Category Archives: Writing

Escorting the Dead; Harvesting Life

1 September 2012

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Through the years I have been drawn into the death walk of a few people; women who have reached the end of their lives and are waiting only on that last breath. Sitting close to them and holding their hands, resting with them in companionship and support, waiting with them for that final journey, I have come to recognize the landscape. Sometimes it is dark and frightening and I can sense the fear of the unknown that permeates the aura. More than once I have encountered the dying patients’ desire to wait, usually for a loved one to come near. My own personal experience of this are images and sensations of a quiet beach at sunset, a small boat waiting nearby, a peaceful soul resting and waiting. If I ever question what I am experiencing I remember a dear friends’ mother who finally let go only an hour after her son arrived from out of town.

This morning I heard that my son’s father has come to that place. He is now in the hospital and the doctors are urgently trying to discover what happened before his wife found him after she arrived home from work. The pain and grief of my son and his mother is palpable, of course, as they wait by the bedside of their loved one, not understanding, maybe not even accepting the fact that this man’s journey is almost done. Caught in fear, they are unable to do more than frantically wait for someone in authority to find an answer. It is the season of harvest, and I am reminded of what that truly means.

Harvest season is a joyful time for many. Farmers rejoice as the labor of the spring and summer finally begin to pay off. I, myself, look forward to gathering herbs, freezing corn, canning beans and making jelly from the local markets’ fresh fruit. The evenings become crisp and cool, the autumn colors enrich us as the afternoon sun sets the leaves on fire with red and gold tones and we pull out those sweatshirts and sweaters and go to the Friday night football games. And most people view Halloween as the prelude to the holiday season.

But there is an undercurrent to the autumn season that gets covered up with those joyful things that we experience during August, September and October. It is a time of death and dying. The colors of the leaves are signal that their time is coming to an end. The ears of corn that will taste of summer during the winter months are the culmination of the plants’ life. And when the last of the leaves fall to blanket mother earth and prepare Her for that time of resting, the bare limbs that are stark against the winter sky are the symbolic skeletons, the bare bones, that are exposed as life recedes.

So it is with humans. We have a certain amount of time here, this lifetime. No one knows for sure how long it lasts. It is up to us how we live, what seeds we plant in our own springtime. When our season comes to an end and we begin to withdraw from life, we can realize that just as the seeds fall to the earth and go within to rest, it is only a step in the process of living, whether you believe you go to Heaven, or wait in the Summerland to reincarnate, it is not the end.

I am entering into the autumn of my own life. It has been full of goodness and difficulty. I have realized that part of my journey entails walking with those to the edge of the Sunless Sea, in support and companionship. This realization has reminded me that while the better half of this life is over, I have much to harvest from it. I want to live each day fully and joyfully as a crone with an attitude. And when I can hold the hand and assist with another’s final journey, I am harvesting from my own life the blessings and gratitude of receiving the gift of companionship and assistance from fellow travelers.

Live life fully. Go for the gusto and inhale deeply the essence of who you are and what your own gifts are. Give back. Pay it forward. And remember that when a loved one passes on, it is not the end, but another beginning.

Paraskevidekatriaphobics – Friday the 13th

13 July 2012

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From USAToday:

For those of you with paraskevidekatriaphobia and/or triskaidekaphobia, today is not your day.

For the third time this year, we’re seeing a Friday the 13th. (Paraskevidekatriaphobics have a fear of Friday the 13th.) That’s the most that can occur in a single calendar year, according to Tom Fernsler, a mathematician at the University of Delaware who is — yes — the nation’s expert on the number 13.

And for the first time since 1984, those three Friday the 13ths — Jan. 13, April 13 and July 13 — are exactly 13 weeks apart, not good news for triskaidekaphobics, who have a fear of the number 13.

Cue the Psycho slasher music.

According to an article in the International Business Times, many sources claim that fear of Friday the 13th is the No. 1 superstition held by Americans. The Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, N.C., estimates that roughly 17 million to 21 million people suffer from fear of the number 13.

Fernsler, who is also known as “Dr. 13,” says that not only is the number 13 often considered unlucky, but Friday also has a reputation as a day of bad luck. For instance, it was the day Christ was crucified. Also, Judas, Jesus’ apostle and betrayer, is believed to have been the 13th guest at the Last Supper.

“If you’re not superstitious, maybe you should be” says Fernsler. “Eighty-seven percent of all the people in the world are superstitious about something. The other 13 percent are liars.”

Contributing: Wade Malcolm, The (Wilmington, Del.) News Journal; The (Monroe, La.) News-Star

 

I don’t know about you, but I’m staying in bed today……

Ahhh…derecho?

10 July 2012

8 Comments

My last days at the greenhouse for the summer season were stinking HOT! After the big blow of 2012, the straight line winds clocked at 89, and the searing 104 degree temps, I am so ready for a siesta. That’s one hundred and four degrees in NW Ohio. O. My. Stars.  From Wikipedia***

A derecho (play /dəˈreɪtʃoʊ/; Spanish pronunciation: [deˈɾetʃo]; day-RAY-cho) is a widespread, long-lived, straight-line windstorm that is associated with a fast-moving band of severe thunderstorms. Generally, derechos are convection-induced and take on a bow echo form of squall line, forming in an area of divergence in the upper levels of the troposphere, within a region of low-level warm air advection and rich low-level moisture. They travel quickly in the direction of movement of their associated storms, similar to an outflow boundary (gust front), except that the wind is sustained and increases in strength behind the front, generally exceeding hurricane-force. A warm-weather phenomenon, derechos occur mostly in summer, especially during June and July in the Northern Hemisphere, within areas of moderately strong instability and moderately strong vertical wind shear. They may occur at any time of the year and occur as frequently at night as during the daylight hours.

This storm tore up my little Midwestern town. Many people were without power for 6 days. I was lucky and only had to deal with three days without my guilty pleasure-air conditioning. We were lucky and had no damage.

Mother Nature has a mighty hand and I am reminded of her power when I see this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is just one of hundreds of trees that were shredded, had tops blown off, or completely uprooted by the powerful winds of June 29.

After driving around to help friends and neighbors and seeing the devastation, I come away with the renewed awareness of the tenuous hold we have on “normal”. I have never been one to put too much faith in ‘normal’, believing instead that each of us has a divine destiny and although they differ, all paths lead in the same direction. But this is the year that life may be altered on December 21 and watching the climate changes, freaky weather, and the atrocities that humans heap on each other, I begin to wonder if we don’t have some kind of tilt coming, a ‘hump day’ so to speak, when enough of us are ready for change to make the change happen.

That’s a good thing, if the majority is ready for peace. But what if it tilts the other way? What if the majority of us is tired of our neighbors eccentricities, our governments’ rants, our dying planet?  What if….?

I am grateful for ice cream, grandchildren’s messy kisses, friends that stick by me. What are you grateful for? What will you do on December 21, 2012? What majority do you belong to?

 

 

 

 

 

A Something in a Summer’s day..

10 June 2012

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“A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon –
A depth — an Azure — a perfume –
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see –
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me –
The wizard fingers never rest –
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed –
Still rears the East her amber Flag –
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red –
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay –
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!”
-  Emily Dickinson, A Something in a Summer’s Day

Lucky 7! – Tagged

11 April 2012

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I haven’t joined in a flash challenge, contest or anything lately so when I was Tagged – Lucky 7 style by Yikici, I hesitated at first. But I couldn’t resist. So here is the deal. I get to tag 7 more people. Here are the directions for those lucky people!

First:

Go to page 7 or 77 in your current manuscript
-Go to line 7
-Post on your blog the next 7 lines, or sentences, as they are – no cheating
Tag 7 other authors to do the same. Seven sentences…

 

Now…here are my lines from The Diary:

Wide as she was tall Rhoda waddled around the spotless kitchen, frying bacon and pouring milk, preparing breakfast. Raign ran her fingers through her dark tousled hair as she watched the housekeeper slowly stirring the heavy iron pot, a large wooden spoon in her hand. The smell of Rhoda’s wizardry at the stove comforted her.

“Shouldn’t we be out looking, Rhoda?”

Rhoda paused as she stirred the vat of bacon gravy and turned to look at the distraught girl, her eyes still moist.

“We will, Miss Raign. But we can’t do anything in the dark.”

Ted stepped into the kitchen, followed by Daniel, and went directly to Rhoda. Not much taller than her, he put his arm across his wife’s shoulders and whispered something in her ear. Rhoda nodded her head as Ted turned to Raign. When he saw her eyes, dark violet and haunted against her pale skin, he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Wow! that was easier than I thought!

Sonia Medieros, Haley Whitehall, Joss Burnell, Billie Jo Woods, M.J. Shorts, Ranae Rude, Terri Sonoda

Tag! You are it!

 

 

Going to the Mountain

8 April 2012

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A lot has been happening…lots of changes, all good! I went to visit my daughter for a few days in North Carolina, then on to visit my spiritual sister in western NC. Loved it so much I took my partner to see it; it looks like we may have found our new home! Exciting and scary.

Since we are in the Growing Tide (Spring Crossroads to Summer Solstice) I am focusing my thoughts and actions towards manifesting the perfect home in Black Mountain. When trying to produce such a complex thing, it takes a lot of visualization and clear thinking to let the gods know exactly what we are looking for. Size, cost, location; all are important to me. My partner picked the name from the map, saying it sounded good. She repeated it several times during our travels, unwittingly answering a subtle call from this little town outside of Asheville. So we drove there on a beautiful spring morning and were both instantly in love.

We toured the town and now have a good grip on the energy and vitality of the land. Stopping at a little bistro for lunch, our waitress just ‘happened’ to have recently moved there and during our conversation we discovered several options for finding a house. These little synchronicities are so important in following your bliss. Flowing with the river, dipping into the magickal realm and listening closely for clues is the secret to manifestation. It felt right, and so I did my part and set the ball in motion, so to speak. With realtors phone numbers, pictures, receipt from the bistro, and a sprig of dogwood laying on my altar, I let go and let the powers that be do their thing.

Moving is a very big deal, as most people know, especially when I am beyond the hump in my years. But the advantage of being older is that my faith is stronger. Years of experience  have taught me that allowing things to happen in due course is the best way to find a peaceful path. So! I am slowing packing, still letting go of unnecessary possessions, and waiting with joy for the next clue!

Many Blessings on the Path!

The Peabodys

2 April 2012

9 Comments

Just a little something to keep you up at night…..

 

The Peabodys

The stair creaks beneath my feet as I wave my hand frenetically to clear the cobweb from my face. Catching my breath, I listen, my body rigid with fear. The empty house above remains silent and after counting to 30, I continue up through the dark, step by step toward the first floor.

The railing beneath my left hand feels grimy with the dirt and blood of those who have come before. I don’t want to touch it, but cannot let it go; my ankles throb from the heavy chains that kept me tethered to the floor. I had finally been able to slip out of the bonds, leaving my ankles bloody and bruised. Even though my captors slept in the attic their hearing was keen. I would not take the chance of falling in the dark and waking them up.

~

I had crossed the fence that marked the boundary between Old Man Carter’s wheat field and Deadwood Forest out of sheer obstinacy. Clarissa, my little sister, begged me not too, then told me I was stupid to try. She reminded me of the stories about the Peabody family, the poor group of souls that had been murdered in their home by some rampaging lunatic that had escaped the asylum. She reminded me that the ghosts of the murdered family were the reason that people that went in, never came out. But I didn’t believe in ghosts and that story was fifty years old, just a fairy tale used to keep children away from the deep woods. Or so I thought. After becoming lost, I had stumbled around in the dark until I heard voices. Frantic, I called out for help, following the sound. I heard laughter from right behind me, a sudden pain from a blow to the head, then nothing.

My fear has turned cold over the last three weeks. At least I think it has been three weeks. Days of huddling in the corner of the basement chamber was followed by nights of screams I hear coming from someplace close by. The same screams that drew me to the mist shrouded house squatting deep inside the forest, and its inhabitants.~

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, I lean toward the solid wooden door, listening, and wondered fleetingly about the unlocked basement door. Not one to question luck until recently, I took it as a mistake, hoping that it was not a trap. Hearing nothing from the other side, I reach for the handle and slowly push. The door creaks quietly. From another room nearby I hear the chiming of an old clock. 1, 2, I step up the final step; 3, 4, 5, still no sounds or movement except for the chimes. Gingerly peering around edge of the door and I glance into the kitchen; 6, 7, 8, 9; stepping silently away from the door I carefully close it and the latch clicks as the last chimes echo through the house, 10, 11, 12.

The stench assaults me, the cloying odor of old blood and rotting meat, and beneath that something far more frightening. Backing up against the door, I turn away from the kitchen with my hand across my mouth and begin to limp toward the room from which the clock had chimed. I felt the gorge rising in my throat and fight to keep from vomiting. The front door is just a few steps away, the darkness is nearly complete save for a lighter square that marks a small window to the outside. My heart is pounding so loud in my ears that I barely heard the click that preceded the blinding light that blazes suddenly from overhead.

“SURPRISE!” the voices growled, the voices from the people that sat around the crusted dining table, spoons, knives and forks held aloft.

It was my turn to scream