Packet of Wildflower Seeds

  Little red lines, Run far and free. Be a river whisking me to heaven; Let me drown in your life-giving force. Little red lines, Connect my scattered dots. Trace lines along this battered vessel; Shadow its empty hollows. Little red lines, Mingle with the air. After all, you are fed by oxygen, Though it no longer sustains me. Little red lines, Make my vision rosy. Paint the external world a vibrant hue; Leave me a sight to be seen. Little red lines, Take my breath away. Pour my soul into the earth And return me to my peaceful home. Little red lines, Be my map on this journey. Guide me to my destination; Outline my path along the way. -November 22, 2007- Sometimes I wish I had acted in 2007 instead of simply writing. Then I wouldn't be here, in the middle of this mess. I wouldn't be struggling with the pain, the isolation, the fear, and the questions surrounding a global pandemic. I wouldn't be wondering why inconvenience is a more powerful motivator than compassion for som...

 I was very isolated as a new mother. My husband worked shift work. Our neighbors kept to themselves. I had few friends and family members in the area; the ones I did have lived at least forty minutes away. None of them had children of their own, so they couldn't share the difficulties of that experience with me. When I moved back to my hometown and began seeing a counselor again, one of the first suggestions she made was to find some "mom friends." She recommended joining a new moms group. As a painfully shy individual and someone who is not a fan of forced social situations, her recommendation sounded terrible. I ignored her. The years went by, and my counselor kept pressing. "Have you made any mom friends yet?" When my kids started school, I told her that I talked to other moms at drop-off and pick-up. I had some of their numbers and took the kids to playdates with their kids. "It doesn't sound like they are mom friends, though," my counselor re...

Okay, now that my title has grabbed your attention, let me clarify. I am NOT a racist, but I would be foolish to pretend that my background and upbringing had no impact on my worldview.  For most, the primary factor in their beliefs is their family of origin. People often make jokes about their "racist grandparents," and while I never heard my grandparents say anything overtly offensive, I do remember my grandmother referring to the "coloreds" with a bit of disdain in her voice. There was another time a family member took me shopping and I was allowed to pick out a Barbie doll. I initially selected a doll with dark skin. My relative hesitated, then asked me to pick a different doll. I was old enough to notice the sole difference between the doll I wanted and the other dolls was the skin tone. Luckily, I was also mature enough to realize that wasn't right, but imagine the scenario from the perspective of someone younger: I was subtly being taught that color divid...

Now that we are in the full swing of summer, it seems I encounter at least one wedding anniversary post per day. There are pictures of couples smiling broadly at each other while they declare that they are still "madly in love" with their "best friend." Earlier this year, my husband and I celebrated our 11th anniversary. While my post was not as sentimental as some of the others I've seen, I did still share photos of us kayaking and climbing together to mark the occasion. I have previously shared how grateful I am to have my husband in my life, the instrumental role he played in first seeking help for my illness, and some of the ways we maintain our connection after all this time together (see "Telling Stories," "Love - Is It A Feeling Or A Choice," and "Til Death Do Us Part"). In many ways, though, my husband and I should not be a successful couple.  To some extent, we have opposite issues when fighting. My husband will exit the co...

My major project this summer was to clean out the attic. There were bins up there that had remained untouched since we moved into this house. I realized it was time to sort through them and let go of some things. I had bins full of notes from high school, college, and even optometry school. When I first saved them, I thought, "I may need to look back on these some day!" This time, I told myself that if I needed a refresher on any of the information, I could look it up elsewhere. I saved sentimental items, including notes and pictures from my friends. I also kept noticing awards that I had won in high school. Most of them were for science classes. This led me to reflect on my decision to study science. My choice was, in no small part, due to those awards. You see, I don't know if science is what I am "best" at doing. I may be a better writer. I may be better at interpersonal relationships. I'm not entirely sure. But I do know my class had an abundance of tale...

I have had some medical mysteries over the past year that remain unsolved. While they are relatively minor in nature, I generally catch a ride on the "worst case scenario" train and end up fretting that I am dealing with something serious that will only become more difficult to manage because it wasn't identified early enough. I am usually afraid while waiting for my appointments. And yet... There are other times I think to myself, "maybe God is finally giving me the end I requested." I try not to indulge in such thoughts, but there are moments I can't help it. Then I wish I would have my answer sooner so I could just get it over with. I ponder what would happen after I was gone. Who would come to my funeral? Did I make enough of an impact on any of my students that they would show up? Some of my friends live out of town; I don't see them very often anymore. Would they think the journey was worthwhile? Heck, some of my friends live in the same city, and ...

I write for a lot of reasons.  Sometimes, I simply like the way a word sounds or the feeling it evokes, so I craft a poem around that one word. "Obsidian" was my favorite word for a long time. It conveys depth, mystery, glossiness, and darkness all at the same time. Several poems from high school feature that term. Other times, I am writing to sort through my emotions. I've shared several examples of that already. Writing can be very therapeutic, though I admit it is powerless against my strongest episodes. Many times, I am writing to tell a story. A couple years ago, I shared my short story "Faded Glory," a ghost tale with a Civil War twist. In grade school, I would craft stories with my best friend as we explored the worlds of Star Wars  and  Pirates of the Caribbean.  I may share more about those in the future. Today I would like to talk about stories that also serve an emotional purpose. I have written tales and poems in which I allow myself to experience th...