Up Close and Improbable

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She was most well known for her ability to procrastinate.  She was considered a top-notch mentor in the field. If you needed to learn, she was the one you would turn to. She even had the nerve to charge for her services, since she was one of the best around.

She was manipulative but in the best sense of the word.  It was always when the manipulation was good for both or all the parties involved.

She was loved by all Jeff’s on the planet, or at least those that had had the opportunity to meet her.  We don’t know why, but every man that seemed to find her on dating sites was another Jeff.  One night, when she had this realization, she happened to be chatting with 3 different Jeff’s that all lived within an hour’s drive of each other in Central North Eastern Iowa.  It made her laugh out loud and say to herself “of course you are!” when the 3rdguy that day, introduced himself as Jeff.   She didn’t have the nerve to tell any of them that her Dead Husband’s name was Jeff as well.  She thought it better to tell them face to face, so she didn’t freak them out and have them think her stranger than she already was.

 

She had a fast reputation for being extremely open-minded and this fascinated many of the men she met.  It was either that, or they ran in the opposite direction as fast as their little feet could take them.  This suited her to a tee.  She was only interested in those who were open-minded as well and had a quirky side and odd sense of humor.  She prided herself in being open to almost anything suggested by the opposite sex. She would try anything once.  I almost said as long as it was legal, but she really didn’t buy into the ways of the modern world with all its arbitrary rules and standards that seemed to her, to dumb people down and create a sheep mentality.  She loved wild and crazy suggestions, she would drive to the ends of the earth to meet someone who peaked her interests.  She would even travel to the other side of the pond.  She loved traveling alone so that she could meet new people.  She often scared men off from actually meeting face to face.  Many men could handle her when texting or even in video chats, but when it came to actually meet her, and it became up close and personal, many a man baled. They jumped ship and ran, tail tucked between their legs. She was alright with this as well, she didn’t want to waste her time and energy on guys that couldn’t stand both feet in the heat of her fire.

 

Her girlfriends liked to live vicariously thru her escapades.  She should have kept better track of her dating history.  It would have made a fascinating book or better yet a movie.  She would have been the first one to admit that she didn’t choose the best men to get into relationships with, at least in the first 50 years of her life.  She tended to bounce from a totally boring accountant or engineer types and usually stable to anything BUT that.  She would then choose a guy who was on the edge of insane and usually bipolar or schizophrenic or both. She was attracted to the artistic type who recited poetry, wrote music and liked to be on stage or at the very least, paid attention to every waking moment of his life.

After the death of her last Jeff, she decided to stay free and clear from being tied down.  Figuratively that is.  She decided that open was the new way to love.  She basically dated only her dog named Dan the Man for the 4 years after Jeff’s Death.  Danny Dog was the ideal partner.  He taught her unconditional loving.  They were inseparable, until his untimely death on Earth Day of 2018.  She realized that he had loved her so deeply and completely that he knew he must step out of her life in order for her to ever love another human being since instead, she poured her whole self into him.  She was on a mission for the remainder of her days to do just that.  She spent the second half or last 72 years of her life teaching others to free themselves from the constructs of their own limiting minds.  She led small groups of adventurous people who wanted to break free from societies norms and find their own unique happiness.  She saw herself as a beacon of light which focused only on revealing peoples deepest, most hidden desires to them thru experientially pushing them to face their fears and wake the fuck up.   This is what she will be remembered for from the select few who had the great opportunity to move into their personal power thru her strange and powerful processes.

 

For the rest of the people who knew her, they never knew exactly what the hell she did.  Many people thought she was a trust fund baby.  That was the furthest from the truth.  The only struggle she had was with her own family identity.  Her quest was constantly to stand out from her family. To not be called by the same last name. She shuttered when people introduced her by the family name. She resisted fortune and the family legacy with a passion.  Her passion ran deep and wide.  She would be remembered for her strange and unusual views on living a life of your own making.  In her case, of her own creation and vivid imagination.  She changed her first and last name when she was in her 30’s based on Tibetan Numerology.  She knew the secret that sound manifests form.  All of creation was sung into existence on some level and only a select few people over the ages understood this.  If you were lucky, she would have shown you how to create your own destiny by choosing your own name.  If not, then your fucked, she’s dead and gone!

Her Ways Were Odd

 

 

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She will be remembered for the quiet Magic that followed her.  The flowers that seemed as if to sprout in her hair.  She wasn’t the type of girl to go to the trouble to try to ‘look pretty’ or ‘be good’.  She didn’t care what others thought about her.  In the summer, she shaved her head, partly because she liked to shock people out of their sleepwalking ways, but mostly just to keep cool.  Her hairdresser didn’t like to cut her hair like she asked, which was very much a guy cut.  She had to negotiate each time for what she desired.  Then she was reminded that she needed to wear some lipstick, which she agreed to, but then rarely did.

She will be remembered for the wings that unfurled from under her shoulder blades.  Sometimes, when you sat behind her in a crowded room, you would see the fabric on her shirt shudder.  There was often a quiet network of whispers and finger pointing from the back of the room.

She mostly kept to herself and she tried to blend in and not be noticed.  She always moved through a room quickly, like the room was on fire.  It was as if she might fuse to the earth if she wasn’t in constant motion.

Some folks swore that they saw her, either late in the evenings when the moon was full or very early in the mornings as the sun was beginning to rise and the sky was a deep shade of blue-grey…up high in the heavens – doing loop-de-loops with other smaller birds and dive bombing trees only to pull out before impact.  The Ravens liked to chase and taunt her like they do a predatory Red Tail Hawk or Tawny Owl.  It was all in a friendly play and enjoyable to watch if you happened to be awake at those hours.  Most of the world was asleep in their boob tube watching habit that overtook them from sunset to sunrise, broken only by their passing out, to sleep as if to dream.

She always had a sideways smirk on her lips.  Did she know something that we didn’t?  Did she know some of the secrets of the Universe, like Being Present without expectations or regrets and being grateful for exactly what happened?  She certainly knew how to have her glass filled to full and overflowing without feeling overwhelmed or drained in the slightest.

She will be remembered for her unusual way of listening intently and speaking only when there was utter silence.  Her voice blended in and became one with the silence.  Some words would float like a soap bubble and glisten with rainbow hues that enlivened our senses.  But no one could ever hold onto her words, they flew right out the window and out of the memory cells.  Somehow her words were more like music, to be heard and to inspire, but then let go and let them fly free. They weren’t meant for the human spectrum of hearing or knowing.  They were catalysts for inner change and for starting uprisings of love.

Her motto was to ” Live Love Everyday” and she walked that from the moment her feet touched down on the old oak floorboards of her weathered turn of the century farmhouse…until she passed out again and her head hit her rather flat feather pillow.  She had gathered fallen feathers on the forest floor from all the birds that lived there and she swore that it made her sleep without the need for companionship.  She was a loner, agreed to never marry after the death of her third, or was it her fourth marriage.   She counted it, 3 and a half.  How is that?  How do you have half a marriage?

She never put anything to paper. She said she was an open book, but how can you read something that has never and will never be written? She was to be forgotten.  Her time was fleeting, her ways were odd and she might even be a tune you hum to yourself rather than someone you remember.

It was the Magic that surrounded her that you would be more likely to recall.  The feeling that you got when you were in the same room.  You just knew that there was a higher purpose, a grand scheme and that you and she were all a part of it.  We all had roles to play and there was no doing it wrong, she made certain of this.

She will be remembered in the songs we sing and the stories we tell as we sit around the campfire. The flames rising higher and the heat almost melting faces like it melts our worries and tensions from the day, the smoke drifting gently off into space leaving a calm and contentment deep within.

To her Music was Magic. Anything with a great beat or a story to be told caught her attention.  We all think she was here, but there is no proof of it.  She was sort of like stories we tell small children of the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause that become real.

The oddest thing we will remember is that no one ever caught her on film.  Her image somehow just wasn’t there.  The air was thick and the sunlight glistened, but somehow she wasn’t captured.  Perhaps she wasn’t here at all.

Yet the final proof of her is in the pudding, or in her case the Pies.  She loved fruit pies.  You could always win her over with a fresh baked Raspberry or Peach Pie. It was the best way to get her attention.  They had to be sugar-free as well as grain free, crusts molded from crushed nuts and dates and the fresh fruit brimming over with juicy goodness.  We might be able to conclude she was here simply by the volumes of pies that were consumed by her.  Is something missing, proof of Existence?!

To Leap as if to Fly

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He draws near, giving off sparks in the darkness, like a flashlight, beaming straight into my vulnerable heart. Those eyes, those eyes, always drawing me in deeper. I slide down the slippery mud banks in the darkness and find myself surrounded by a prism of rainbow light that permeates me and warms my limbs, I fall asleep and dream of his piercing, loving gaze. We frolic in the tall grasses, they brush gently on my cheeks, we roll down the grassy green hillside and fall into a pile of ultraviolet feathers, fallen moonbeams, and mounds of golden-hued rose petals. We lounge there into the wee hours of the morning. I hear him whimpering as he dreams of chasing the golden squirrel from treetop to treetop. To leap as if to fly.

Ours was the truest love affair. From that moment I saw him in the Escondido Animal Shelter in that room filled with Pit Bulls and he stretched up to reach for me and told me he wanted to teach me to love deeper. I had no idea what was in store. I’ve literally followed him for the past 6 and a half years. He out in front and center. He has taken me thru storms, lost at sea, waves rocking my boat until it felt like there was no horizon left. Then we awaken to the sunrise, together, side by side, calm seas, warm glow of the sun kissing our bodies. We have weathered many storms together. I thought for sure he would outlive my father, who he loved deeply and completely. We learned to find joy in simple things together. Treats after pooping, or upon entering his grandparents’ house. All he had to do was stare and bark until he got what he wanted. Daily walks, my fair-weather friend, would peek out the doggie door to see if it was raining or snowing and decide to stay in until absolutely necessary, then to run on tippy toes and back inside to the warmth of the couch and blankets to snuggle with me even longer.

I will honor his memory by doing the downward dog, stretching like he did daily upon getting up from any seated or lying position. We would do this together. 4 feet on the ground and butts in the air. He was a natural, I a copycat.

I learned all I know about unconditional loving from him. Who was the master and who the pupil? I wasn’t a good dog owner if you think that requires discipline and being the alpha in command. I was in awe and reverence to this sacred soul in a little doggie suit. I would do anything to make his life more comfortable and enjoyable. When I traveled I would always bring him a new toy, and he treated each with respect and took such joy in each and every one. He never chewed up a stuffed animal like a normal dog. He loved them and liked to sleep with his favorite at the time under his head for a pillow. Lately, it has been a round giraffe. He liked teasing me with it, acting like I could actually have it, then withholding the prize from me.

I don’t think I can part with his toys. They will be a gentle reminder of his daily sweet nature and my love for him. Is it crazy that I want to give him the bunny and the moose that I kept out of his reach and called my toys? Is it crazy to want to send them to rest with him when I bury him out on the back 40? I know he’s in the spirit world and not the physical, but something about me letting go of them now gives me a sense of abundance and doing the right thing. Crazy, I know, call me crazy. Crazy in Love with a Dog named Dan. Who also answered to Sheridan, Dan the Man, Danny Dog, Danno the Manno, BoBo, BooBoo, Little Buddha Boy, Dan-zer, Dan-Dan, Pooh Bear, Lil’ Darlin, Danny Doodle, Bob, Bubba, and Daniel Boone.

Mother Always Said

 

UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_1e11Her mother always said, “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”. Her mother heard this from her own mother as well and it became ingrained, so she, of course, passed it on to her children. But it stopped right there. She had a different view of this, she felt it was healthier to come to terms with your emotions and own your own thoughts and speak from the heart with compassion, but be honest.
She agreed with her mother, that spouting off negativity for no reason, or to harp on something unsettling from the past was a waste of energy. But she saw the value in being authentic and there was a time and a place to voice the ‘not nice’ stuff. It never was to be used to hurt another. She loved the practice of writing a letter and burning it, or email and trashing or deleting it. There was something very satisfying in speaking out the emotions in the heat of it all and breathing some deep cleansing breaths and then letting it all go. The Universe was her best friend and was always there with a kind shoulder to lean upon.
Another thing her mother always said was…”if you feel bad, get busy!” She resisted this one growing up. It seems like an avoidance of being present with your emotions, a running away from or stuffing of them which she thought was totally unhealthy.   After coming to a more enlightened view on the first point, she liked to wallow in her own emotions and get carried away by her own moods and run with her monkey mind on many a crazy trip.  Once she had gotten that, she then knew what her mother meant by simply getting busy. There was no reason to dwell in the past or get carried away on an emotional tangent that created drama and suffering. She saw how suffering was all self-inflicted and how it was all a matter of choice. You could choose exactly how you reacted to anything happening to or around you. Being busy was more just a sense of Being in her own flow and not getting sidetracked into crazy making – or what she would see as being a drama queen. She would rather stay in her center and keep moving forward or at least stay in a more bliss-filled state of being.
But the favorite thing that her mother always said was, “what a heavenly breeze” when the weather was just so. She liked this saying and found it stuck in her own repertoire of comments to use when she felt on top of the world. She made up her own unique sayings as well. She loved to exclaim “I’m a happy camper!” She had fond memories of her mother and wondered if her own daughter would feel the same way about her someday.

Gentle Gorilla Tactics

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Part of her loved her writing, she called her Ms Twilla. Ms Twilla had ruby red curly ringlets of hair that fell down around her face and just over her shoulders. She had grass green eyes that shot out tiny lightning bolts of warm light from somewhere deep within. With each jolt, you felt her love sink deeper into your soul. She dressed like a butterfly, wearing greens shades, oranges a-blazing all highlighted with fuchsia. She also loved to paint her face and body. Sometimes you thought she was fully dressed, but upon second glance you found that she was partly naked. It was always a joy to encounter Ms Twilla. She couldn’t help but lift your spirits. Ms Twilla loved to curl up by the fireplace in the evening on a sheepskin rug with a cuppa Damiana tea and listen to her read her daily pages. Ms Twilla smiled, oooohed and aaaahed during the read back. She would then pipe in with lines, and only lines, word for word that had touched her fancy and brought tears to her eyes and joy to her heart.
On the other hand there was the part of her that hated her writing, that she called Mrs Montgomery. She had long jet black hair with a one-inch highlight of silver that shot across her forehead and down her back like a blatant skunk stripe. She always wore it up in a tight bun when she went out in public so as not to attract so many sideways glances and snickers. Mrs Montgomery always interrupted her every thought and word and criticized her original thinking in an attempt to put her into boxes. She paced the room and mumbled loudly as she was reading back and interrupted even while she was deep in thought, in a flow that was moving her writing so effortlessly, like a stream flows to the river and the river to the ocean.
Sometimes Ms Twilla would appear from behind the chocolate colored velvet curtains and shoot pea-sized pebbles at Mrs Montgomery, attempting to distract her and calm the energy in the room thru her gentle gorilla tactics. Ms Twilla loved her writing and hated to see anything get in her way. Once she slipped some valerian drops into Mrs Montgomerys tea, knocking her out for a few hours of much-needed peace and quiet.
She wrote every day. It was her religion, her way of tapping into her innermost dreams.  It was a type of gauge, a barometer of sorts that her friends could tell how she was doing by listening to her readings or by reading her writings. They could tell which part was alive and well behind the scenes. Was it Ms Twilla inspiring her or was it Mrs Montgomery that was busy meddling in her business, crushing her dreams and sidetracking her on worries, complaints and in the box thinking?
When she loved her life, was on top of the world and being supported, she was walking arm in arm with Ms Twilla, whistling tunes and noticing tiny ladybugs and each flower they encountered and finding familiar shapes in the clouds overhead. She loved it when Ms Twilla was in her glory. Her words just seemed to bubble forth, no thinking, no space between them. Her words came from some aspect of herself that she didn’t even know existed.
Hallelujah! It was high time, Mrs Montgomery took a forced sabbatical, they shipped her off to sea. They signed her up for a trip around the world on a slow boat headed towards China. She thought she had won the trip playing Bingo, but it was all rigged. It was a time to celebrate and toast their bubbly water with fresh lime and lemon wedges. They danced on their toes and twinkled with the stars.

Wings of my Heart

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I am searching the world for you, my love. Builder of treehouses and brewer of the perfect cuppa tea. Lover of pugs and dreamer of a quieter, more peaceful planet. Birdwatcher, dream chaser, river rafter, tree climber. We have walked in the still of the night, under the same stars and sliver of a moon. We see them but from a different side of the world. I somehow know that you are in Scotland, I scoured the rolling hills and thick woodlands. Hiked the highlands and the lowlands but somehow find you online of all places! Ready to dig in the lush dirt of your native farmlands. Co-mingle our rich dirt, loamy with peaty. My clay, silt, sand, gravel and yes even boulders with your Peaty Gleys and podzols. Piping hot bowls of Scottish Oats with Irish Butter. Earl Grey Tea with Tupelo Honey. This morning the sun rose early above the hickory grove. The sky was a particular shade of deep red vermillion. The frost hung onto the weeds and branches waiting for the heat of the day, which today would be a brisk 37, but at sunrise was 12. My heart hangs in the tops of the trees, I graze on hickory nuts, husking the woody outer shell onto the frozen ground below. My mind has flown south for the winter, leaving my heart alone in this frozen wasteland. Without the ability to reason I long to take flight, to lift off, to soar high above the frozen rivers and lakes. I fly south by south-west until the heavens start to turn to deep hues of Ultramarine and the horizon is on fire with a burst of shocking pink. It seems impossible, and unfathomable to see these colors at the same time. Only from the wings of my heart, seeking the warmth of your shoulder to lean upon. To have you wrap your strong arms around my tiny frame in comparison to yours. You are an artist that paints with your dreams, which have been distilled down into pure hues and luminous powders that when water is added become another color altogether. You paint my naked body with robes of saffron. You have milked the Garcinia trees for centuries to have your storehouses of resin. The flat round cakes that are stacked like poker chips in scarlet red velvet satchels. You carry them on your back along with tiny cobalt blue vials of dragon tears. You are my alchemist, the edge pieces of my puzzle that make it so effortless for me to take the next breath and the next, like a child that has followed the same dirt path to school for years, knowing how each step feels beneath their bare feet. I wear no mask for you. I climb out of my lookout, high in the treetops and put on the water for a cuppa tea with you. Earl Grey with Tupelo Honey.

Our Puddle of Earth

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A rabbit kickboxing a crow on our puddle of earth…
making mud pies and cherry crisp out of that which grows
along the banks of the river.
We long to eat with the kings and queens of long-forgotten
castles and tip our hats to the pretty ladies as
they stroll by.
Where have they all gone? Fishing? Golden-eyed carp
and bottom dwellers, longing to know the truth,
the way, the stories that the ancestors passed down
generation to generation.
The crabapples fill the streets and the roll down
the hill when the wind blows.
The rains begin to pitter pat on the tin roof and
I long to hear your voice.
I long to journey down the same path that you walked.
Don’t touch it, its a bee. If it lands on you stand still,
don’t touch it.
Find a stick, act like a turtle, what noise does a turtle make?
The sun shines down thru the leaves as they cling
to the branches waiting for the last warm day…
turning colder and then to frozen ice as
it clings to them as a small child holds tight to
their mother’s leg.
The third coming of the blackberries…
racing with time, chasing faster than a roadrunner,
a jackrabbit, running to outwit the first frost.

It’s a game that we like to play.
Wondering how long the growing season can be stretched
before the frost falls on the pumpkins and turns everything
to mush.
It’s a long road, a dirt path, no creatures in sight that have
been domesticated for man-kinds evil ways.
Only wild animals, jackals, long-eared owls, coyotes
and Bob-bob-whites speak up.
They know that we are out of our element…
but they have learned to live and let live.
Something that we humans are just now starting to grasp.
We come together along this stretch of wild roses,
and winding roads, we learn about our heart
and how its connected to every creature.
We smile as the younger man on the bicycle passes this way.
Fall has come, we must find a hollowed out old tree
to snuggle up within…
or find where the bicycle is parked and
see if our heart has at last found its resting ground.
The jet-black dog pulls against his collar
and digs a hollow in the dirt to sleep for the chilly winters night.
Our puddle of earth brings us warmth,
a burning fire at our hearth
and a sense of Belonging to a greater good.