left behind on bleak street...

This takes me back...all the way back to beginning.  Nothing has changed in thirty years since the journey started for me.  But more  frightening to contemplate is that things have changed, but not for the better.  It's more horrible than I could ever have imagined.  The latitude and longitude are different, but it is the same school, different location.  It's a nightmare that never goes away.  The building is an old rundown box, unkempt and joyless. I know what that means.  It screams substandard.  I, who am desperate for a job, can hardly manufacture the will to do this.  I know when I walk in that I will not be able to come here again.  I guess that makes me the lucky one.  The others  have no choice.  De facto segregation is alive and well. There are no white kids. Where do they go to school?  Why has an entire segment of the population defected?   And does anyone ever question how that influences the education of those left behind. Obviously not. I stand for about two hours in a worn out gym policing 6th, 7th, and 8th graders while teachers have a meeting????  What!!!! This is Thursday.  Friday is a teacher workday. "Why," I ask, "are teachers meeting during instructional time on the day before a holiday? Body language answers are all I get.  Translation:  Shrug your shoulders, suck your teeth, roll your eyes.  The Student Concern(s) Specialist is screaming at children to sit...over and over and over and over again.  It doesn't take me long to understand that numbness sucks the life out of the air space here.  Pretend it ain't so.  Behaviors are overlooked. Responsibility is absent. Little-meek-never-in-your-face-me, wants to get on the PA and announce that good sense has left the building.  But, I can't.  For you see, it was never ever here to start with.  All I know is that the school board will patronize you as long as you accept it. Maybe they can convince you, but they will never convince me that this is not educational malpractice.  Remember what Charleston did to Judge Waties Waring?  Ran him out of town, I believe.  His remains are in Magnolia Cemetery.  If you listen closely, Charleston, you can hear him whisper, "I told you so!"    

Part Two, The Education Papers,Thoughts on Education in Charleston, SC

carol of the bells...

It's barely light out, and I've been up for hours.  When I turn into the parking lot, it is empty.  Where is everyone?  Why do they want me here so early? Which door do I choose?  This job comes with very few instructions.  Where are the detail people in this scenario?  Have they all given up on this nonsense and moved on?  There is a lone teacher in the office.  Waiting, I suspect, for that chat with the principal.  Another teacher is talking now and the three adults and one child standing at the counter are all ignored.  The paint is peeling.  The ceiling is low. The vibe is dread. The Data Clerk is late.  I am here before the office staff?  And someone please tell me why you must keep my car keys in order to give me a pass to the building.  Just scan my ID and print a pass. I guess they are accustomed to thieves here; therefore, everyone is a thief. They apparently value their pseudo-passes and think I might steal one.  People don't like to work here.  I can tell. My job grants the gift of living in parallel universes. Yesterday, there was a baby grand in the cafeteria of the school I visited. A man played Christmas carols to an empty space in preparation for the lunch crowd.  I only know because I walked over for lunch. What a shocker??? Today it is dank, dark and about as depressing as the school board can make it.  There are rooms configured out of hallways, and a media center that looks pretty barren to me.  I mean why buy books? The kids here don't like to read.  It's a Title I school.  I didn't see anything happening in the media center anyway, but don't blame the media specialist.  She is probably shared with some other low-income school and is half out of her mind with how to manage.   She didn't even speak.   And if we were to get inside the grey matter of the school board, I'm pretty sure it would go something like this:  How dare you be born poor and make it our responsibility to fend for you?  Here, take this broken down, used up school and see if you can make something out of it.  Oh, and by the way, we're going to make it as miserable as possible for you while you do your educational time.  No grand pianos for you.  For you see, you are the ones who don't matter.  You were born disenfranchised. And, if you happen to become a doctor, a scientist, a Nobel laureate, it will be the damn struggle of your life.  We'll make sure of it. The message we send you is you don't deserve better. Your disenfranchised parents are fine with this arrangement.  After all, if a skinny second grader is calling her teacher a mother f----r, then surely that's how you feel as well.  Monday, I walked down the hallway of social convention and decorum. Today, it's a snake pit. All I know is this.  If you are born poor and struggle always, how can you know there is a such a thing as a grand piano?  And how can you know that it makes a beautiful sound?  How can you know that the world is a beautiful place if your surroundings are ugly and barren?  How can you know? Shame to the school board and the superintendent who allow this to continue. I suggest you move your offices to this Title I school. Hey, you guys can take the suite of offices created out of the hallway. Have fun, now!  If you're lucky, they will give you a permanent ID and let you keep your car keys.  You'll need those.  

Part One, The Education Papers, Thoughts on Education in Charleston, SC 

coastal healing...

The Red Dot Club and

(The Diary of Longing)

A family is one of nature's solubles; it dissolves in time like salt in rainwater.” 
― Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides

If you look closely, you can see the name Prince of Tides on the boat with the orange life preserver...words morphed to a memory. Looking back, it was a simple-lifetime-ago-stop on this journey to home.  I was teaching in Hemingway.  My little daughter was bouncing around Anderson Boulevard, my father was alive and my mother was with us.  My grandmother was still hosting the every-Sunday-rump-roast-dinner (which was the thin cord binding our family together), and the promise of a lifetime was before me.  Thanksgivings are happy, and I can still hear the wind rustling the pines.  Now, it's July, we are taking the long way home from Savannah and stop in Beaufort. Actually, it is the very same spot. The waterfront is full of sailboats, and we are happy.  We laugh about Charlie Brown, the waiter on River Street, and the dolphins in the Savannah River, and Tybee. Amanda doesn't like Tybee.  I love it for the lighthouse. And...here I am again. Another roundabout. Full circle. This time we drive from Charleston.  It is my birthday.  Amanda and I are sitting on the waterfront.  Time stands still...just long enough for a memory to congeal.  

Waterfront Park in Beaufort, South Carolina

three in a row...

The Holy City beckons.  Thanks (again) Y'all!  Come on down!

Mother Emanuel

Calhoun Street

Front Beach

East Arctic, Folly

"sleep," cried the evil spirits. "sleep, sleep, sleep..."

it's a wading bird...

It's a buttery soft October day and the wading bird plops about in the marsh.  Wonder what he's looking for? Food or play?  Is there some egret exuberance?   Does he know that I gauge his every move with the wind, or that I watch how he picks his feet up and puts them down as if playing some egret game of hide-and-seek tucked away in the silence of his egret world...suspended somewhere between wet and dry in a reflection which raffles his beauty to the autumn softness. Does he know that he bears one of two names...Soon or Now?  Does he know that I have watched his silent moves for two years filled with wonder and curiosity?  Does he know what he really means to me? Is that why he comes back and graces the tidal pool with his snowy whiteness, ruffling his feathers in a Folly show-and-tell? Today, his name is Now. What took you so long?

gift from the sea...

"The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea."

                                                                                                                         Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Evening on the Folly

Shem Creek

the eyes of your heart enlightened...

The voice of one crying out in the wilderness..."All of God's people who hear the call [of God] are commissioned by God to answer that call wherever it takes us. There are many places of injustice in our world that are waiting for the Good News of the gospel. It is not necessary to have anyone's permission for any of us to address these needs."
-Mary L. Mild

i live in a state of poetry...

I live in a state of poetry...a literal and figurative song between discontent and happiness.  Days configured with rivers of dripping sweat, astronomical high tides, and equally astronomical heat indexes.  Sing-song.  Sing-song.  Feel the beat of the southland.  Hear the myth of the flat land...a past that languishes at noontide to resurrect itself for libation at moonrise.  Where one can travel a mere mile for transport through the thin veil of past, present, or future.  Where yesterday slaps the seeker in the face like a surfer’s high-tide wave with its third finger in the air--daring you to deny it.  It's a land whose pain begs remembrance, where every breeze talks of yesterday.  And if that past repeats itself one time too many on any given day, one can always order up a nice heaping helping of denial.  And then take a nap.  

Archibald Rutledge

The Compass

Regard this compass:

How veeringly the needle turns,

Yet ever northward yearns,

And at the last will come

Fatefully home.

Even so my love

Resembles

The needle; for it turns to you

And trembles.

              Life's Extras

                        Archibald Rutledge 



http://southcarolinaparks.com/hampton/introduction.aspx

North Santee at Hopsewee

Helen von Kolnitz Hyer

Santee Lullaby

Funny little furry things are creeping out of sight,

Santee, Santee,

Funny little fuzzy wings are folded for the night,

Santee, Santee,

Little stars are showing, Honey, let's be going

Fore the big, bull alligator tries to take a bite

of me-ee

- excerpt from "Santee Lullaby"

http://www.poetrysocietysc.org/poetry.html

Folly River

Photo Credit:  Pat Hay

sea of glass...

The Folly River

High tide in September, and it's a sea of glass. I do suppose the most beautiful tides are those that tip-toe in with the waxing moon...the surface so perfect it looks like a just-iced cake. It creeps over the hardly ever flooded bits of marsh in total silence.

And. It. Is. So. Perfect.

Sometimes that waxing moon leans over and dips its smile low to the earth and does what the moon does best.  It reflects.

recalculating...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I took...the dead end.

Recalculating.

It should absolutely be the worst time of my life.  My bank account is less than glam, my dance card is empty, and it's taking me forty-damn-forevers to do something as simple as order blinds for my windows. One could ask, "Exactly how do you plan to buy anything, finish anything, or plan for anything whilst engaged in the dance of employment limbo with that less-than-glam bank account?"

But, I do.

And the funny thing about that "I do" is that it works magic.

Yes, it should absolutely be the worst time of my life.  But, it's not!

Because, you see, the good thing about my dead end is I know for sure I can't go down this road any longer. Maybe you could say I won the lottery.  How many people get a second chance to turn around or put it in reverse and back up? Dead Ends are a gift.  On your way out you get to look at the scenery and see things that weren't quite apparent on your way in.  You get to say thank you and a decent goodbye to the people who opted out. Oh, and those windows I don't have covered.  Do you know what it is like to look out on the world with an unencumbered view?

Recalculating.

it's a dog's world...

This is Butler.  They say I saved him.  But, the truth of the matter is he saved me.  It's his birth month, and he deserves lots of treats.  I also thought his alpha dog status in my life deserved some reflection.  Butler is the only dog I have ever owned, and this is why I love him.

• He is honest.  He is afraid of storms. When the summer sky on Folly darkens and thunderbolts shake the marsh, Butler races to his favorite hiding place...under my bed.  He unabashedly shows his feelings.  I like that in dogs and humans.
• He loves treats and is not afraid to ask for one.  Bubba, my neighbor who works at Locklear's on the pier, has a stash just for Butler.  I think his best girl, Nancy, is really the one who stocks Butler's treats.  I love it when we go for our walk-about and Butler strains on his leash to get to Bubba.  When I finally let go, Butler takes off in a mad dash usually turning to look back at me...trailing far behind.  I give him the go ahead, and he becomes a thoroughbred at the races.  The only thing on his mind is the finish line and his daily treat.  Thanks, Bubba and Nancy, for loving my dog.
• He seeks friends.  Butler is beach dog to Camille and Colin, my neighbors from Charlotte.  They have a cat, Boots, at home, but Butler is their beach dog.  There are no adequate words to paint the picture of a dog and kids at play.  They romp, run, jump, and wrestle with Butler.  He begs relentlessly to visit; for dogs and kids are made for each other, you see.  They buy him treats at the Pig on Folly Road.  They gave him his monkey chew toy we call Bunky the Monkey. Butler knows how to work a crowd.
• He is a good student.  Butler's latest report card from Dawg Tired and Cat Naps Too was an A+.  He got high marks in dental hygiene and coat care.  His ears were clean, and he was a good boy getting his nails trimmed.  Kristen, his groomer, said that he was a little angel.  Thanks, Gray, for making Butler love his outings at Dawg Tired.    
• He loves his best friend, Tiny, the beagle.  When I'm out of town, Butler goes for a spend-the-night party with Tiny and Brian and Sara.  The first thing he does is bound up the stairs and hide under the bed.  He loves to eat out of Tiny's bowl and sleep with Tiny at night.  Tiny and Butler are happiest when they're on a golf cart ride around Folly.  Butler appreciates good company.
• He knows how to wiggle his way into your heart.  He has unbounded loves and licks for Amanda.  Deep, majestic barks and bounding leaps announce her arrival.  He merits lots of love in return and easily wins that spot on the sofa with his Pottery Barn throw.  They're a team.  What can I say? 
• He has staying power.  Butler has been with me since my last year as a teacher at Blythewood Middle School...seeing me through the roller coaster ride known as middle level education.  I will never forget the day I met his second owner at the Publix parking lot at Trenholm Plaza on Forest Drive.  I was there to look the little tike over.  His owner arrived in a truck with the pound puppy positioned on the navigator's side all curled in a circle and wrapped in a beige towel.  After a very long gaze, it went like this:

Man in Truck:  Well, do you want him?

Me:  No response.  Long pause.

Man in Truck:  Well, do you want him?

Me:  No response.

Man in Truck:  (Irritation in his voice)  Well, do you want him?

Me:  I'm thinking, I'm thinking.   Another long pause.

Me:  I really wanted a female............

Man in Truck:  Well, I have to go.  He'll never get over three pounds.  My wife and I are just not dog people.  Well, do you want him?

Me:  (Long desperate pause) Okay, okay, okay, I'll do it.



Bunky the Monkey


And that is how I came to meet my Butler.  By the way, he may be have been immobilized when we first met...sitting so calmly on his beige towel, but the minute I put him in my car a Tasmanian devil was loosed upon the Earth.  I like to think it was pure joy at his good luck.  Girl meets dog and falls in love.


i love my scarred body...

I'm back from the dermatologist sporting some new scars-in-the making.  2012 was a bumper year for my dermatologist and for scars.  After 17 biopsies, enough cat gut (or nylon...take your pick) to wrap-up Christmas, infected stitches, embedded stitches, jugs of antibiotics, and scars galore, I'm back in the saddle again.  I know I shouldn't complain about my friend, lidocaine, but the thought of our getting together again makes my blood pressure exceed its allowable limits.

Today went something like this:

Nurse:  Now, don't be alarmed when you see that huge white, swollen spot on your face.  It will go away eventually.  Don't be scared.

Me (in silent protest, with a sideways glance):  But I came here to get pretty...that doesn't sound good.  And if you can see a white spot on my chalk white face...what have you done?  (Having very rabid thoughts of my last little procedure in this very same spot, which resulted in a huge blister the size of a quarter right smack dab in the middle of my face...great for Christmas pictures!  Now, you know why you only saw one side of me in the Christmas 2012 snaps.  Believe me when I say the New Year had come and gone and my little procedure was still very evident.

Nurse:  Don't get your hand wet for 24 hours; don't wash your face for 24 hours; and oh, the cryosurgery will result in a blister.  You can pop it if you like.

Me:  POP IT!  (Silently) Don't think so.  Some things just have to happen on their own,

Nurse:  Use lots of Vaseline.  It will prevents scars.

Me:  (Silently) Yeah, right, gazing at the two big whopper scars on my bony arm from procedures past. Not to mention the scars on my legs and those untoward scars on my delicate section.

Nurse:  We will let you know the result of the biopsies in two weeks. 

Me:  And....

Nurse:  If we did not get it all, then, as you know, we will have to repeat the procedure.  There will be stitches.

Me:  No words, audible or otherwise.  I'm fresh out, and my blood pressure is up, by the way...all for the love of this scarred body.  So, all of you out there in Web Land.  Get up off your lidocaine and get your skin screened, and in the process--love your scarred body!!

Melanoma Research Foundation
http://www.melanoma.org/

the sea of forgetfulness...

It started inching its way into out lives long before we knew its name and long before we knew the crime.  Was its role inscribed in some far-off ancestor?  Where is he or she?  I want to see the face that started it all.  I want to stamp on the green earth and scream to the heavens.  You stole our memories, and if all we are is a memory, are we slowly drowning, too?  Bit by bit, flung into the sea of forgetfulness.  Floating between this life and the life to come in some murky darkness.

She can no longer remember her children's names, have a conversation, inquire of the weather or add her opinion...that feisty opinion that charted our childhoods.  Floating...where she can't know that she has outlived her oldest grandchild.  She can't know the pain we feel when we see her ravaged face and call for mother.  She can't feel Christmas joy, summer heat, or autumn's color.  We can never live another memory on the porch at dusk. We can never walk the garden or pick the rose.  We can never see the wistful smile that bore the weight. Is that it?  Was her pain too great to bear into the next world?  Is that why it languishes here by her side refusing to let go?  Must she divest herself of some token or some secret before she can take leave?  Is her job yet undone?  Is there more work waiting for the one who did all the work...?

through a glass, darkly...

I hold my favorite Fourth of July memory in a teacup with both hands to keep it warm.  It was not red, white, or blue.  There were no fireworks.  I remember exactly where I sat.  It was a Monday.  We had steaks on TV trays.  I remember the light outside the window.  I can still hear the cars passing on the road.  Most of all, I remember my grandmother's love.  I remember her hands.  I remember the goodness in her heart.  It was just three days before my wedding.  I have never had a better Fourth.  I would move Earth out of its orbit just to feel that way again!  

True Blue

He found me

when I was the most

Unfindable

When all the scars had crusted

over and squeezed the pain into a hardened lump.

When my world rotated in

black and white

No sharp focus

No blues

No greens

Only this and not that

He found me.

Now, I must find him

 in

this silly game of

Hide and Seek we play.

Where love is always It.

Folly

2013

bad is the new good...

A

If brown is the new black, and bad is the new
good...is hot the new cool?  Or plump the new thin?  It all gets so confusing.  So, wherever or whatever just show up wearing the new you...which was the old you all along!

Happy Fourth, America!  Prance and twirl in technicolor...the new red, white, and blue.       

between the edges...

I have the happy fate of living between the frantic Atlantic and its shadow, the deeply mysterious, gooey, smelly marsh.  I have the sad fate of living in the darkness between the loss of one parent and the sure loss of another.  To this not-fancied child, it's a game-changing loss.  Last night, I dreamt of my father's death.  This time, he was carried to his final rest in a red hearse with a skirt around it making a right turn onto some street I've never seen.  When life throws the gut-wrenching stuff at one, it seems it also throws a life vest.  Because now, of course, all I can think about is that ridiculous red hearse with the red bed-skirt wrapped around its haunches.  I'm crying. I'm laughing. I'm thinking of Faulkner.  The past is masquerading as present in the middle latitudes of the southland where the air is leaden and wet and no one ever dies, and parallel universes insert themselves whenever and wherever they see fit.  Here, between the edges of happy and sad...

West end of Folly looking to Kiawah

on the edge of something wonderful...

The Folly River looking west

It seems that when life has overdrawn your patience and the last bit of wherewithal ekes out of you, along comes love in some odd package...wrapped with you in mind and tightly secured with a precisely curled ribbon...a serendipity, a synchronicity, a surprise, a salute. The trick is to recognize the answer when it presents itself...to know that love walks on two legs or four legs, has been assigned odd zip codes, and blooms in curious colors. Sometimes it turns up when your nails are ragged, your hair is askew and you're wearing that same old blue T-shirt you can't bring yourself to throw away.  It flies in on the fluttering wings of hummingbirds and screeches through the air on the call of the Jay.  It stands at the door.  And even though you are facing the opposite direction, somehow the package gets delivered.  I love my life on the island even when I don't love my life on the island.  I don't mind the wind, the rain, or the delays.  For you see, I've been waiting a long time, and I'm on the edge of something wonderful.  

The marsh and Folly River beyond

"Too much of a good thing is wonderful."  Mae West

magic carpet ride...



Long tables for communion in the tradition of Scottish Presbyterians.
  Interior of Edisto Presbyterian.  

Sweetgrass and palmetto fronds

The Launch or Middleton Plantation (not to be confused with Middleton Plantation on Highway 61,
 although the two plantations are connected by marriage.)  This property is located on the South Edisto
River on Store Creek.  Most of the plantation's original acreage was sold in order to restore the main house.

"The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness

and the world's deep hunger meet."  --Frederick Buechner

Sanctuary of Edisto Presbyterian.  Enclosed pews and beautiful twin spiral staircases
 leading to the pulpit.  Simply stunning!  Someone else liked it, too! 

Annette King, sweetgrass basket weaver.  Stopped by Annette's shop on Highway 174 and had a long
 talk about bulrushes, old and new grass, coiled knots, and how to identify the region where baskets are woven.
She had a brush fire going, which helped dissuade the midges a little.  I still had to dance around to keep
 the biting bugs at bay.  Can't wait to meet Annette's mother, Lillie, who passed down the art of weaving
 to her daughter.  Annette says it takes about 7-8 hours to weave one of the very small baskets.   

What happens when you combine benne wafers, pink lemonade, a pink van, a June mist, and curiosity?  You get a magic carpet ride to Edisto.  What do you see?  You see wild Wadmalaw rising in the distance, lazy oaks offering their oaken arms of shade, frozen time that's hot to the touch, Botany Bay, Store Creek, cattle egrets, horses with bug deflectors grazing like moving statues in paradise, a sweetgrass master basket weaver with lessons to share, a jungle shack, and a tomato.  What do you feel?  You feel frozen like the time; you feel a bit of magic; a bit of awe.  You find a tiny little piece of yourself, and it takes your breath away!

Stained glass window
Interior of Trinity Episcopal Church



Trinity Episcopal.  Love the architectural detail. 

Front Beach
Edisto



Love this balcony window at Edisto Presbyterian.  It looks out to the Session House, now a 

prayer chapel.  You can stop in and pin your prayers to the board.  The chapel is always
 open, and I have it on good authority that the prayers are always answered.

Going places!

Edisto Presbyterian.
  Presbyterians know how to make the simple sublime.

Stairway to Heaven
Interior of Edisto Presbyterian

Green is the color of resurrection!

From on high
Interior of Edisto Presbyterian

Annette's art

Cassina Point on the North Edisto.  Looking across West Bank Creek you see Wadmalaw.
Originally the home of Carolina Lafayette Seabrook Hopkinson.  

 


I'm with Julia...totally in favor of the open door policy.
Edisto Presbyterian churchyard

At rest
Trinity Episcopal Churchyard

loneliness...

Waiting for the Guide
                                        by Safiyah Fosua

One day
I found myself
In the dense tangle of this thicket
     feet swollen
     arms scratched
     eyes gouged
Contemplating my condition,
Why are you so
     bedraggled?
     scarred?
     frustrated?
I asked my weary soul.
After silence that seemed to last
     for days
     for weeks
     for months
My exhausted soul replied:
In what I thought was faith
     I stepped boldly
     into this place
        of seeming abandonment
Knowing
     this thicket once
     had a well-traveled path for men.
I thought that if I just had
     enough courage
     enough boldness
     enough faith
        to make unsteady steps
Surely
     someone
     who lives veiled in this thicket
        of symbols
        and rituals
        and heartfelt prayer
     would send someone
        to walk with me.
Surely, my soul sighed,
     the Guide
     who lives veiled in this thicket
     has assigned
        some watcher on the wall
        some trimmer of the candlewicks
        some guardian of the sacred canticles
     to watch for my coming
        knowing that I would
           need
           need
           need
           a friend
     to walk with me
     reassure me
    instruct me in ancient ways.
But alas,
     I have been
        waiting
        waiting
        waiting
        And no one has come to walk beside me.
Perhaps, I thought, the watcher has been distracted
     by the lure of gold
        and the blinding glare of dollar $ign$.
Perhaps, the candlewick trimmer has returned
     to mundane existence
        forgetting the value of her charge.
Perhaps, the guardian was there
     watching my struggle
        but unable to recognize my once-warm face, now
        cooled by affliction.
Or perhaps they all died
     at a ripe old age
        wisdom locked in their bosoms.
No matter.
     No one has come.
So
I am still here,
     waiting
     waiting
     waiting
        for that guide
        who lives veiled in this thicket
           of symbols
           of rituals
           and heartfelt prayer
To notice my presence
     and lead me home.

don't look back, you're not going that way...

“If you knew who walked beside you at all times, on the path that you have chosen, you could never experience fear or doubt again.”

-A Course in Miracles

"To change one’s life: 1. Start immediately. 2. Do it flamboyantly. 3. No exceptions."

— WILLIAM JAMES

superstar...

"Long ago, and oh so far away.  I fell in love with you..."

 

 

 

because love is all there is...

"Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair."

-G.K. Chesterton

“Some day, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity,

we shall harness for God the energies of love.

  Then for the second time in

the history of the world, we will have discovered fire.”
― Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

the boll weevil had a birthday...

Actually, she had one in November.  Perfect number seven she is.  The Scorpio is spinning.  Why not celebrate for the rest of the year?  Why not, it's a big one!  One of those moments you savor.  The girl is a late bloomer.  That is for sure.  Took her quite a while to get her voice. They say that everything works out at just the right time.  So, the birthday list...it's the thing dreams are made of.  Scotland and Ireland, the Tiffany blue wallet, gotta, wanna have those Philip Simmons' charms, Grill 225, boots, boots, boots.  Can a girl ever have too many?  Don't tell.  She'd trade it all in for that cup of coffee.  And the girl doesn't even love coffee.

The Boll Weevil had a birthday.

i've got a horseshoe stuck up my butt...



• The Universe conspires to give me my heart's desire.
• I'm lucky.
• Everything always works out for me.
• It's smooth sailing on The Edge. 
• It happened at just the right time. 
• All the right people show up when I need them. 
• Dreams do come true. 
• My life is full of light and endless love. 
• It's all effortless. 
• It was worth the wait. 
• Money cometh.
• Who could have imagined it would be this good? 
• I just show up, and the magic happens. 
• Smiles heal broken hearts. 
• I live in gratitude. 
• Chance meetings change lives. 
• It's all good. 
• "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine." 
• Belly laughs erase wrinkles. 
• Lucky me wins the big prize. 
• Nobody does it better.
• I'm worth it! 
• I am happy. 
• The best is yet to be. 

"To offer no resistance to life is to be in a state of grace, ease, and lightness. This state is then no longer dependent upon things being in a certain way, good or bad. It seems almost paradoxical, yet when your inner dependency on form is gone, the general conditions of your life, the outer forms, tend to improve greatly. Things, people, or conditions that you thought you needed for your happiness now come to you with no struggle or effort on your part, and you are free to enjoy and appreciate them. Life flows with ease." 

- Eckhart Tolle




"there are years that ask questions and years that answer..." Zora Neale Hurston

It is a difficult thing to live with the questions...even more difficult to recognize the answers when they finally arrive.  I'm not into drugs and not much of a drinker, but I'm surprised to learn that I've lived on a healthy dose of the drug denial.   Akin to living in denial is a subtle second-guessing of every decision, every action, an every day wondering...will it work out, did I do the right thing, is this possible?  When I finally realized that the mistakes (lessons) I have made were the wholesale blunders fashioned out of a refusal to listen to my inner voice, my gut, my soul, my intuition, the holy within, I leapt out of the gate like a thoroughbred sweating for the wire, feeling the wind in my face.  Accepting total responsibility for one's life, good or bad, is a fearsome thing.  It's the dragon that breathes fire.  It's the gentle rain that massages the earth into giving forth its bounty. It energizes and terrorizes all once.  It. Is. The. Ultimate. Question.

"You cannot get sick enough to help sick people get better. You cannot get poor enough to help poor people thrive. It is only in your thriving that you have anything to offer anyone. If you're wanting to be of an advantage to others, be as tapped in, turned in, turned on as you can possibly be."   Esther Abraham-Hicks

 

living between the edges...

I live on a small island between the ever pulsing Atlantic and the mysterious Carolina marsh.  I have been thinking lately about what it means, physically and metaphorically, to live between the edges.  When I think about the recent horrors and the gunning down of innoccent children in Newtown, it strikes me that many times we (me) hide behind layers of protection...refusing to step forward to the front lines and bear the brunt of taking a stand.  We choose silence, which, in effect, is the same as being the problem.  After all, who would choose to be bullied for being the voice of the voiceless; the mender of the broken heart; the one who dries the tears of the dejected?  I yearn to speak my truth.  I want my voice to be heard but, like others, it is easy for me to hide behind the front lines.  I always say that I am a behind-the-scenes type person, but it is time now for all of us (me) to decide to do the right thing.  Because don't we always know what that is?  But to take a stand sets us apart from the status quo, our peer group, and regional views.  It forces moral growth.  It will inevitably alienate family, co-workers, church members, and friends.  So, we abdicate and choose to live between the edges-refusing to answer the call to courage.  And that call to courage for any soul is to live out its purpose; to speak its truth?

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
  Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
William Butler Yeats

  

once in a very blue moon...and to the god of second chances...

“Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, ‘Stay awhile.’
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, ‘It’s simple,’ they say,
‘and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.’”

 Mary Oliver “When I Am Among The Trees”