tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32197320840821732702024-03-04T21:17:36.827-08:00"...A COMMON SLICE..." Cheyanna WestAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12898494486877976684noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3219732084082173270.post-82977033501083921772012-12-24T18:53:00.002-08:002012-12-24T18:53:22.322-08:00Star light star bright, first star I see tonight…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkH8ZBO-R4iEtCUQi54FhyN31iBltj_Z5fdJe-jzWfHGHo_Hq6E316QpeI-Q693AmufZhmnfewfM6S7WUxyCiinQbdZp3UZw6zjUKK3FQz4vaP6tDf8lgQEV1OHyb_ebKBeySior5ra1UW/s1600/Wishing+Stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkH8ZBO-R4iEtCUQi54FhyN31iBltj_Z5fdJe-jzWfHGHo_Hq6E316QpeI-Q693AmufZhmnfewfM6S7WUxyCiinQbdZp3UZw6zjUKK3FQz4vaP6tDf8lgQEV1OHyb_ebKBeySior5ra1UW/s200/Wishing+Stars.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
When you are creeping closer to sixty that fifty, hope has a
different meaning than when you were young.
Looking back for some is painful, hopes and dreams slipped through our
fingers, often out of our control. But
somehow, after the broken dreams have burned to ashes we become like the <st1:city>Phoenix</st1:city>,
and a different person emerges. Sometimes
that person may pull us down a road we don’t want to travel. Then the cycle
repeats it’s self again and again, even when we don’t want it to.<br />
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A wise friend once told me “If you always do what you have
always done you will always get the same results.” To change those results you have to realize
that you are NOT the same person you were before your world fell apart. You have learned what you DON’T want, so look
for what you really do. Believe in yourself. Perhaps try the H.O.P.E. plan of action.</div>
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<b>H</b>eart – Be brave
and knock down the wall around your heart (One brick at a time)</div>
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<b>O</b>pen – Be open to
new ideas, dream a little</div>
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<b>P</b>ossibilities – Thinking
ahead, seeing different options, open minded</div>
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<b>E</b>ndless – Realize
this is a big world. Think outside of
your little box!</div>
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Hope can be renewed if you just believe in your new self,
wiser for the years you have traveled the road of life. With a new year approaching it is a great
time to make a difference in YOUR life. Giving
up is not an acceptable option!</div>
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Go ahead... wish upon a star! </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12898494486877976684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3219732084082173270.post-67824682807014043302012-11-30T10:45:00.000-08:002012-11-30T11:11:22.571-08:00Where is the Magic?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzL9DEu_X0IfTQY7BsigXYKxPWt8wwFdIjY8Aygq6hQP1JL6P2tU2bpxWQ5VZQEOtPaX5CQEGFYfuXGGNpjuo-aj3uDeMGrS8jB1QV_BlFpiTO6hUKU4UvJItvcv5dbuNAf3UwXdhDBNKf/s1600/Magic+Wand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzL9DEu_X0IfTQY7BsigXYKxPWt8wwFdIjY8Aygq6hQP1JL6P2tU2bpxWQ5VZQEOtPaX5CQEGFYfuXGGNpjuo-aj3uDeMGrS8jB1QV_BlFpiTO6hUKU4UvJItvcv5dbuNAf3UwXdhDBNKf/s200/Magic+Wand.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
We all know those lucky or some would say blessed couples
that have been married twenty, thirty, forty even fifty years. Their lives have not always been easy, but
there was a special magic that held them together. Alas, I am not one of them,
but not for the lack of trying. The fact
is I have been married 4 times for a total of 28 years. The magic was never
there.</div>
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Born with a heart the size of <st1:state>Texas, i</st1:state>t has been broken
more times than I can count. Always
listening with my heart, and ignoring the “wiser” council from my head, has
left me settling for less than I truly wanted.
Don’t get me wrong, there have
been many happy years and lots of love shared.
However the deeper, enduring, forever kind of love has always been
elusive and the magic was not to be found. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNPbAOAQ7K7Rt-pAl8bLaIeCnE6XYi9qbtWB6yzCZpCrOfhW4lYpkjlQfBbckpycuuDdsN_DofaM5ZC1zGGl_yz4WPjyo6qjNlyDdXzPk3E2b8V3LDJy3sd7KRTj9pyh8pgdy8kgvJZQZ/s1600/Broken+Heart+(85+x+81).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNPbAOAQ7K7Rt-pAl8bLaIeCnE6XYi9qbtWB6yzCZpCrOfhW4lYpkjlQfBbckpycuuDdsN_DofaM5ZC1zGGl_yz4WPjyo6qjNlyDdXzPk3E2b8V3LDJy3sd7KRTj9pyh8pgdy8kgvJZQZ/s1600/Broken+Heart+(85+x+81).jpg" /></a>Emptiness at times consumes my soul. Unstoppable tears fall like an angry tornado. Eventually both the storm and the tears
dissipate and life moves on. Questions flood my mind. Where is the joy? How did I end up like this? Will I always be alone, unloved? Seemingly powerless to change my future I have
drifted into a state of numbness. Going
through the monitions of daily life but detached, as if watching a movie of
someone else’s story. A fog of despair
thickens and I withdrawal deeper into myself, lost like a child surrounded by
strangers. With out love…. there is nothing.
Magic… forever lost. These
thoughts dance across the windows of my mind and leave me wanting.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofP5i2RfJmNxaMfQF6ifv8rtraGnlgkqcq661t41o_OJWK5mM3IXNqSy5Qs85sN3oCcWqGlBNGRIsRD-8iIG7mTar0GLMb2J0zFSQWeTZvTHsY8sizJh5vIjtui_JY6yCLGg-Vm_wxM1e/s1600/heart+wand2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofP5i2RfJmNxaMfQF6ifv8rtraGnlgkqcq661t41o_OJWK5mM3IXNqSy5Qs85sN3oCcWqGlBNGRIsRD-8iIG7mTar0GLMb2J0zFSQWeTZvTHsY8sizJh5vIjtui_JY6yCLGg-Vm_wxM1e/s200/heart+wand2.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
The good news…those scenes are only imagined. Will I allow the sunshine of hope to burn away the fog of despair? Slowly, ever so gradually, my heart warms, and I see once again the blank pages of my future. I realize they are yet mine to write. Stepping boldly forward I try once again. Gathering strength of will and a determination born of despair, my quest for the magic begins anew.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12898494486877976684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3219732084082173270.post-36876471009081440102012-10-11T08:15:00.000-07:002012-10-11T15:26:50.301-07:00The Invisible Pen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioPL-EwioS1liRKs1W0ALFHp2ik4WSIyY6LYsoqQZp_-BAGLqv_zdLa0fR-O2PUeDancdmutZ2zjVZT2Fd4hovgYExZucnlRRil0a3p2YYttTMoYfj5DzZQO4egt0IR_StK-t4SP81swaL/s1600/fountain-pen2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioPL-EwioS1liRKs1W0ALFHp2ik4WSIyY6LYsoqQZp_-BAGLqv_zdLa0fR-O2PUeDancdmutZ2zjVZT2Fd4hovgYExZucnlRRil0a3p2YYttTMoYfj5DzZQO4egt0IR_StK-t4SP81swaL/s200/fountain-pen2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<strong>My journey as a writer began before my first memories.</strong></div>
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Born into a family where mother read me stories before I understood letters and father challenged me with Reader’s Digest “Word Power” and crossword puzzles I was surrounded by words from the day of my birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s a girl!” the doctor declared as he tapped the ashes from his cigar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To some that declaration would have been good news to my family it was a miracle.</div>
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It seems highly unfair that you have no control over the ultimate beginning of your life. Sometimes the situation is not ideal, such was my case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents were married less than three months before I appeared in the wee hours of a cold December’s morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None the less, I was welcomed with smiles from all around, or so I was told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both my parents had previous families with older children, all boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus said, I was spoiled from day one being my aunts’ only niece and grandmother’s only granddaughter. (They were readers also.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact one grandmother had been a school teacher and the other a librarian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was destined to be surrounded by the world of words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words that protected the shy little girl when no one wanted to play, the lonely teenager with a hundred broken hearts and the wife and mother that needed to escape from reality, words were my defenders, the real hero’s of my life.</div>
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You might rightly believe that reading brought me to writing and in part that is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, it was the invisible pen that started my journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will explain…</div>
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I learned to make coffee in an old fashioned percolator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carefully I measured the dark brown coffee into the little silver basket, placed it on the stem, then into pot already filled with just the right amount of water and added the lid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a little heavy so mother put it on the stove and turned on the burner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat, somewhat impatiently, on the old red step stool chair waiting and watching for the water to boil and for the perking to begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little explosions in the glass top lid were at first light brown and turned darker and darker with each small blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The aroma filled our bright little kitchen and I knew it was done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother poured the rich brown liquid into a white glass cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lifted the lid of our cherry red tomato shaped sugar bowl and added three heaping spoons of the white granules into the cup and stirred. Mother put a saucer beneath then slowly and carefully I lifted them together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mission, deliver the coffee to daddy without spilling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rarely did I succeed as I maneuvered out of the kitchen, around our huge red brick fireplace, through the living room, down the hall and into daddy’s room.</div>
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“Thank you!” he always said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That smells delicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you make it yourself?”</div>
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“I sure did, but I spilled a little,”my usual answer.</div>
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“Come and sit on the bed” he invited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It is too hot to drink.”</div>
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Mother would bring her own cup as we shared the mornings together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best was yet to come. </div>
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“Can we tell a story while it cools down?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would ask.</div>
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“Okay.” Daddy says. “Whose turn is it to start, how about mommy?”</div>
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Mother smiled and a faraway look grew bright in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Once upon a time…”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCo8DOEkNYFi9wlBhiP_LQBf9Jj5MbU3Vs8dheJuVqR7Cv1NVaBpIQnKjKA-70yZ0pzEGX3c06lydQcbiaXJ-qN48qdn-64dWKcOunG0RjiupNmqeZQy1EjQYLS9Ss_EOkki-sf1Zm1G3v/s1600/journals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCo8DOEkNYFi9wlBhiP_LQBf9Jj5MbU3Vs8dheJuVqR7Cv1NVaBpIQnKjKA-70yZ0pzEGX3c06lydQcbiaXJ-qN48qdn-64dWKcOunG0RjiupNmqeZQy1EjQYLS9Ss_EOkki-sf1Zm1G3v/s200/journals.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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They were wonderful, unique stories, created on the spot, limited only by our imagination.</div>
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Mother’s “chapter” was drawing to a close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The characters were in an awful state, destine to perish at any moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It was my turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bounced up and down for the hundredth time excited to have my chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then into the woods came a….”</div>
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Thus it went, round after round until the coffee was gone, the characters victorious, and time for breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a tradition we carried on for many years, until the lure of the outside world became irresistible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I sit here at my computer, tears slide down my cheeks, the last story left untold.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12898494486877976684noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3219732084082173270.post-64120197165143581102012-10-07T11:06:00.001-07:002012-10-07T11:27:49.536-07:00TODAY...My First Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://electronics.howstuffworks.com/gadgets/clocks-watches/inside-clock.htm" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggVkDMSuMjeUSMVEHPlC5Cl6skHDfpYtw6hs3WqUdb4IYFgINiVvqF5bnmAOurQmo6sTPv5iKgMuMlvgO3hyphenhyphenxXQ_2WEzvtix-1H7J16AQEoEVvUudrTt-77cAFX7Yq2cY4k3ly__PNpJAn/s200/clock1.jpg" width="135" /></a></div>
<strong>Another 24 hour period passing by, unstoppable like the waves of the sea…</strong><br />
<br />
Seemingly helpless, I have watched not only days, but over 50 years slip by, often feeling defeated by the circumstances in which I find myself. <br />
<br />
There have been husbands, children, and now grandchildren.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vital parts of my life cut out by irreversible choices. The fault is not important, but the hole left behind is real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the years pass the wound grows wider.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can there be healing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My door is always open, my heart seeking for a reunion long past due. But choice, personal decision, can not be forced by another so I wait, hoping, begging, bargaining with unspoken prayers.<br />
<br />
Life moves onward like the passing of the seasons, the spring of youth, the summer of choice, the fall of regret, and the winter of lost hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cycle repeats year after year. <br />
<br />
The successful find fame and fortune, the persistent make a name for themselves, the evil doers find space on the news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lost, lonely, and forgotten are erased from our conscience like waste tossed in the basket of life.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="http://photos.igougo.com/pictures-photos-p304423-Old_House.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="149" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVswUwJ4rHRzTY7eIWURurIhMFwZ111o7M98U6b9LYlc9EjBIKhszn2-UTBa3cc_ZUiGXoU6rZSu6mvjMsv9uJgV5yZov8vXwoUYSoAo31rmXXb0DhpKxZQeLg-Ab14B6BzTo6fdEEgVT/s200/Old+House.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Where do I fit in?<br />
<br />
I can wallow in self-pity, spew out blame, make excuses, find a scapegoat, but ultimately my life is what I choose to make it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Armed with the tools I am given or make the effort to acquire, I build my own house one board one nail at a time. I apply new paint, but eventually it chips away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adding a new room makes it bigger but lonelier somehow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Filling it with objects has little appeal for they offer no comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My house lies empty. I rattle around inside, searching for meaning and purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Escape is desirable and attainable. But the longing to try is declining, the effort seems too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
What difference would it make?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not successful, persistent, or evil no one would even notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giving up is so much easier, until I find myself in an old folk’s home, feeble, weak and memory fading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No longer able to lift the hammer, to pound a single nail, my chance to remodel is lost forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
That picture horrifies me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I race to find my misplaced tool box, surly there is work to be done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disappointed I fine only a pen and a pad of paper. The pen is ordinary, holds no magical powers, but in my fingers thoughts flow and materialize line after line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Who would read this?” I wonder aloud but it matters not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walls of my house go un-noticed as my stack of pages grows taller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The visions that fill my head take me from this world to one of childhood memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laugh and lost joy is relived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pictures, long packed away, rush through my mind like autumn leaves on a windy day. I can’t stop as I visit memory after memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The years fly by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gradually the images slow as does my writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are painful times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to visit those houses, I want to burn them to the ground. Long pent-up anger surfaces and I cry out just one word “Why”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did it have to happen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why can’t I change the past? Why didn’t my dreams come true?<br />
<br />
I stand, throwing the pen across the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With one well aimed blow the pages scatter in a cluttered mess and drift to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart pounding I move to the window and consider my thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize, at this exact moment, I feel more alive than I have in years. I don’t want to let it go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk across the room, pick up the pen then carefully re-stack the pages of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12898494486877976684noreply@blogger.com2