When We Drop What We Love

We've all done it. Dropped something we love. Maybe it's a fine china cup. Maybe a Ming Vase. A plate, inherited from a long line of revered family members. A crystal glass, a ceramic bird, an enameled pin. A tender heart.

Maybe we're lucky. It's a short drop onto a soft carpet and all that happens is a little shard chips off, a shard that can be glued back in place like it was never gone, even for a second. No one would ever know it had been dropped. Maybe we vow to be more careful in the future, that never again will we be so careless in handling this precious object, the barely averted disaster reminding us all too clearly of just how treasured this item is. How worthy of our love and careful handling.

But time goes by. We forget, we do get careless. This time, it drops and lands hard, breaking into large jagged pieces that tear at our heart, lying at our feet and crying out in pain at our carelessness. We gather the pieces gently, carefully, glue them all together and it works, kind of, and while we don't quite understand how it even happened, we swear never again, and that it is as precious now as it ever was, and the scars that can barely be seen will remind us of our carelessness which will never come again. Must not come again.

But it does come again. And this time, it breaks in all the old places along with a few new ones, and the old places just won't be glued again and the new places don't glue tight, for they remember the pain of the scars that came before, scars of places healed only to be ripped once more. We try but are left with an odd mess we don't understand, can't fix and don't want to deal with.  If it's just a vase, a cup, a plate, we finally sweep it in the trash and wash our hands of it, though now we can never think of it without a little wistful sigh. Still, the guilt of dropping it persists.

And if it's a heart, well.......

We get angry, defensive. Why did that fall even break you? Are you so sensitive, so delicate, so pathetic? So bent upon being a victim? If that doesn't work, we wait. Time heals all things. Except, even time does not heal everything and if it matters enough, we must change again. Perhaps we begin to ponder our own reflection in that blank wall of quiet rejection. So we apologize, beg for forgiveness, mercy and feel that, surely, now all is well. Must be well. Just as before only different. After all, we've apologized. Doesn't that count for something? Forgive and forget.

Surely the dropped, broken thing understands it was never intentional.

That we have priorities. Demands on our time. Places to be and things to do. That sometimes, in the stress of it all, the cherished little things slip through our fingers and hit the floor, whether we intend it or not.

Surely the broken little thing will not hold that against us. Be that cruel and unforgiving. Hold our carelessness against us. Why can't things just be like they were before? We've apologized, for Pete's sake!!

And we just don't understand that it has nothing to do with forgiveness and everything to do with trust.

We are so busy feeling put upon that we can barely hear the broken thing as it says:

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. There won't be a third time, for nothing can be as it was before. It is broken, gone, irrepairable. The part of my heart that grew from us, from you and me, will not be again as it was for it has withered and died, though in it's place may grow a new and lovely thing, given time. But it does not grow without trust, and trust takes a long time to rebuild when once it has crumbled to the ground. Longer than love to return, longer than forgiveness to release us both.

Because long after forgiveness is given, long after memory fades, trust still remembers, still questions. So it is not my love that I will not give, or my forgiveness, and I have no wish of punishing a suffering soul. It is my trust I cannot give as easily as once I did. Because you have taught me that only I can be responsible for me, that unlike a cup or a vase only I can prevent a painful fall, that I am no victim or little broken thing but the phoenix rising from the ashes and saying no more will I place myself into your hands and trust you to keep me safe in your company. Trust you not to drop me so carelessly onto a cold, hard floor.

You yourself have taught me to trust in myself and not in you, and that is all. How then, can things ever be the same as they were when I placed myself blindly in your care?

No, it has nothing to do with my love and forgiveness, for you have those. Understand only this, that I will no longer allow myself to suffer for the love that I bear you. That is all."

One day perhaps, we hear, we understand. When we drop what we love enough times, there are consequences. No matter how close, no matter how long, no matter if it's family or friend, blood or water.

When we drop what we love, sometimes, we're the ones left on that cold, hard floor.

Thirty years too early....

Usually, I think I was born a century or two too late. I wish myself back to the world before the industrial revolution, to a world more pristine if no gentler. A world before freeways and concrete blocks and monster trucks. Yes, I could live with some of the lack of modern day comforts if the trade off was a less paved planet.

 

I certainly never think I was born too early. A future of shiny steel and glass and machines and less and less land, forests, animals and birds holds no appeal for me. I hope I do not live to see it. My life is devoted to slowing down this so-called progress.

 

And yet, and yet. This boy gives me pause. If I went to his school of thought, how different might my life have been? My brain? My outlook? If children of the future go to his school of thought - Hacker School - might there not be hope for the future?

 

What do you think?

 

 

In The Fog

It's one of those fabulous, foggy mornings. Mornings that make me think of magic, of Merlin, of Celtic warriors bursting through the fog on horses dripping in dew and breathing dual plumes of steam. In slow motion, of course, with stirring music thundering in the background.

Truth is, of course, all that is really hidden in this fog outside my window is my dogs and my donkeys. The only sound I can expect is the blaring braying of a donkey lamenting the size of his hay portion. The horses are in the barn for their breakfast after a long night of dripping dew in the dark field. The dogs are busy exploring what came and went in the night while they slept in the mudroom. All is quiet, all is well, all is just as usual, only hidden in mist. But within the mist, the trees are just as solid, the grass just as yellow, the rock is still a rock. The truth of their being is still the truth, however shrouded it may be. That is the ongoing gift of Nature. The closest thing we come to real reality in our solid world.

 

Photo by Cindy Strate

Yes, the truth is still the truth, however shrouded in myth and mist it might be. That could be a slogan for the state of the world today. All the debating,  posturing,  justifying,  theorizing,  intellectualizing, politicizing and  rationalizing gather in one great whirlpool of gray at the very core of which lies one still, little grain of truth, all covered up in the swirling mess, all covered up and unspoken for. Call it what you will, wrap it in bubble wrap, wrap it in pretty paper and a big red bow, cover it in syrup and jam it down our collective throat, the truth is what it is, it never changes despite all that mental fog we keep dishing out in all directions. Everybody is right, and everybody is wrong, but how many of our talking heads are actually addressing the underlying truth of anything?

Photo by Cindy Strate

 

They are not. We are forgetting the most fundamental truths. We are being taken in by the pretty mist and the fabulous fog, drowning in the gray whirlpool of debate. We don't even look for that grain of truth anymore, the quiet center of clarity. Political correctness does not allow for that, nobody must be wrong, nobody can get their feelings hurt, everyone's claims must be met. Unless, of course, they don't fit your bill. Then you can call them every name in the book, ridicule, denigrate and bury them in your assessment of their own inferiority. And the crowd goes wild.

It's all smoke and mirrors. We are back in the Coliseum of Rome. It's us against them, them against the others, the others for themselves. And justice, ah, well. That is in the eye of the beholder. Why look for the driver of the machine when we can rage against the machine itself?

Because the truth is just too damn simple. The truth does not allow for everyone's little drama to be important, to matter, to be heard. The truth doesn't care about anyone, it doesn't take sides - the truth simply is. The truth is a bare bones debacle, where voices are raised only to fall silent, for all arguments fall away in the face of it's simplicity.

So what's true anymore? The same as it's always been. Hidden in the fog, mosying in the mist. Only this mist won't clear out by noon. If you want the truth, you're going to have to dig for it, and dig deep. Not out there, either. In there. In you.

Sucks, doesn't it?

Picture of The Week

 

This is my favorite picture of the week. Every time I look at it, I start laughing, and count the ways in which I relate. Is it just that this is a less polite way of saying "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade"? Or is it that perfect blend of defiant resignation, that sulking acceptance of something that just won't change? The empty flower pot begging for attention but noooo, let's sit on the one with the poor plant? Maybe it's the great mind that put this photo together with the perfect caption (forgive the language, but it hits the mark) that tells a whole story in just a few words. I just don't know, but it gets me every time.

Hope it gives you a laugh today too, and perhaps inspires you to accept what you can't change, and not just make the most of a challenging situation, but make the most of it - with an attitude!

 

 

PS I'd love to give credit to whoever this came from, so please step forward should you happen to come along.

For Spite!

 

Spite. What a word. Very evocative, don't you think, of exactly what it means? It kind of spits itself out of your mouth, just like the person directing their anger at you would probably like to. Spit at you, I mean. Interesting how the word spite is so close to spit when you think about how spiteful people often spit spittle. At least, they always seem to in the movies. But I digress.

Spite, according to Webster is: a desire to harm, anger, or defeat another person especially because you feel that you have been treated wrongly in some way ...

I have been on the receiving end of spite a few times, and it is always a strange and disconcerting experience. Because there is no talking to spiteful people, no matter how well intentioned you may be. I have acted out of spite a few times in my early foolish youth, (as opposed to my later, foolish age) and it was always a self correcting experience. In other words, I soon learned the truth of that old saying "...to cut off your nose to spite your face." I also found I did not like myself much before, during or after, so by the time I was a teenager, I pretty much gave up on spite. Besides, I lucked into a fairly decent nose. Apparently it was my great grandmother's but since she was done with it, she passed it on to me. Might as well keep it for posterity.

I like to think everyone is always doing their best. Their best to be fair, their best to be kind, their best to be considerate, their best to be earnest and truthful. I like to think that of myself, too. Of course, the hard truth is, we all fail on such noble quests from time to time. Sometimes due to negligence, other times due to simple self delusion. But every so often, I just don't know why and I have to accept that as well as the experience. And it sucks. Especially when whatever you did to anger someone to such a degree they descend into the seven hells of spite, was your very best to handle what was perhaps a far from perfect situation. Then spite sucks double because no matter what you do, youse agonna be wrong.

What I have learned from my own forays into spite, however, is that while being on the receiving end of spite sucks, being on the spewing end of spite sucks worse. Because you are deaf and blind to reason, you know only the pain of what you perceive to be your victimhood, and all the while you twist and turn in the screeching gales of your rage, the emotional damage done by the stomping rampage of spite through your heart and soul and mind leave behind footprints burned in acid into the sensitive pathways they travel. And in the end, you are the one who are defeated, on every level, for you were bathing in the poison of ill will and waiting for your opponent to die. And you know what? That sucks triple.

So this is what I know of spite. It is not worth indulging. It is not worth reacting. It is not worth your pain. Respond as you must, and cease. Do what you must, and move on. Give the benefit of doubt, but draw your line in the sand. Protect yourself, but know the true source of spite is pain and self hatred, and offer compassion when you want to drop a bomb. Never mind if it is received or not. Be your best. Then get on with your life, and live it well - in spite of it all. Because anything else? Would suck......well, worse than anything else I've mentioned so far.

The Birdie Blog

One of the great benefits to snow and ice is the birds take a sudden and profound interest in my birdfeeders. I run out, bundled up like the Michelin man loaded up with bins and canisters of birdseed and they flit around, shrieking and calling and whistling while I load them up and feel like Cinderella in The Sound Of Music singing the The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Birdsong. For which I will receive an Oscar, weeping profusely while I cry out "You like me, you really, really like me!" to an audience of feathered creatures. Yes? No?

 

Well, they like me now when I am Source of Food Numero Uno. But I'll take it. My reward? This may be a little talked about fact, but birds Will Model for Food. So I get to tune up my camera skills and once in awhile catch something I like, really, really like.

Like this one:

I call it the The Angel and The Cardinal, which might sound kind of naughty to some, and I know who you are. Come on now, it's Christmas, clean it up! It's a hymn, don't you know?

This one:

Is Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal, which could seriously spoil everyone's fun, especially the Angels.

 

The cardinals are really fun so I have a lot of those, they are bright, active, stand out in a crowd  and can kick some serious birdie bootie:

They can also levitate, which I think is another little known fact:

Mrs. Cardinal is so over this fun party trick though once it sure sealed the deal, but if you look closely you can see that this particular ability has one little sparrow running for the statue. Scaredy cat. Yep, there he goes...

 

Now here comes a favorite - both a favorite bird, the dove, and the favorite pic so far. Because it's action and beauty with a little mystery thrown in. Or so it tells me. What does it tell you? Or do I really want to know? Hmmm...

 

 

Not to be left out, here comes another cardinal looking like the mysterious stranger who just rode into town in his many colored coat. Yes, I am mixing up characters and storylines all over the place. Why? Because I can. It's my blog. And I'm getting cabin fever and it has addled my brain, if you must know.

 

 

Now, it's almost Christmas, so let's end on that note shall we? I mean, is this photo just made for a Christmas greeting card or what???

 

 

 

Oh wait! I almost forgot. I call this one,

The One That Got Away.

And it was THIS big!

 

 

Iced and Diced in Texas

So whew! A whirlwind fall, the weeks fly by and my poor blog has suffered extreme negligence. But now a fabulous winter storm came along and allowed me to catch up on all manner of stuff as even my arena is frozen and I have six horses left to exercise themselves as best they can, to slip and slide around frozen pastures....

So the other afternoon I wrote a little post on Facebook with a photo and had a little fun with it as a pretend commercial for a new book. I had so much fun, I continued the next morning. Then it started to get a response, and before you know it, I had photographed and written my way through a very silly, tongue in cheek romantic thriller.

So just for kicks and giggles, I thought I'd add it on here. Enjoy!

Iced and Diced in Texas

 

 

Stay tuned for my new thriller coming soon… 'Iced and Diced in Texas' !! When the north winds blow, the windows freeze over, the stew is on the stove and on the boil, anything can happen! Will the ice ever melt, the wind die down and will the stew be any good? Brace yourself and batten down the hatches - It's a fast paced thriller that will keep you guessing till the end...

 

 

The stew was fabulous but the night cold and long, and in the grey morning  light, the ice just kept coming...tap, tap, tapping on the north-facing windows like a glacial stalker begging to be let in. Dripping and draping itself in insidious icicles that rendered dreams of summer immobile and forever young, frozen in time and place...in Texas...will it ever end, she whispered, icicles clinking as they dangled from her fake eyelashes, will it ever end or will we run out of stew first!!!!?

 

The wind still howled like a thwarted witch but the stinging bite of her frozen curses (aka snow) had finally ceased it's ceaseless assault. Inside, they huddled, floor heaters blazing and PC's all fired up, their only access to the far reaches of civilization a flickering screen... But outside, in the newly minted Texas Tundra, a new subzero drama was unfolding, ruffling it's frosty feathers, readying it's sharp beak for a fresh assault. And Nature held her breath in the face of this new challenge, cloaked in glittering ice....Oh for the love of God and all his Angels, cried out the birds in the trees! Never mind the stew, will they run out of birdseed!?!!!!!

 

 

 

 

The evidence was right there in the sink, staring her in the face. He had not even bothered to cover his tracks, adding insult to injury. What had happened to their love, their promises, all their ardent oaths to share, honor and protect - forever?  Passion still burned in her veins but now it left her with a bitter and disappointed tinge... Her fake eyelashes, clotted mascara smearing and still dripping from the melting icicles, now fluttered weakly as the enormity of his betrayal hit her. There was no denying it. He had enjoyed a bowl of their precious stew without her.

 

 

Outside, Winter Storm Klingon raged but inside the little Texan Tundra farmhouse, a different storm was brewing. Within its frozen shell, a call for action had been…called . And while answering it filled her with a pain and suffering that all but blinded her as tears mixed with her cobalt mascara – his favorite, or so he had said, but now she must doubt his every word, second guess his every gesture – she knew he had left her no choice. HE had done this to them, not her. But now, though it pierced her to the very depths of her shuddering soul, it was up to her to bring this down upon them, this, their frigid, towering, turbulent hour of reckoning….

 

  Leaning on the chrysanthemum walls of their bathroom, she remembered when they picked out the color, how they had laughed, how they had loved…. Now her cobalt tears slid down the wall, a blue flood as blue as she felt…but no, this must stop. She must be strong, if not for herself then…because she had birds to feed.

She must pull herself together. She may be just a Danish mail order bride to him, but he had been her sun, her moon and stars. Ah, but words are wind, whispered her latest favorite author in her mind’s perfectly shaped little ear. Words are wind. Had all their email correspondence meant nothing to him then? She felt a migraine coming on. And God knew she could not be held responsible for her actions once a migraine clasped her in its murderous grip….

 

It was all over. She stared mutely at the glinting knife and the blood slowly coagulating on the blade, on her hands as it dripped, plink.. plink... into the creamy enameled sink. One never knows, she thought distantly, one just never knows how a day will go once you’re up and out of the feathers. The feathers, ha! Ha ha! She felt hysteria well up inside, like the bubbling cauldron of a tempestuous volcano threatening to blow. She was just so relieved it was all over. The feathers, yes, she mustn’t forget to feed the birds….the dear, freezing little things…how fragile and precious life seemed to her now, now when hers had felt all but extinguished by his callous disregard for her needs. But she was a survivor, oh yes. He knew it now, too. Oh yes. He had learned his lesson. How she loved him but he had to learn.

That hell hath no fury like a woman starved. She better get on with the stew. Confrontations made her hungry.

 It had been short but oh so sweet. Their reconciliation still sang in her blood with all the heavenly luster of a choir of angels. The Chippendale kind. Or was that Victoria’s or…oh, she was so happy, she just didn’t care. She sighed with happiness as she set the new stew to bubble on the stove, washed her hands then flopped on their bed, all but engulfed in the Texas size duvet as she clutched her stuffed, baby blue teddy bear to her chest. Her saltwater breasts rippled in ecstatic response. He had given her those, her nose and the teddy bear, too. The color of your eyes, he had whispered.

How could she ever have doubted his love? He would never leave her now, she knew that for sure, and never again would he deny her stew. They had an understanding that went bone deep and yet it reached for the heavens. Oh, the joy of it. They had crossed the bridge that spanned the gorge that had separated them, fallen into one another’s arms….He had looked so sweet on his knees, begging for reconciliation, admitting his wrongdoing…who knew the power of true love? Oh she did. Now she did. They did.

 

Smiling secretly to herself, she remembered. Her fear, her pain, her fury as she prepared to bring him to justice. She had looked her best. Texas had taught her to dress and dress big and he could never take that away from her, ice storm or no. She added a new layer of cobalt to her freshly applied eye lashes and teased her hair to new heights. She loved her new platinum blonde bangs. She slipped into her favorite fuchsia hot pants and the frilly cream blouse with all the sequins. Her favorite rhinestone bangles were next, and the belt with all the turquoise conchos. Real turquoise, mind you. After much thought, and with a nod to her distant ancestors, she slid into her lederhosen – his favorite. They fit snugly over her hot pants. It would drive him mad, she knew. And it did.

She’d clean up the mess later. Right now, she’d better go feed the birds.

The End.