Out there in the world we encounter all shades and shapes and flavors; and the variety might be tempting if one fails to recognize the value of what‘s right here…

Right here

In my heart

I know

I have all I need.

I have you.

Deep and dark and true

Intense, complex,

Sometimes tannic, sometimes sweet,

Layered, luscious, ambrosial, complete.

Sumptuous and scrumptious,

 Exceptional,

Delectable.

I take you

Into every inch of me.

~ Heaven ~

Hold on!

This passion, this obsession, this commitment to the “we “

Promises to be

Sensual, artisanal,

Synchronously bittersweet.

A love affair.

Or a box of chocolates.

*Both collages were made entirely of chocolate packaging and Sharpies©

Regarding LOVE. Words from Wikipedia:

“Studies have shown that brain scans of those infatuated by love display a resemblance to those with a mental illness. Love creates activity in the same area of the brain where hunger, thirst, and drug cravings create activity. New love, therefore, could possibly be more physical than emotional.”

Ha!

That explains it.

The Heartache.

Did we not break through?

To intimacy?

I loved you.

Crazy love, mad love, heart-racing glad love.

Smiling at the thought of you.

Butterflies when a text came through.

Sweet goodnights, raucous hellos,

Attraction, passion, bedfellows.

Reckless abandon, a jangle of words.

And limbs

And whims

And nerves.

Fear stepped in.

The end.

I loved you.

I thought you loved me too.

Was it true?

…

Coward!

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday…Heartache, Jangle, Reckless

Perfect Pairs.

It’s simpler than you think.

~

Choose wisely.

It’s not about bods or beauty or bucks.

Heat.

Heat?

Yes!

~

Oh, yes!

Heat is primary.

Laughter, intellect, trust,

A must.

~

Go from there.

~

Look for the good,

Overlook?

Yes, some.

Discuss

What can’t be overcome.

~

Be a team,

Put the other first.

Warning!

Focus on it,

You’ll see the worst,

So don’t.

~

Cultivate passion.

Underscore romance.  

Adoration, never ration.

Always choose to dance.

~

And know this:

There will be valleys,

Learn to survive.

There will be peaks.

Toward them, strive.

It’s worth the effort.

~

It’s simpler than you think.

It’s harder, too.

I AM in the minority and I know it. I like Mondays.

Every Monday marks the beginning of a new week when everything seems possible. I reflect on the gifts and good times I’ve just enjoyed, find peace and purpose in the new day, firm up plans for the upcoming week and anticipate the blessings that I know will be mine. But as a child, I absolutely relished Mondays. 

Monday marked the beginning of the school week and I loved school. Monday plopped me into my element; and for the next five days I could learn and read and play, and do my best to please the adults around me and hide my truths from the neighborhood kids. Mondays marked the first day of safety, freedom and relief. Back then, beginning Friday afternoon at three, I kept my inner eye on Monday as the weekend loomed ahead.

While, for most kids, weekends meant parties and movies and happy, family fun, for my siblings and me, that was only an occasional truth. For us, Friday night through Sunday, 7 p.m. was a time to be endured. During those hours my dad, plagued by psychic dragons never slain, tormented his family. A mean alcoholic, he’d start drinking during the drive home from work and wouldn’t stop until he passed out at day’s end. During the week, he got up and went to work in the morning, and the rest of us went about our days with cautious, contained calm. We laughed and played and fulfilled our responsibilities in relative contentedness.

On weekends, our world changed. Friday evenings were tolerable because Dad was celebrating the end of the work week and his attitude was fairly upbeat. Bad things did not usually happen on Friday. But as the weekend rolled on, the firestorm would brew, and it grew.

So long as we were quiet, Saturday mornings were sometimes safe since Dad, nursing a hangover, retreated to his shop or CB radio desk, and kept his distance from four kids and all that they meant. Often, he was still feeling the previous night’s buzz when he drank his morning coffee. Two cups down, he’d switch to Coor’s talls with salt on the rim. (When the Teamster’s banned Coor’s he switched to Bud; and I wonder if he, a rabid homophobic, ever understood that he joined the increasingly influential gay community in “showing those non-union bastards.” Ya gotta smile.)

Come noon, the looming tension felt like a physical threat. By three, name-calling began. If we were lucky, he took a nap in the late afternoon and we got a time out. If not, the day was really long. At five, criticism and demands regarding dinner ensued. By seven we were “stupid, lazy, sons-o’-bitches,” “fat-assed good-for-nothings,” or some equally inadequate sort. As the sun went down, his fiery malevolence rose, fueling an illogical anger that propelled hatred, fists and leather belts.

Sundays, I tried to escape because they were scary and depression enrobed me. This “Sunday Sadness” remained my norm for decades before I figured it out and let it go. Because control was my dad’s favorite tool, getting away was never easy. “No,” was his favorite word. So I chose to go to my grandparents, go to church, study, do a school project or read. Anything to prevent our paths from crossing. Often I heard his ranting, but avoided the inevitable physical end. 

Sunday nights were often blessed because by then he just passed out. We’d nurse our wounds, spiritual, emotional and physical, while we watched “The Wonderful World of Disney”   in relative peace and look forward to the next five days. And then Monday came. As a child, I absolutely relished Mondays.

When she heard the girl was sick ~ and always would be.

“Not my daughter.”

“She’s brilliant. We prize that.”

~

She raged as illness unfolded.

Living the day-in, the day-out, fearing dreams would never come about.

“This is not our life!”

She had such plans. She cherished them. She clung.

~

She trembled when the crazy bubbled up.

When her fear, fueled by helplessness, boiled on over with it.

She’d always had control.

That’s how she lived.  She controlled.

~

She prayed when hope refused to settle in.

When getting through a day sans crisis was success.

“God can do miracles.”

“We need one. I’ll do whatever it takes.” She begged.

~

She mourned as miracles failed to manifest.

When she knew the girl was sick and always would be.

When she knew her mind was truly ill.

She, they, so prized it.

…time…

She loved when they spent time together.

When the girl chose to live and she chose to live beside her.

When she knew their plans had changed, but that the change was right and good.

They would move on. They would be well.

~

And now.

They rejoice.

She is ill, but lives, stays, well.

Lives, loves, learns. Well.

And ~ blessed be ~ brilliance, bravery, beauty ~ accompany.

They, too, are here to stay.

Windows open,

The breeze glides in,

Lapping at my skin,

Reminding of delicious times gone by.

~

Eyes closed,

I relish the moment.

The air glides, gently caressing neck, cheek,

Moving into memory.

~

How firmly connected, memory and heart.

Encouraging the other to love and love and love

Based on a shared past filled with moments

Of which no one else is privy.

~

Shared memories. Shared hearts.

Is there such a thing?

Oh, yes!

We agreed upon exactly that, lifetimes ago.

~

And now we live it.

And all it takes is an evening breeze

To remind me

Of the rightness of that choice.

Early on, one yearns for it ~

The chance to be alone,

Responsible

For only oneself.

Then, when opportunities arise

Enjoyment of separation?

Near impossible!

The invisible ties?

They bind.

~

Slowly,

O’er years

A distance, comfortable, grows wider.

‘Out of sight,’ somewhat acceptable,

For a little while, at least.

But as a day wears on,

Heartstrings tug.

And reunion comforts, Strengthening the ties.

~

Later,

Times apart expand

Enfolding days or even weeks.

But a sense of right is fragile

‘Til communion comes again,

The common threads more tightly knit, but subtly drape and flow.

~

Ultimately,

Success.

Independence.

Directions deviate.

Occasional convergence, is the norm

And the brief little whiles seem right.

Days spent together bring joy.

Those invisible ties woven into a loving comfort-cloth,

Growing ever more precious over time.

In a long line of poets.

~

My grandmother,

Now ninety-eight,

Spent lifetime writing about her God.

She writes about how “He Lives!”

And how “Great He Is.”

How he offers up chocolate when hunger gnaws,

And a ten dollar bill when there is nothing.

He is her Master as well as her Salvation.

Her Source, her Solace, her sole Inspiration.

~

My mother,

Much younger,

Spent days scattered through years writing about her life.

She writes about love and children

And how great they are.

How they offer up a busy day when depression threatens,

And hope, when there is none.

They are her Challenge as well as her Comfort.

Her Dreams, her Accomplishments, her Future.

~

My daughter,

Much younger still,

Spent hours writing about this world and its inequities.

She writes about joy and despair

And how they affect reality‘s perception.

How they roam through her life with a life of their own,

Leaving impressions as reminders of what has been endured.

They are her Teachers as well as her Nemeses

Her Motivators, her Fears, her Companions.

~

I,

Marking my age near the middle,

Spend hours, days, weeks, writing about them all.

I write about lessons learned and connections made,

And how they nurture growth.

How they forge the way back to God,

Creating opportunities to correct mistakes and try again.

They are my Source, my Dreams, and my Motivation.

~

Together,

We write the vital, the real,

Telling a history (herstory) of divine women,

Each doing her best, in her own way,

To figure it out and move forward.

When you cannot be with me?

Do you seek fulfillment

In that place I cannot see?

Is your other world

A better place to be?

Go, then.

But always,

Be.