again.

The Fire Within

Truth be told, I thought of Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below", but this piece is about the synchronicity of the fire within a piece of jewlery called Dichroic Glass purchased at a street fair and the fire within a person's soul.
This piece spoke to me and captured what I believe is the fire that lives within me...or at least that I hope to nurture within.



Fire… we’re all born with it. The unbridled curiosity to see, taste, touch, hear smell…explore…everything in the universe.

"There are seven lost secret fascinations and abilities:
~ animals can talk;
~ your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty, that once pulled over your head, it becomes an impenetrable force field;
~ nothing is too heavy to lift with the aid of a cape;
~ your hand, held forefinger out and thumb up, actually fires bullets;
~ jumping from any height with an umbrella is completely safe;
~ monsters exist and can be both seen an done battle with;
and the greatest, most special and regrettable loss of all…
~ the ability to fly."
(Older Mike in 1992 movie Radio Flyer)

Born in 1950 and living in a time before television became entertainment…I believed those things.

Somewhere in the time of aging…I lost them. Or, perhaps more correctly, evolved them into a different set of fascinations and abilities. Mother says I’ve always marched to the beat of a different drummer….pa rum pa pa pum.

Even through the dark grey days of early mourning the fire smoldered within waiting for that first Phoenix Moment to let me know it was still there. Little clues and nudges snuck in here and there in form of little people dragging me into their world of magic and unbounded energy. Or the gift of a crystal rainbow painting my room with the literal multi-faceted play of light and color as the sun moved across the sky.

Until, finally, I stand at a point where a piece of fused glass can speak to me on a level that reflects the fire that still lives within this aging carapace.

And, just because it's now stuck in my head:

The Fire Down Below

Here comes old rosie shes looking mighty fine Here comes hot nancy shes steppin right on time There go the street lights bringin on the night Here come the men faces hidden from the light All through the shadows they come and they go With only one thing in common They got the fire down below (Words and Music by Bob Seger)

(All pictures taken by and property of Outlaw Photography)

The Other Side of Midnight

Between the moon and sun lie the hours before the first glimmerings of dawn as the full moon sweeps across the sky bathing it with the waning glow of her light in the dying night. She wraps it tenderly and gently, as a mother, enfolding all of creation in her loving embrace.
Slowly, her light releases it’s hold on the dark revealing gold, and rose, and violet against the steely blue tones of first light. She is the Mistress of Re-birth…the other side of midnight.

The Other Side of Midnight

Nothing here, I'll look again
Another place, in darker light
Take a walk to journey's end
The other side of midnight.

Keep the watch, to count the hours
And hold the hands before they move,
Forever stare, from the dark black Tower
The other side of midnight.

Something sad, beyond my mind
I cannot hear, as silence roars
The madmen scream, "Who cannot find
The other side of midnight?"

Crossing o'er, the madness comes
The chaos loud, in frantic fear;
Forever means no time at all . . . .
The other side of midnight.

—Robert William McCallum (c) 1986, Dunipace, Stirlingshire, Scotland

Though I’m sure he shared it with me, I don’t recall now what my friend had in mind when he wrote this song. I know when I first laid eyes on it I was in one of those long dark nights of the soul after my husband’s death. He knew the depth of my sorrow and shared the words with me in silent understanding of my overwhelming pain. A kindred spirit. One lost soul touching another.

In the moving years since, I have come from that infernal place to one where the cycle of the night more accurately reflects where I am…a rebirth of each day and another chance to begin again this awkward path from dark to light. Once it seemed only the path to more darkness and the achingly lonely anguish that tore at my bones. The other side of midnight now leads to light, color and whimsy.
Yes, I still fall…landing on bruised and scarred knees. Yet, not as hard nor as far. I know now, with the passage of time, that it will hurt like hell…but, it WILL pass. And, I know I have connected fellow travelers still there for me to lean upon when those dark nights come again.

I am grateful for that gift of kindred as I have walked those dimly lit hours between the moon and the sun. Without them to bolster my own stubborn unwillingness to let the demon win I am not sure where my soul would live. It would survive…as it has done other marked events in my life…but would it really live? To my eternal gratitude I do not have to answer that question.

(All photos taken by and property of Outlaw Photography)

In Search of Serenity

The definition of Serenity: the quality or state of being serene.

Now that was helpful.

Not.

Definition of Serene: clear and free of storms or unpleasant change.

Synonyms: calm, tranquil, placid, peaceful.

Hmmm.

I don’t think so.

Jangled, disconnected, out of synch with myself, unable to sleep and frantically in search of something approaching serenity a little creative therapy seemed in order.

But, what to do at 3 ayem?

Some inexpensive glass bottles from the Wally World Clearance aisle, a coil of copper wire, a handful of glass beads, a tube of adhere to anything cement, a few sticky fingers and several hours later this would be the result.
Colors counterpoint to a gray mood and shifting emotions.

Sigh.

This too shall pass.

Fear

The Serenity I crave escapes me today…nebulous…just fingertips out of reach.

4 years, 3 months, 6 days and 3 hours. The fear still lives with me. Beneath the surface a giant tentacled sea monster waiting for me to lose my focus so it can ensnare me in is oily embrace.

Fear.

Such a waste of psychic energy.

Still...I will not let it defeat me.

So much for which to feel grateful in this life.

Back straight, fists clenched, jaw set; I continue.

Honor his life...his love…treasure the past…fight the fear…live.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
(The Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear. Pg 19 of Dune )

It’s not quite accurate.

I live…hope endures…love remains.

But, I need a friggen' hug.

What a bloomin' whiner.

Light and Shadow

Yanno...the rising sun feels different in the morning sky....mayhap has been for a few days now but I have failed to previously note it. I HAVE, howsumever, noticed the sunsets slightly altered in hue the last 2 nights that they could be seen. Whether the heat recedes or no the impending change of season is in the light and burgeoning restlessness creeping into my soul.
From my east facing window I can note the change in angle as the seasons rotate back and forth. Amazing how a few degrees make such a difference in the way the shadows play across the opposing wall. Not unlike the subtle changes that take place within each of us on this path that modifies the way we view not only the world at large, but ourselves as well. And, the seasonal beginnings and endings do not necessarily agree with man's calendar but follow their own course...as do we.
The rising sun hits the new arbor at the corner now rather than more towards center. Perhaps a sort of symbolism of my own slightly off center feelings in recent days.
Morning ambers skiddle across the leaves turning them a mellower shade of green and highlighting the Morning Glories in Rose’s Garden in muted golden tones rather than the usual rose-gold of mid-summer. The light shimmers altered through the dew that covers everything on my trek outdoors to photograph my perceived camera obscura view.
Dunno why I decided to remark on that this morning. Perhaps it's the subtle itching in my head and bones that something feels afoot. Restlessness, perhaps. Despite my attachment to home there are times itchy feet and the gypsy longing to wander come out. This, I think, is a genetic gift/curse from Dad and goes far to explain my father's need to move even after his stint with that traveling troupe known as the Army was done with him.

And, yet the dichotomy is that I have planted myself on this particular little plot for over 30 years. Roots. Someplace solid once the thirst for adventure has been quenched for a time.

Roots are good...my children have them. I never had them as a child…roots. By the time I’d taken hold somewhere we were gone again…even after Dad left the military. Outwardly confident, melting into the framework quickly; while inwardly feeling out of step and fearing I’d be found out as a fraud.Despite my urge to roam I need them...roots…solid…grounding...safe...faithfully awaiting the return of this seasonal and, oft times, only imaginary wanderer.

I don’t know the point of this ruminating. It was in my head. Crazy stuff up there sometimes. Which leads me to a thought for another day….

(All photos poperty of Outlaw Photography)