Sunday Scribblings - Chocolate

February 14, 1970. A blind date the previous month was the beginning of their courtship. He was small in size compared to the typical college male, and he was quiet and reserved by nature. She was immaculate in appearance, and also quiet and reserved by nature. He came from a paternal line of Baptist preachers and a childhood filled with hope and encouragement. She came from a family of self-proclaimed Christians that practiced drinking and abuse rather than prayer. He was hopeful. She was skeptical. But on a fateful night in January, their paths crossed. And as he held an umbrella to shield her from the pouring rain, she saw a gentle soul and a kind heart being offered to her, a chance for understanding and compassion and, potentially, love.

It had only been a few weeks when Valentine’s Day arrived. Her expectations were low, as she had been programmed to expect little throughout her life. His hopes were high, as he had been taught the power of faith and the potentialities for happiness. A quiet, uneventful dinner and a heartfelt gift.

That night, he brought her an enormous lavender, heart-shaped box decorated with plastic lavender flowers. The box was not adorned in the typical red or pink hues of the holiday. The flowers on top were not the red roses of tradition. But inside lay the most delicious and succulent chocolates she had ever tasted. Beneath the tacky lavender exterior was a gift of warmth and comfort and love. Maybe that’s why February 14, 1970 was her most memorable Valentine’s Day.

Thirty-six years later, they still celebrate Valentine’s Day together, as well as every other day of the year. Much like the chocolates on that first holiday, he is also an incredible and unexpected gift beneath the outer coverings. Beneath his quiet nature and small stature, he is a man with a heart bigger than the world, filled with rich and delicious morsels of truth, wisdom, and comfort.

We never know what treasures may lie beneath the coverings of a lavender heart-shaped box of chocolates.

**This is a true story inspired by the love of my happily married parents. May their love always be as rich, warm, comforting, and filling as the most delicious chocolate!**

Ten Beans to Spill

I was tagged by Megg. So here are my…

Ten Beans to Spill

1. The week of my birthday is one of my favorite times of the year. I do the daily countdown starting approximately 3 weeks before the big day. My best girlfriend’s birthday is the day after mine and my best guy friend’s birthday is the day after hers…so we get 3 whole days of celebration!

2. I eat something sweet after every meal, even if it is only a bite of a cookie.

3. I feel most spiritual when I am surrounded by nature (whether it be the ocean, the mountains, or the desert).

4. I have a full-blown phobia of vomiting.

5. I only drink alcohol approximately once every one to two months, and usually only one glass of wine then (primarily due to my chronic stomach problems…which leads me to…

6. I have chronic stomach problems that began at the age of 14 and have continued on an almost daily basis since that time.

7. I once stood on a table in the Bahamas and sang “Dixie” to a crowd of guys as a way to get Mardi Gras beads (after refusing to show my boobies).

8. I really suck at cooking, cleaning, and sewing (though I enjoy trying to sew…and I did just make a seat cushion and throw pillows for my bay window reading nook in the new house:)

9. One of my favorite pastimes in college was riding 4-wheelers through cotton fields on Sunday nights, clinging tightly to the waists of some very beautiful, southern frat boys.

10. I knew my ex-husband for a total of 2 months before we got married (thank God for life lessons)!

Poetry Thursday - "footprints"

I’ve searched for over an hour now for the perfect poem to post...that one poem that speaks the words that need to be heard, that one poem that frees the emotions and sends a message of hope across thousands of miles and a timeless ocean. The poem I have searched for so desperately could not be found. Only after an hour of searching did I realize that I could not find this poem because this poem still lived within me. The connection of words, the release of pain, the imparting of kinship...the creation of my own soul that must now be drafted and sent out into this world.

**dedicated to Susannah, with love and hope**

footsteps

footsteps
carry us
down broken paths
under skies
of stormy gray
ebony nights
of restless fears
the ocean’s swells
pulling us further
and further from shore

footsteps
carry us
into gardens of light
under rays
of golden bliss
fragile dawns
of belief
of hope
the rainbow’s edge
greets us
at the foot of our beds

footsteps
carry us
on life’s journeys
of pain and pleasure
to depths of darkness
to majestic heights

footsteps
guide us
across miles
and oceans
down alleyways
into fields
where our footsteps
meet each other
where we
no longer walk alone

Sunday Scribblings - When We Were Wee

I find it quite odd, but there are many parts of my childhood I don’t remember. Maybe the experiences are still living somewhere within my mind and I just allow my consciousness to be filled with other things. Or maybe I just don’t stop enough and think, stop enough to cherish the beautiful memories that I do have of the days when the whole world, and I, were much smaller and much simpler.

Memories of….
Daddy and I going fishing at the pond near the airport…the family biking down deserted roads lined with towering oak trees…climbing over the boulders at an uninhabited beach…neighborhood games of hide-and-go-seek…day trips to the public library with Mama…going to Gibson’s with Pop-Pop and picking out assorted candies to fill the little pink and white striped bags…summer vacations to Daytona Beach…dancing to Kylie Minogue’s “Locomotion” in the talent portion of a local pageant…Mama Lindy’s home-made bread, topped with butter and cinnamon…being dared to dip my toes in the marsh water off the dock (and thinking this was as daring as life got)…singing hymns at a funeral service we held for my aunt’s fish…stealing gumdrops off the gumdrop tree at Christmas…giving my Sissy nightly back rubs in order to be granted permission to snuggle with her in her big canopied bed…holding hands with my best friend as we crossed the street from his house to mine and then having my heart broken for the first time when his family moved to Boston…eating cookie dough for supper when my Mama was out of town…reading to my stuffed animals…knowing that life was okay as long as Mama and Daddy and Sissy were around…

Of it all, it’s the pictures that come to my mind most easily. Those moments that were captured in eternal memory by one snap of the camera. Pictures of two little girls in pigtails, hands crossed upon our laps, smiling at the camera, at our parents, and at the world. How simple life was in those moments…in the days when we were wee!

Poetry Thursday - "moving day"

I know it’s time to post more poetry, but as I am in the midst of moving, all my poetry books are packed. I considered just skipping this week due to all the chaos, but alas, I cannot stay away. I must put something out there into this world today; I must offer something to you…something from me. And so here I go…writing some random, free form of poetry as it comes to me now, in this moment…

not even noon
sun blazing afire
from the cotton candy
blue of sky.

chilled in the shadows
a tinge of nerves
and the exhilaration
of new beginnings.

brown cardboard boxes
carried out and in
the path of hope
growing with each step.

chaotic complexity
of the impending day
broken over hot coffee
and good conversation.

cans of paint
quiet storm blue and
perfect white
creating a canvas of home.

the time has come
body moving, soul moving
trying to find balance
in a new era of life.

Sunday Scribblings - Real Life

Most of my life, “real life” has been muddled with fantasies and disillusions.

As a child, I was caught in an inner world of tormenting thoughts and rituals, believing that I must perform certain practices in order to ward off the tragedy I believed would befall my family. “Real life” meant endless counting and arranging and washing. It meant being teased by my peers and misunderstood by my parents. At the age of seven, “real life” was comprised by being fondled by a male student and then having my allegations negated by my teachers. “Real life” was consumed with fear and anxiety and an underlying sense of isolation. “Real life” meant finding my only solace through the “pretend” scenarios I played out alone within the confines of my bedroom walls. In order to avoid the fear and anxiety, fantasy became my primary way of coping with “real life”.

As a teenager, “real life” was a culmination of desperate attempts at self-annihilation. With my “pretend” scenarios no longer relieving the pain, I sought to merge my fantasy life with reality. I attempted to create a reality that would grant me escape from the anguish within. And yet my disillusioned attempts resulted only in a “real life” that scarred my body with self-inflicted wounds and scarred my heart with misguided efforts to obtain the love of multiple boyfriends.

As a college student, “real life” was a chance to start anew. It was an era of indulging my carefree youth. Surrounded by friends and sorority sisters and an endless stream of dates, “real life” finally appeared to be an approximation of my previous fantasies. And yet it was a “real life” that I created through hopes and dreams and words. In actuality, “real life” was simply a growth of fantasy, a persistence in merging my worlds of fantasy and reality.

As a young adult, I have finally began to experience a “real life” that does not necessitate a separation of good from bad, of fantasy from reality. “Real life” has been working 60 hour weeks and still finding time to relax by the pool. It has been the heartbreak of a failed marriage and the beginning of truly coming to know myself. It has been the formation of my identity and the acknowledgement of my past. “Real life” is pursuing my dreams, nourishing my relationships, and learning to soothe myself in the moments when pain is inevitable. “Real life” is still believing in soul mates, and yet realizing that true love cannot be forced or created or manifested through my imagination. It is the inner strength to overcome obstacles, to take risks, to challenge myself, and to embrace the cycle of life. “Real life” is real and authentic, frightening and exuberant, hopeful and heartbreaking.

“Real life” is waking up to see the world once tinged in hues of gray at last painted in vibrant colors. “Real life” is loving and living and learning, each day bringing another step along the path of growth.

**I hesitated many times before writing this post, knowing that I could go in many varied directions with this topic. However, I chose to write this, as a way to continue the growth that I have finally been able to begin in my current “real life”. Though it is difficult to write about some of this information and send it out into the world, I also needed to do this. I want you all to know a little more about me, about the past I have lived, and how it has led me to become the person I am today. Of course, this post does not even come close to telling the story of my life, but it is a window, and a window that I am finally willing to open.**

Poetry Thursday - Rumi

~A Voice Through the Door~

Sometimes you hear a voice through
the door calling you, as fish out of

water hear the waves, or a hunting
falcon hears the drum's come back.

This turning toward what you deeply
love saves you. Children fill their

shirts with rocks and carry them
around. We're not children anymore.

Read the book of your life which has
been given you. A voice comes to

your soul saying, Lift your foot;
cross over; move into the emptiness

of question and answer and question.

-Rumi-

Sunday Scribblings - What would you attempt...

What would you attempt if you knew you would not fail?

I’d climb mountains,
on native soil, in foreign lands.
I’d write a book,
or five or twenty.
I’d adopt a house full,
of orphaned kids, of abandoned pets.
I’d paint a masterpiece,
all profits for charity.
I’d stand on a stage,
song bellowing from my soul.
I’d travel the world,
speaking a universal language of love.
I’d speak to my grandfather,
from a heart full of compassion.
I’d counsel death-row inmates,
believing in the hope of salvation.
I’d make a quilt,
each piece a symbol of my life.
I’d plant a garden,
of vibrant flowers, of succulent vegetables.
I’d learn to fly a plane,
strapping my mama in beside me.
I’d speak to adolescent girls,
of the beauty and strength of women.
I’d live alone for a month,
with Nature as my sole companion.
I’d say “I love you”
to those who deeply touch my soul.
I’d live every moment
as if it were my last.


**Picture from alaskayachtcharter.net***