Traffic

Many of you hate it. Today I embrace it as I sit in the back of a car with my son Luke. He is happy with his autism always giving me a child in an adult’s body. We both sense an awareness of contentment as the radio softly nurtures us with a melody of love and joy. 

In the front seat my youngest son discusses life with his dad. He pauses to look back at me smiling and gently puts his hand on my knee. 

I put mine over his.  He is home from classes for a short week. Summer will be  over soon. 

My heart is full in these moments. These are them tucked away in my memories. Nothing can steal this time. I feel filled up with all I need. 

Traffic is all around, but I am not driving. All is well on my road. 

Smelling The Roses For Her

“This is heavy…” He was right.  

“Yeah.”  The flowers helped me concentrate on something else. Her death was heavy.  His perspective was ..”death is final. That’s it.”  I didn’t see it that way.   

The curtains to the “other” side was torn down for her.  Windows were opened when she took her last breath. My view is my friend’s death was a setting free. Not an end, but a new beginning. 

There is no forgetting her. Family will not. Nor will friends. Nature will keep her alive in my mind.  My concentration is on God’s natural beauty while I remember. Released from the earthly pain, I catch my breath.

Today is all I have and will make it count.  Ready for a day for God to show me the sun as I walk and smell the roses for her. 
 

Ceiling Prayers

Many times I have felt like my prayers only reached the ceiling. Can you relate?

As I entered a hotel in Las Vegas,  the most beautiful glass ceiling mesmerized my conscious. I wondered again about God and my earnest prayers only going so far.

Gathering

The arts mean more to me in my 50’s than any other previous decade of my life thus far. It may have to do with the fact I did not have as much time to appreciate and embrace human creative skills and imagination.  I truly believe that the arts are meant to make us better people because of their beautiful and emotional power.

Story-tellers

Poor Fred. What’s his story?

The river water was dirty.  To see the bottom would be impossible.  The enticing stone’s glistening blue hues was lost after  dropping it into the muddy water.  Those hues reminded me in some retrospective way to the eloquent characteristics we find in the people we surround ourselves with.  They are not the flaws, although they do exist.  Rather the parts in the human spirit we long for in someone we know dearly.  Some of our friends and family brighten up in ways that individually we can not attain. Maybe this is what attracts each of us to one another.

The water with all its mucky and slimy attributes can cover the bottom’s rich colors of what has been lost such as the brilliant blue stone.  The same  goes for life itself.   We find differing colors in others.  It is a good thing to separate the mucky waters from the jewels at times.  Such is the life of a story-teller.  Even the dirt can show humanity, but underneath this is a real human being.  We must sublimely tell the story.  Perhaps it is our own to tell,  of which the path can be dark, yet  slowly we can find our way.

Story tellers and their storytelling is a true art.  There are those that do it well.  My grandmother was such a person.  She took the good out of the bad situation and “forgot” the negative.   Is it correct to do so? Good question.  It depends.   The truth is not always pretty.   At times though,  if we tell the stories doesn’t it seem better to honor the good in someone than the bad? I am conflicted with this.  I then think perhaps my grandmother was onto something.  Maybe she was showing just a tiny glimpse by taking out the bad what awaits us in  heaven.  It is said there will be no more darkness like the murky river water, rather a Light will shine for our path.  That is the real story.

Dedicated to those who have died way too young. Go to my genealogy on the home page for topics about interesting story telling.