I don’t think there was ever a time I wasn’t grateful for at least something unless maybe when I was sick. Even then I still remember being awed by a pillow or moved to tears at the ice cold touch of a commode.
Throughout my younger years, there was rarely a moment I wasn’t abandoned, neglected, abused or taken advantage of. But by grace, I didn’t always know it at the time. Youth comes with it the gift of naivety, with me especially.
My mind thought in flowery ribbon rainbows. No matter what the hell was going on, somehow a little switch would flip, misfiring bullets of pain and offset them with pink bubbles. They acted like tiny shields of crystal armor, forcing my eyes toward beauty through tears to a different picture of hope and to believe in the best in people. Everything would be alright. Somehow believing even at the tender age of nine, the intention in my big heart would make it so. It did.
The channeling of cartoon noises may have doomed me to a giddy up Pollyanna perspective. But somehow I think it served me well. Perhaps it was a way of keeping positive. Also from the time I could walk, I heard music in my head. I now have a treasure trove of art songs, each one providing therapy all along the way, giving me sanctuary. Moments of art I could create like a painter paints on canvas. Only my heart was the canvas and all I needed was a pen. They alone birthed their own little world inside of me. In the face of life’s brutal realities, my mind cut me a break. The combination of trauma and fantasy, gave me the ability to create something beautiful beyond it. Even to push boundaries past everything which was locked up in my skin.
Ok, so what, my parents abandoned me leaving me with burdens much too big for my tiny shoulders. I stood tall with my three foot self and grew inner muscle. I also didn’t have to answer to them. As a result, I learned to cultivate who I wanted to be as I ran in the opposite direction of their behavior. In truth I was spared the possibility of becoming an addict/alcoholic. Even though I was not always completely dependable in every situation, I was resourceful and no one has ever had to be responsible for me.
Ok it’s true, I did wish to have someone to fall back on once in a while. But I didn’t.
Surrounded by flakey people, I cultivated my own sense of values. Even morphing inner abilities to create footholds which gave me planks of foundation I could count on. Being a nurturer, it brought me great comfort when I became the something from nothing girl.
Ok, so what, I suffered abuse. No one deserves it and I don’t think I needed an extreme experience to figure it out. But I did learn how to be a friend to myself, eventually. Now I am a cushion of comfort to others as well.
I am an extremely flawed parent, but I am honest and in the end, I never gave up. So, I thank my sweet children for loving me anyway. When I look at them, I know the world is a better place because they’re in it. Their benevolent cores raise higher banners than I could have ever waved in my lifetime. My ability to make them laugh is one of the greatest gifts to my soul, I could ever ask for.
So I never had a golden net, but I became one by default.
No one has ever had a right to judge me. My overall survival is not even by chance. I believe I exist because my heart was full of love no matter what.
So, thank you selfish controlling husbands and lovers who failed to value me. I appreciate my own time now.
Thanks mom and dad for giving me just enough of your good stuff and leaving me in charge of the rest.
Thank you so much lunatic abusers. You gave me a deep appreciation for irony, the ridiculous and absurd. Now I am the life of the party.
Thank you, sorry excuse for a healthcare vortex I once called a career. Even though you gave me a nervous breakdown, it taught me how to be nicer to myself.
Thanks to you; stupid dumb broken production company. Because of you I am finally learning how to rest. A gift of time I am using to reflect, forgive and create the life I have always wanted and didn’t realize I deserved.
The list goes on.
As for the really good stuff:
For every hand that held mine with intention of fusing hope into my heart. I am so grateful, thank you, the magic worked.
For the precious eyes of my children and all of my family and friends; I can see you and know you love me deeply. I hold you inside me. I light candles for you to be blessed and cared for. You are kissed and adored and my love for you back can fill up the universe to bursting. What gifts you are. Not just to me, but every person who is blessed to know each of you.
More of my own gifts are becoming apparent to me, but at forty nine, I don’t know where I belong or what to make of them yet. Perhaps my songs will create their own path of destiny, warming others in friendship within, they way they do for me. After all, a song can save a life, even in the face of complete devastation. I am living proof.
My anatomy screams with gratitude. Now I am not ashamed. I am raw authenticity and lucky to be alive. I give myself a little wink in the mirror. I dance in public and walk in the rain with my face up to the sky. I’m even that girl who sings in the grocery store and believe it or not, everyone smiles back and some even sing with me. Just think, the real journey has just begun … happy birthday to me ~
So blessed, so very blessed.
National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence Inc. - helping individuals and families facing addiction (800-622-2255 800-622-2255)
"The National School Lunch Program" -contact this agency to ensure nutritionally balanced meals for kids- http://bit.ly/cf6NrV
National Center for PTSD: http://www.ptsd.va.gov/
~ *** ~ *** ~ *** ~
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Boxes of Joy
After almost four years, I’ve finally done it. Pulling out all of the boxes from my little shed was a task I dreaded and loomed over my head like a Linus cloud. I guess I really just didn’t want to do it. Go through my mothers things and donate them to her charity. Not to sound as she would say, maudlin, but I knew what was in there. The emotional tugs of heart had everything to do with the fact that her DNA was in them all. In her brushes, her decorative soaps and I could smell her essence as I sprung her clothes from their cardboard prison.
So many memories of hugging her in certain outfits, knowing these were all things she touched. I wondered how long she had some this stuff. It was likely years and years. In combing through these things of hers, I found myself spending hours trying on her clothes without looking in the mirror. When I finally looked up I realized I was looking like an old lady from Boca and said bubbye, to the purple silk jump suit, wild sparkly sweaters and Half Moon Bay sweatshirts that didn’t fit anyone in the family but me. I am as small as my mother was, all except the shoes. In trying to do the right thing, I left out some soft and squishy things that still held the smell of my mother for the rest of my siblings. Just in case. As it turned out one of my sisters was very glad I had cared enough to do that.
My mother cracked me up. She was a very funny woman and her sense of humor was also beaming from all of her belongings as well. My god, how many tubes of lipstick can one woman use in a lifetime. If nothing brought me to tears this did, as I recall her quirky way of saying Estee Lauder. A funny little rewiring thing began to happen to my brain as I chided myself for my own drawer full of happy purchases that came with free gifts. Which is every girl’s secret happy place the “gift with purchase” And I realized, my children would one day do what I am doing now. My goodness, they already think me as eccentric, they say they mean it in a good way, but I can only imagine what they would say about most of the things I’ve chosen to keep. This also became painfully clear when I actually put one of my mothers sweaters on my oldest son. Bless his heart, he kept it. But it was very telling to me I really needed to rethink my approach.
Holding on with so much intention to stuff was silly. But I also realized it was an over compensation for a lack of interaction. It was time to get real with it. Front zipper robes are not my thing. Knowing my mother I don’t think they were even her favorite either. She was too glamorous for them. I remember seeing her inner glow flowing about in negligees with matching slippers. It’s strange to me now seeing only happily printed flannel nightgowns. Her glamour finally revealed itself among her purses. The woman had little purses inside of each purse that matched, from her gold evening satchel to her cigarette cases. Anything I am choosing to keep, I don’t really keep for myself, but more for my sisters and our daughters as expressions of who Grandma was. As the oldest sister I feel it my duty to find a way to keep the best of my mother alive. It’s upsetting how a person can be reduced to boxes of stuff. She is not her stuff. When you walked into any room my mother was in, you had a particular feeling like something wonderful was going to happen. She had a way of creating an atmosphere of beauty around her and an aura as if company was coming.
My mother was special and will be remembered in the hearts of her children and those who knew and loved her. Not many could ever forget a woman named Joy who lived up to her name right down to the sparkle in her eyes. Even through all of the hardship and dysfunction, my mother somehow found a way to give her children something incredible. Aside from the fact that I can’t look at a kitchen tool without thinking of her, my siblings and I have each other thanks to her. We are all expressions of her. And now I’m letting go of her belongings as legacy, even though I am thoroughly convinced she haunts them. In doing this I learned something, the legacy of letting go. Oh but I did keep the lipstick, how could I help myself…
So Mom, if you can hear me, I’m sorry it took me so long to go through your things and fulfill your wishes. It was really hard to do because I miss you so much and I hope you can forgive me. I am also so sorry for other things that you know about, just between you and me before you passed, which were unresolved. Yesterday sister found a sealed card to me you never sent. It looks like Thanksgiving. I can’t seem to open it yet…
Spring cleaning and looking for place to donate?
Please consider: The Women in Recovery @ www.womensrecovery.org
Thank you.
***
So many memories of hugging her in certain outfits, knowing these were all things she touched. I wondered how long she had some this stuff. It was likely years and years. In combing through these things of hers, I found myself spending hours trying on her clothes without looking in the mirror. When I finally looked up I realized I was looking like an old lady from Boca and said bubbye, to the purple silk jump suit, wild sparkly sweaters and Half Moon Bay sweatshirts that didn’t fit anyone in the family but me. I am as small as my mother was, all except the shoes. In trying to do the right thing, I left out some soft and squishy things that still held the smell of my mother for the rest of my siblings. Just in case. As it turned out one of my sisters was very glad I had cared enough to do that.
My mother cracked me up. She was a very funny woman and her sense of humor was also beaming from all of her belongings as well. My god, how many tubes of lipstick can one woman use in a lifetime. If nothing brought me to tears this did, as I recall her quirky way of saying Estee Lauder. A funny little rewiring thing began to happen to my brain as I chided myself for my own drawer full of happy purchases that came with free gifts. Which is every girl’s secret happy place the “gift with purchase” And I realized, my children would one day do what I am doing now. My goodness, they already think me as eccentric, they say they mean it in a good way, but I can only imagine what they would say about most of the things I’ve chosen to keep. This also became painfully clear when I actually put one of my mothers sweaters on my oldest son. Bless his heart, he kept it. But it was very telling to me I really needed to rethink my approach.
Holding on with so much intention to stuff was silly. But I also realized it was an over compensation for a lack of interaction. It was time to get real with it. Front zipper robes are not my thing. Knowing my mother I don’t think they were even her favorite either. She was too glamorous for them. I remember seeing her inner glow flowing about in negligees with matching slippers. It’s strange to me now seeing only happily printed flannel nightgowns. Her glamour finally revealed itself among her purses. The woman had little purses inside of each purse that matched, from her gold evening satchel to her cigarette cases. Anything I am choosing to keep, I don’t really keep for myself, but more for my sisters and our daughters as expressions of who Grandma was. As the oldest sister I feel it my duty to find a way to keep the best of my mother alive. It’s upsetting how a person can be reduced to boxes of stuff. She is not her stuff. When you walked into any room my mother was in, you had a particular feeling like something wonderful was going to happen. She had a way of creating an atmosphere of beauty around her and an aura as if company was coming.
My mother was special and will be remembered in the hearts of her children and those who knew and loved her. Not many could ever forget a woman named Joy who lived up to her name right down to the sparkle in her eyes. Even through all of the hardship and dysfunction, my mother somehow found a way to give her children something incredible. Aside from the fact that I can’t look at a kitchen tool without thinking of her, my siblings and I have each other thanks to her. We are all expressions of her. And now I’m letting go of her belongings as legacy, even though I am thoroughly convinced she haunts them. In doing this I learned something, the legacy of letting go. Oh but I did keep the lipstick, how could I help myself…
So Mom, if you can hear me, I’m sorry it took me so long to go through your things and fulfill your wishes. It was really hard to do because I miss you so much and I hope you can forgive me. I am also so sorry for other things that you know about, just between you and me before you passed, which were unresolved. Yesterday sister found a sealed card to me you never sent. It looks like Thanksgiving. I can’t seem to open it yet…
Spring cleaning and looking for place to donate?
Please consider: The Women in Recovery @ www.womensrecovery.org
Thank you.
***
Friday, February 12, 2010
No Love
I may just be the Rodney Dangerfield of the “I get no’s” regarding love. It’s strange really. Because anytime I ever heard anyone complain about wanting to find love, I always seemed to have had it, at the time. Being a serial monogamist has well assisted the illusion of love being in perpetual motion for long stretches at a time. When in truth I was merely opening my legs prospecting for the hope of love. Now it seems irony is holding its belly in hysterical laughter and pointing at me. It’s cracking up, because I think it knows I really don’t care if I have it or not at this point. Actually I’m leaning toward the not wanting it part. The long hours I’ve spent at the knees of friends encouraging them away from their tears to believe and not give up hope on that special someone out there waiting to meet them, leaves me furiously mocked.
You see the problem is, something in my programming told me I was supposed to be Donna Reed. An apron, my swishy skirts and pointy vintage shoes are in the closet as proof. But nothing else in my life experience has ever supported it. But also No one ever told me I Didn't HAve to get married. A baby boomer, orphaned at 9, mesmerized by TV and mentored by characters like Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie, only assisted my propensity toward delusional. Living my life in bubble thoughts in my head, saying words like darling, with flashes of Ziegfeld Follies kicking up can cans in response to traumatic events. I really didn’t stand a chance. I still have a pop out closet brimming with boas and opera gloves in almost every color, pretending in testimony.
All of my loving affairs were benefactors of this frivolity. Some knew me others had no clue who I was and are likely still scratching their heads in perplexity. One almost lover once told me I was "in every sense of the word female”, which I took as a compliment even though the implications may have had everything to do with my menstrual cycle. When I took to my fainting couch there wasn’t much anyone could do who wasn’t toting a heating pad.
With all my props, and passion, I don’t think I was really good at sex, although some of my lovers professed I was, most of them even declared undying love for me. I think I had that little thing called abandon which creates the element of surprise and spontaneity but also lends itself to fantasy. I was really good at that. No wonder they liked me. But fantasies move on into real life. I was never very good at that. I seem to still be the place people like to escape to, but not the girl anyone ever really wanted to take care of. There she is, did you see her? Pollyanna just popped up her coiffed head again. When I see her now, I yank on her pearl necklace and listen to the baubles clank as they bounce off the hardwood floor.
Most of my lovers were even illusions. What this really means is when I saw them for who they really were, the reality check left my nose print in the wall, where I slammed into it. You see, I have the uncanny gift of seeing a person as they are in their highest evolved self. Not what they truly are the moment I happened to crash the hell into them. Such evolvement would have taken many more years of other lovers besides me, to cultivate.
Oh falling in love was always fun. So many feelings, pulsing surges you think are going to burst the skin from the inside out and light up the world and inspire a hopeful forever from a lover. Oh yes I have been there, from the crooning to the pining.
I tried to take the Zena Princess Warrior approach to love, but she was after my generation. I’m not that girl, even though I do have a funny little whip hanging on my bedroom door. I never used it. I do have a slight temper and can be moody. But I’m not even good at being angry, wishing beyond my Jeannie blink, I was a hot blooded Italian woman flinging plates when I found a fiancé in my own bed making love to another woman. Or the time I was struck mute at the discovery of the husband leading a double life then later another fiancé having unprotected sex with men while we together. If ever there was a girl who had a right to break dishes it was me. Instead I left or forgave, cried and kicked them out, or all of the above, always a lady and one in dire need of a tantrum. I definitely got the E ticket when it came to experience and should be awarded the E in effort even though I was attracted to all the wrong people. Such is the plight of most women I know.
There was a song in a commercial from the seventies; the lyrics go something like; “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man, ‘cause I’m a woman, w o m a n.”, as she whipped her hair about along with the kitchen towel. Talk about your subliminal messages. Oh and I often heard this drill of the ideal woman; “A cook in the kitchen, a whore in the bedroom, a lady in public, a mother to the children”. Check them all off the evah loving list then darling, because I’m it! The most unselfish person I ever met was me and they still cheated. Hilarious! Because most men, LET me … without reservations bring home the bacon, but none of them let me be a woman, let alone stay long enough for me to heal the fractured little girl that lived inside me. I am doing that all on my own. Listen people I even wrote a handbook for the broken heart. Take that lemonade! I can’t just have a broken heart no I have to blaze a trail about it and write my own tool to get over it. No Donna Reed here.
From the idiot savant healer guy, some musician guys, to high powered executive guys, they all now have a place of honor in my walk of shame and I am their widow. Irony of all ironies none of them were “Daddy” which is what I was supposed to be attracted to according to textbook psychology. Unless of course I take into account the word “coward”, which is something they all had in common including my father.
Some of the men I’ve met would have made perfect companions in a retirement home when I’m 88. Then maybe I could have laughed with them over meds, as they regale their tawdry stories of debauchery and deceit. Oh please, I’m not bitter and I am certainly no cynic. No Pollyanna worth her salt ever could be unfortunately. No, I gathered all of my flowery essence and my apron and took it to the gay men. Becoming a Grace to a Will was the perfect answer to my woe-be-gone heart, which can be quite satisfying. It has the close proximity of a lover without the pitfalls of sex. The excitement of funny banter and tantalizing recipes makes good use of my apron strings as well as my boas, without Fred Flintstone yelling at me. I only wish I had done it sooner.
No, no love for me I think. It’s better this way, because most of the time I'm not lonely. I enjoy my own company and have much work to do. Besides my karmic ally may have traded in the possibility of so called love for myself so my children would get to have it for real. So far so good, three out four of them have found their soul mate it seems, which are pretty good odds. Shhhh… can’t say it to loud, knock on Formica, I don’t want to jinx it. Believe me I’m no martyr sacrificing my heart on the anvil of wishes. I’m too exhausted to be in love, let alone get married again. I want the universe to use the energy and continue to give it to them because they are going need every ounce they can get.
Truthfully it is liberating to decide no love. It is a purposeful decision. It is succinct and in perfect timing with my plans that were so often interrupted by my wildly clinging hope for love. Although as a song writer, my insatiable desire was often a catapult for my music. But it was also an appendage, an albatross, the monkey on my back. So all of my tears just ended up creating a spring of well water, which is a wealth of reference now for me to use, instead of abuse within myself. That’s ok, I’m ok. I’m lucky to be alive. I’m even more blessed to have grown children and a reason to have survived my demons for higher purpose stuff. What else is a girl to do? What would you do in my place? Would you counsel me at my knee and beg me not to give up? Please don’t. I know anything is possible. It wouldn’t surprise me if I did crash into someone again, it would just be my luck.
There are plenty of opportunities for mischief any time I let myself out of my Jeannie bottle bedroom and powder my bewitching nose. But being on this side of the wall has its perks. I have control of my time, my dinner, and my dvr, for as long as we both shall live. I buy my own flowers, take myself to the movies and still sing in the shower. What more could a person want? What ever passion once left under my pillow, was not lost on me, because it still can leave me wondering. Not enough to hold its hand again, but just enough to light candles with romantic notions and to keep my lipstick handy. I think that something about love must have at least liked me a little. Because when I am feeling quite myself, I can create the aura of it and most importantly dream a little. If you could be a fly on the wall of the doll house, at any point in time, you would find me still swooning to Puccini. Would I make someone a good wife? Anyone lucky enough to find out would likely say of course. The real question is; do I want to be? uhm .. Not so much. But then you never know …
Hope you had a Happy Valentines Day Lovers … have a saucy romp for me … *wink*
***
**
*
You see the problem is, something in my programming told me I was supposed to be Donna Reed. An apron, my swishy skirts and pointy vintage shoes are in the closet as proof. But nothing else in my life experience has ever supported it. But also No one ever told me I Didn't HAve to get married. A baby boomer, orphaned at 9, mesmerized by TV and mentored by characters like Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie, only assisted my propensity toward delusional. Living my life in bubble thoughts in my head, saying words like darling, with flashes of Ziegfeld Follies kicking up can cans in response to traumatic events. I really didn’t stand a chance. I still have a pop out closet brimming with boas and opera gloves in almost every color, pretending in testimony.
All of my loving affairs were benefactors of this frivolity. Some knew me others had no clue who I was and are likely still scratching their heads in perplexity. One almost lover once told me I was "in every sense of the word female”, which I took as a compliment even though the implications may have had everything to do with my menstrual cycle. When I took to my fainting couch there wasn’t much anyone could do who wasn’t toting a heating pad.
With all my props, and passion, I don’t think I was really good at sex, although some of my lovers professed I was, most of them even declared undying love for me. I think I had that little thing called abandon which creates the element of surprise and spontaneity but also lends itself to fantasy. I was really good at that. No wonder they liked me. But fantasies move on into real life. I was never very good at that. I seem to still be the place people like to escape to, but not the girl anyone ever really wanted to take care of. There she is, did you see her? Pollyanna just popped up her coiffed head again. When I see her now, I yank on her pearl necklace and listen to the baubles clank as they bounce off the hardwood floor.
Most of my lovers were even illusions. What this really means is when I saw them for who they really were, the reality check left my nose print in the wall, where I slammed into it. You see, I have the uncanny gift of seeing a person as they are in their highest evolved self. Not what they truly are the moment I happened to crash the hell into them. Such evolvement would have taken many more years of other lovers besides me, to cultivate.
Oh falling in love was always fun. So many feelings, pulsing surges you think are going to burst the skin from the inside out and light up the world and inspire a hopeful forever from a lover. Oh yes I have been there, from the crooning to the pining.
I tried to take the Zena Princess Warrior approach to love, but she was after my generation. I’m not that girl, even though I do have a funny little whip hanging on my bedroom door. I never used it. I do have a slight temper and can be moody. But I’m not even good at being angry, wishing beyond my Jeannie blink, I was a hot blooded Italian woman flinging plates when I found a fiancé in my own bed making love to another woman. Or the time I was struck mute at the discovery of the husband leading a double life then later another fiancé having unprotected sex with men while we together. If ever there was a girl who had a right to break dishes it was me. Instead I left or forgave, cried and kicked them out, or all of the above, always a lady and one in dire need of a tantrum. I definitely got the E ticket when it came to experience and should be awarded the E in effort even though I was attracted to all the wrong people. Such is the plight of most women I know.
There was a song in a commercial from the seventies; the lyrics go something like; “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man, ‘cause I’m a woman, w o m a n.”, as she whipped her hair about along with the kitchen towel. Talk about your subliminal messages. Oh and I often heard this drill of the ideal woman; “A cook in the kitchen, a whore in the bedroom, a lady in public, a mother to the children”. Check them all off the evah loving list then darling, because I’m it! The most unselfish person I ever met was me and they still cheated. Hilarious! Because most men, LET me … without reservations bring home the bacon, but none of them let me be a woman, let alone stay long enough for me to heal the fractured little girl that lived inside me. I am doing that all on my own. Listen people I even wrote a handbook for the broken heart. Take that lemonade! I can’t just have a broken heart no I have to blaze a trail about it and write my own tool to get over it. No Donna Reed here.
From the idiot savant healer guy, some musician guys, to high powered executive guys, they all now have a place of honor in my walk of shame and I am their widow. Irony of all ironies none of them were “Daddy” which is what I was supposed to be attracted to according to textbook psychology. Unless of course I take into account the word “coward”, which is something they all had in common including my father.
Some of the men I’ve met would have made perfect companions in a retirement home when I’m 88. Then maybe I could have laughed with them over meds, as they regale their tawdry stories of debauchery and deceit. Oh please, I’m not bitter and I am certainly no cynic. No Pollyanna worth her salt ever could be unfortunately. No, I gathered all of my flowery essence and my apron and took it to the gay men. Becoming a Grace to a Will was the perfect answer to my woe-be-gone heart, which can be quite satisfying. It has the close proximity of a lover without the pitfalls of sex. The excitement of funny banter and tantalizing recipes makes good use of my apron strings as well as my boas, without Fred Flintstone yelling at me. I only wish I had done it sooner.
No, no love for me I think. It’s better this way, because most of the time I'm not lonely. I enjoy my own company and have much work to do. Besides my karmic ally may have traded in the possibility of so called love for myself so my children would get to have it for real. So far so good, three out four of them have found their soul mate it seems, which are pretty good odds. Shhhh… can’t say it to loud, knock on Formica, I don’t want to jinx it. Believe me I’m no martyr sacrificing my heart on the anvil of wishes. I’m too exhausted to be in love, let alone get married again. I want the universe to use the energy and continue to give it to them because they are going need every ounce they can get.
Truthfully it is liberating to decide no love. It is a purposeful decision. It is succinct and in perfect timing with my plans that were so often interrupted by my wildly clinging hope for love. Although as a song writer, my insatiable desire was often a catapult for my music. But it was also an appendage, an albatross, the monkey on my back. So all of my tears just ended up creating a spring of well water, which is a wealth of reference now for me to use, instead of abuse within myself. That’s ok, I’m ok. I’m lucky to be alive. I’m even more blessed to have grown children and a reason to have survived my demons for higher purpose stuff. What else is a girl to do? What would you do in my place? Would you counsel me at my knee and beg me not to give up? Please don’t. I know anything is possible. It wouldn’t surprise me if I did crash into someone again, it would just be my luck.
There are plenty of opportunities for mischief any time I let myself out of my Jeannie bottle bedroom and powder my bewitching nose. But being on this side of the wall has its perks. I have control of my time, my dinner, and my dvr, for as long as we both shall live. I buy my own flowers, take myself to the movies and still sing in the shower. What more could a person want? What ever passion once left under my pillow, was not lost on me, because it still can leave me wondering. Not enough to hold its hand again, but just enough to light candles with romantic notions and to keep my lipstick handy. I think that something about love must have at least liked me a little. Because when I am feeling quite myself, I can create the aura of it and most importantly dream a little. If you could be a fly on the wall of the doll house, at any point in time, you would find me still swooning to Puccini. Would I make someone a good wife? Anyone lucky enough to find out would likely say of course. The real question is; do I want to be? uhm .. Not so much. But then you never know …
Hope you had a Happy Valentines Day Lovers … have a saucy romp for me … *wink*
***
**
*
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Hope Garden
***
Caressing hope I stumble from within. Such a glittering shiny thing this faded jewel, even now.
But just like the majesty of the rose, hope too has her thorns. I buried my face in her fragrance for as long as I can remember. She lifted me and taught me patience for her.
As she grew, I grew. And many times, I confess, I plucked her from her stem long before she was ready. But not before her precious seedlings made their way to the soil of my life. Dry, rocky, but once nourished and fertile, which I watered with every ounce of inspiration I could find. Even attempting to will my soil to remember its once fertile luster.
But I did not understand. Hope being a direct descendant of faith, can be broken, defeated and destroyed. It can even come to withering powder, like the petals of a flower dusting the earth and carried away with the wind. Really, this is what is commonly referred to as a reality check.
How many times have we all tried to mend a most treasured object with glue? Even though whenever we look at it or handle it gingerly, from that moment forward it will forever still be broken. You can’t put petals back once they are died off the stem. Well, some people have I suppose and proceeded to call it art. But in the potpourri of all the broken things in my life it has not been art, even though I watered with tears in hope of not art, but worth. A flurry of glittering beauty that always remained precious even though they all came to be broken.
As I look back on my life in truth, I can see these pieces whole, even though they are but a beautiful glimmering mutilated mess winking up at me in hope. And now the soil in me is no longer able to render fresh seeds. A sad story for my little hope garden.
Years of taking life experiences and willing them to forge and cultivate the person I am, in hope of being whole, well rounded and strong. Even hoping beyond hope I would be of some value to others. Using pieces that don’t seem to fit together to create something from the nothing they would be, if I had not attempted to fuse. Perhaps in refusal to give up hope I did this.
I inherited broken. But because it was seemingly gifted to me that way, I did not see broken. It is only now as I handle these worn pieces inside me and watch them bleed my heart from hope that I understand. The stories and the reasons behind all of these relentless metaphors, are far too lengthy to explain here, but I'll say this.
We look out our windows in hope of seeing something. We have children in hope of sharing and having more love or legacy. We light candles with hope for light and in hopes of honoring lost loved ones. We eat in hopes to fill ourselves and nourish our bodies for health. We learn, we listen and we cry, we work, we love, we heal and we even change all for the sake of hope. The list goes on. I write this in hope.
Writing this is likely one of the most selfish things I have ever done. How dare I dissect hope in a time when our culture is teetering on a hope for hope it self. To expose my own dried up garden when a collective consciousness is hungry for the bounty of a well tended and thriving one. I can only give my own truth as my feeble and humble excuse. It is a last rendering from my victory garden that survived the wars of my life thus far. This singular seed is called forgiveness.
Like drops of wine, this nectar came from my flowers once full in hope. Even after they dried and came to dust, forgiveness was left in bounty to nourish me when anything I ever loved was lost to me. Through countless horrors and hardships, loss and personal torment. When ever I permitted myself to sup on the essence of forgiveness, hope was restored to me. This is how I was able to survive and now it is my gift to give.
The beginning of a new year is always filled with a chance for new hope. A chance to start again or continue on healing.
My only hope is stored up in all of things I have been able to find forgiveness for. My life cannot survive without it and every moment is work.
Undertaking the task of forgiveness is lifelong and endless. Like pulling unforgiving weeds. They are constant, seem to come out of nowhere and can suffocate the life out of even a well tended garden. I have had to furiously force it from within me and through me. Learning to recognize when it is required and forgiving even when it isn't. Finding out, forgiveness is the glue, the mender of hope and the difference between false hope and the miracle of pure hope.
I understood this when I forgave the flowers that died and planted again. I forgave the dry soil and tilled. I am learning to forgive myself for my past peril and the hurt I have caused others. In not knowing what to do next when hope seems remote, I forgive myself for hopes loss and hope it will forgive me back.
Whatever else is leftover can all only be restored in what I can muster to tend to next in my garden. I wish I could say that forgiveness comes easier in time or with practice, but it does not. But I can say the bigger the blooms of hope restored in me, there are as many precious pearls of forgiveness in equal measure. I can also say the moments I was able to bury my face in the blooms, it was sustaining for long periods of time. I can say, when I was filled with it, others around me seem to be too.
It is winter and my weary plot seems buried under ice. Perhaps the spring will reveal what was left there waiting to grow wild. But for now, I'm willing my words and the essence of the music I hear, to manage my heart and return hope back to my garden and bloom in forgiveness once more for the thorns.
***
Caressing hope I stumble from within. Such a glittering shiny thing this faded jewel, even now.
But just like the majesty of the rose, hope too has her thorns. I buried my face in her fragrance for as long as I can remember. She lifted me and taught me patience for her.
As she grew, I grew. And many times, I confess, I plucked her from her stem long before she was ready. But not before her precious seedlings made their way to the soil of my life. Dry, rocky, but once nourished and fertile, which I watered with every ounce of inspiration I could find. Even attempting to will my soil to remember its once fertile luster.
But I did not understand. Hope being a direct descendant of faith, can be broken, defeated and destroyed. It can even come to withering powder, like the petals of a flower dusting the earth and carried away with the wind. Really, this is what is commonly referred to as a reality check.
How many times have we all tried to mend a most treasured object with glue? Even though whenever we look at it or handle it gingerly, from that moment forward it will forever still be broken. You can’t put petals back once they are died off the stem. Well, some people have I suppose and proceeded to call it art. But in the potpourri of all the broken things in my life it has not been art, even though I watered with tears in hope of not art, but worth. A flurry of glittering beauty that always remained precious even though they all came to be broken.
As I look back on my life in truth, I can see these pieces whole, even though they are but a beautiful glimmering mutilated mess winking up at me in hope. And now the soil in me is no longer able to render fresh seeds. A sad story for my little hope garden.
Years of taking life experiences and willing them to forge and cultivate the person I am, in hope of being whole, well rounded and strong. Even hoping beyond hope I would be of some value to others. Using pieces that don’t seem to fit together to create something from the nothing they would be, if I had not attempted to fuse. Perhaps in refusal to give up hope I did this.
I inherited broken. But because it was seemingly gifted to me that way, I did not see broken. It is only now as I handle these worn pieces inside me and watch them bleed my heart from hope that I understand. The stories and the reasons behind all of these relentless metaphors, are far too lengthy to explain here, but I'll say this.
We look out our windows in hope of seeing something. We have children in hope of sharing and having more love or legacy. We light candles with hope for light and in hopes of honoring lost loved ones. We eat in hopes to fill ourselves and nourish our bodies for health. We learn, we listen and we cry, we work, we love, we heal and we even change all for the sake of hope. The list goes on. I write this in hope.
Writing this is likely one of the most selfish things I have ever done. How dare I dissect hope in a time when our culture is teetering on a hope for hope it self. To expose my own dried up garden when a collective consciousness is hungry for the bounty of a well tended and thriving one. I can only give my own truth as my feeble and humble excuse. It is a last rendering from my victory garden that survived the wars of my life thus far. This singular seed is called forgiveness.
Like drops of wine, this nectar came from my flowers once full in hope. Even after they dried and came to dust, forgiveness was left in bounty to nourish me when anything I ever loved was lost to me. Through countless horrors and hardships, loss and personal torment. When ever I permitted myself to sup on the essence of forgiveness, hope was restored to me. This is how I was able to survive and now it is my gift to give.
The beginning of a new year is always filled with a chance for new hope. A chance to start again or continue on healing.
My only hope is stored up in all of things I have been able to find forgiveness for. My life cannot survive without it and every moment is work.
Undertaking the task of forgiveness is lifelong and endless. Like pulling unforgiving weeds. They are constant, seem to come out of nowhere and can suffocate the life out of even a well tended garden. I have had to furiously force it from within me and through me. Learning to recognize when it is required and forgiving even when it isn't. Finding out, forgiveness is the glue, the mender of hope and the difference between false hope and the miracle of pure hope.
I understood this when I forgave the flowers that died and planted again. I forgave the dry soil and tilled. I am learning to forgive myself for my past peril and the hurt I have caused others. In not knowing what to do next when hope seems remote, I forgive myself for hopes loss and hope it will forgive me back.
Whatever else is leftover can all only be restored in what I can muster to tend to next in my garden. I wish I could say that forgiveness comes easier in time or with practice, but it does not. But I can say the bigger the blooms of hope restored in me, there are as many precious pearls of forgiveness in equal measure. I can also say the moments I was able to bury my face in the blooms, it was sustaining for long periods of time. I can say, when I was filled with it, others around me seem to be too.
It is winter and my weary plot seems buried under ice. Perhaps the spring will reveal what was left there waiting to grow wild. But for now, I'm willing my words and the essence of the music I hear, to manage my heart and return hope back to my garden and bloom in forgiveness once more for the thorns.
***
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
the blessing of giving ...
He had his hand out as I exited the grocery store ... pushing a cart filled with flowers & all the ingredients to put Thanksgiving left overs in the fridge for my sons. Perhaps a silly thing to do in the middle of July, but we were celebrating our new home together and the best gift I could think of was to cook for them.
As I saw the man, I dipped into my pocket and thought, whatever comes out, he can have it. As it turned out it was a hundred dollar bill. He looked at me with such shock it sent a lovely chill through me. Then much to my surprise, he insisted on helping me load my groceries into the car. Not a word was spoken between us. I just looked into his very kind eyes filled with pain and humility.
As I drove off, in my rear view mirror, I was very grateful to see the man leave his perch by the door of the store and walk away. I never saw the man again but often think of him, in hopes he is putting Thanksgiving leftovers in his fridge for his kids somewhere. Upon my return home I told my sons about the man and let them know they'd have to wait two more weeks for the new back packs for school. Both of my sons eyes filled with tears which I thought were disappointment, but instead they embraced me in a huge hug and said; "mom, you are so amazing." What price would anyone pay for a moment like that I wonder? The reaction from my sons was priceless to me.
All of my children and I, were no strangers to hardship and unforeseen circumstances. As a single parent, there were always continued struggles, but I was what my kids called a fun mom. My objective however, whether in humorous adventures or deep discussion, was always to show them compassion for things outside themselves and the little grove we had, and to have some perspective. Perhaps this was what gave them the sensitivity they have for others. I once came home from work, to find my youngest son entertaining what a appeared to be a homeless person in our living room. What would YOU do?? Well I thought I had taught them a bit about discernment too, as well as how to keep us all safe and to be protective of their mom.
In this case it turned out as a lesson for me, in learning to trust in my son and the things I had shown him in our talks and by example. Which I must say is one of the most profound gifts I had ever received as a mother. To be able to trust in your child's judgement, heart and sensibility. My children are grown up now and are amazing treasures to the earth and my greatest contribution to humanity. In every moment I choose to give, in teaching them, I received more abundance than I could have thought possible. They now lead in their own ways, in heart and example. By the way, those Thanksgiving left overs gave delicious a whole new meaning that year ...
"Resources For Homeless Persons" -http://bit.ly/3MeBPO & "Homeless Shelters & Soup Kitchens"-http://bit.ly/1Wu60U
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Salted Wounds
As I woke up on the bathroom floor, I realized I must have either hit my head or fainted. Pulling myself up I got to my feet. My head felt wet and throbbing and I could not stand on my left foot. Turning on the bathroom light, my heart jumped at my reflection in the mirror. Aside from looking like a raccoon with my makeup running, my face was swollen like a balloon. I had a black eye and a small gash to the head on the right. Upon further inspection, bruises to legs and arm, one was pretty nasty looking, the size of a saucer. Quietly opening the bathroom door, the house was dark and still except for the snore. I wondered how long I had been in there.
Hobbling in attempt toward the living room, it all came flashing back in vivid heart wrenching. It was supposed to be a surprise. I'd have the tree all decorated by the time he got home from work and he would walk into wonderland. What a joke that was as I looked at the brutalized tree in it's fallen glittery bits, broken all over the carpet. I'd never seen anyone do that before. Just take an eight foot Christmas Tree and use it as a weapon. Pain shot up through my foot as I forgot, not to put weight on it. I likely came out of it pretty good considering, but it was clear I was going to have to go to the doctor this time. Feeling terrified at the thought of having that conversation with him, I began to shake and decided to let him wake on his own.
I sat and cried, not because he hurt me, but because I just didn't understand how he could forget to love me. Was I so starved for any appearance of affection I was willing to take anything to get it? The very thought of this threw my body into convulsing sobs all over again in self loathing.
Coming back to my senses I looked around the living room. Gazing at the fallen tree I thought how very much alike we were in this moment. A beautiful broken disaster. I remembered then my mothers Christmas Trees and then the one I drew on a cardboard for my siblings, after they had left us. They forgot to love us too. How does that happen? How do people just leave or fly into rage if they say they love you? Was it all connected? So many questions came to my mind in an attempt to puzzle it out.
After he woke up, there were the typical apologies that found their way to the conclusion that it was all my fault. I also ended up with a concussion, walked with a cane for six months with a torn ligament and had to wait to go back to work until the eye healed a bit. Adding salt to the wound, I knew he was never going to change, it was up to me to change. It was then I realized I would leave and never come back. I would never allow my children to move into this house. Even if I didn't think I deserved better, they did.
This was a decision I had to continue to make over several years before I realized the choices I had. Requiring me to dial back my threshold for pain. It took even longer to come to the revelation that I could create my own choices. Life didn't just have to happen to me. My life was for me, not against me. No one had ever even said the word "choices" to me until I was well into my thirties. Had I understood this during the years of abuse I had subjected myself to, I would have called the authorities. Safety, security and love is a right to every human being. The choices others make for themselves in behavior or lifestyle is theirs as well. For me it was a long journey to discovery, but I am one of the lucky ones in this regard.
Although I'm battle worn, many others don't come out of these circumstances with their lives, let alone their dignity. Nicole Simpson is a tragic example. It doesn't matter what walk of life a person comes from. Domestic violence, psychological abuse and even worse atrocities happen daily. Even when it bewilders our minds at the how or why of these horrors, it can't and mustn't stop us from creating awareness and putting an end to it. This starts in our own homes and in our own hearts by example in the decisions we make. But there is much more to do beyond the perimeters of ourselves. We can all make an effort to educate and spread the word of hope. Had someone done so for me, I may have been spared many years of torment and neglect.
The lives of others can be spared now with the many more resources and advocates available today. Respect is the key element missing in human exchanges manifesting abusive behavior. If humanity had pure respect for itself, there would be no war or even a reason to put locks on doors. No one person has the answers. The resolve of humanities issues, requires a collective awareness and the will to create like minded consciousness. It can happen like a snowball and gain momentum the more we combine our understanding and unify intention. I've watched prejudice fly out the door in the face of tragedies like 911, where people do come together and unify for a moment in time. I believe it's possible for us to do the same, for the sake of love itself, for humanity forever.
We hurt ourselves when we hurt each other. We love ourselves when we intend the highest good for each other and back it up with loving action.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who believed in "The Golden Rule"; "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" guess what, I still believe.
You are not alone. Call, don't wait: Domestic Abuse Hot-line & Resources:
National Domestic Violence Hotline> http://www.ndvh.org/
National Coalition Against Domestic Violence> http://www.ncadv.org/
*****
Hobbling in attempt toward the living room, it all came flashing back in vivid heart wrenching. It was supposed to be a surprise. I'd have the tree all decorated by the time he got home from work and he would walk into wonderland. What a joke that was as I looked at the brutalized tree in it's fallen glittery bits, broken all over the carpet. I'd never seen anyone do that before. Just take an eight foot Christmas Tree and use it as a weapon. Pain shot up through my foot as I forgot, not to put weight on it. I likely came out of it pretty good considering, but it was clear I was going to have to go to the doctor this time. Feeling terrified at the thought of having that conversation with him, I began to shake and decided to let him wake on his own.
I sat and cried, not because he hurt me, but because I just didn't understand how he could forget to love me. Was I so starved for any appearance of affection I was willing to take anything to get it? The very thought of this threw my body into convulsing sobs all over again in self loathing.
Coming back to my senses I looked around the living room. Gazing at the fallen tree I thought how very much alike we were in this moment. A beautiful broken disaster. I remembered then my mothers Christmas Trees and then the one I drew on a cardboard for my siblings, after they had left us. They forgot to love us too. How does that happen? How do people just leave or fly into rage if they say they love you? Was it all connected? So many questions came to my mind in an attempt to puzzle it out.
After he woke up, there were the typical apologies that found their way to the conclusion that it was all my fault. I also ended up with a concussion, walked with a cane for six months with a torn ligament and had to wait to go back to work until the eye healed a bit. Adding salt to the wound, I knew he was never going to change, it was up to me to change. It was then I realized I would leave and never come back. I would never allow my children to move into this house. Even if I didn't think I deserved better, they did.
This was a decision I had to continue to make over several years before I realized the choices I had. Requiring me to dial back my threshold for pain. It took even longer to come to the revelation that I could create my own choices. Life didn't just have to happen to me. My life was for me, not against me. No one had ever even said the word "choices" to me until I was well into my thirties. Had I understood this during the years of abuse I had subjected myself to, I would have called the authorities. Safety, security and love is a right to every human being. The choices others make for themselves in behavior or lifestyle is theirs as well. For me it was a long journey to discovery, but I am one of the lucky ones in this regard.
Although I'm battle worn, many others don't come out of these circumstances with their lives, let alone their dignity. Nicole Simpson is a tragic example. It doesn't matter what walk of life a person comes from. Domestic violence, psychological abuse and even worse atrocities happen daily. Even when it bewilders our minds at the how or why of these horrors, it can't and mustn't stop us from creating awareness and putting an end to it. This starts in our own homes and in our own hearts by example in the decisions we make. But there is much more to do beyond the perimeters of ourselves. We can all make an effort to educate and spread the word of hope. Had someone done so for me, I may have been spared many years of torment and neglect.
The lives of others can be spared now with the many more resources and advocates available today. Respect is the key element missing in human exchanges manifesting abusive behavior. If humanity had pure respect for itself, there would be no war or even a reason to put locks on doors. No one person has the answers. The resolve of humanities issues, requires a collective awareness and the will to create like minded consciousness. It can happen like a snowball and gain momentum the more we combine our understanding and unify intention. I've watched prejudice fly out the door in the face of tragedies like 911, where people do come together and unify for a moment in time. I believe it's possible for us to do the same, for the sake of love itself, for humanity forever.
We hurt ourselves when we hurt each other. We love ourselves when we intend the highest good for each other and back it up with loving action.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who believed in "The Golden Rule"; "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" guess what, I still believe.
You are not alone. Call, don't wait: Domestic Abuse Hot-line & Resources:
National Domestic Violence Hotline> http://www.ndvh.org/
National Coalition Against Domestic Violence> http://www.ncadv.org/
*****
Thursday, October 1, 2009
What's a Twitter?
If my son had come home from school asking this question, I would have likely believed his school friends had come up with yet another expletive. Or there was going to be some required homework on my part, in order to answer him. *grin* Something I often found myself doing during my children’s high school years.
But he’s 24, and as he hovers over my shoulder in baited curiosity, I laugh at his response as I show him my Tweet deck in all its buzzing glory. “Wow, What IS that?” he gasped. Prior to this moment, I had been subjected to all manner of assumptions about my online activities of late, having been too busy on Twitter to bother trying to explain, which would also require further diagnostics for my own self discovery regarding it.
By the way, It was quite novel for anyone to see me glued to the computer, the telephone no, they were used to that. Being an extremely social person and having had a high profile career most their life, my children were unfortunately subjected to my constant barrage of phone activity. While my work and my writing often found me at the computer before, they were curious to see me now so engaged in laughter and intensity. So in order to refute what otherwise would have been left to imagination and to avoid additional inquiry, I stopped everything (as mothers do) mid stream, and attempted to explain.
When I got past the quirky tools, the system dialogues, rules of 140 characters or less, and novelty of celebrity interactions; I showed him how Twitter is an online community full of some of the most amazing people I have ever had the privilege to meet. There is heart, etiquette, understanding, compassion and caring which all took me quite by surprise.
I happened upon it purely on a fluke. Having gotten laid off my job in the entertainment industry. I thought it might be a good resource to network and find possible future employment. I had no idea I would find a life! By this I don’t mean a virtual life, because much of it has more meaning than that.
Intention is everything in all things. People can feel the intentions of others through time, space and distance. Twitter is no exception to this rule. The intentions of support and caring bleed through the cyber box and into real time, real life experiences for all of us. Twitter has become a tool for us to connect not only with people we may not have otherwise met, but to also cultivate awareness of issues for all of humanity. People all over the globe are coming together in these exchanges in order to communicate and assist hard and meaningful change for others. From celebrities, wealthy socialites to the homeless, they all have a voice. Many are championing causes on behalf of the sick and those affected by catastrophic life events. Some are mentors who bother to take the time to share their life experiences in hopes of making a difference.
I started out cautiously with mere funny banters with others a little at a time. As I began to friend some truly gifted and amazing people I became less leery and more revealing about myself and my personal interests. To my ultimate surprise, others appreciated my contributions of flavor and in site which had not otherwise been apparent to me.
I must also say, it took being apart of this community to realize how disconnected and unaware I really was even through all of my own life experience. The difference Twitter has made for me was the broad spectrum perspective of communal effort. The people I engage with are without prejudice or discrimination and are open and welcoming on all fronts. Rarely this is found in our neighborhoods, schools or work places.
Though the Twitter community is no stranger to controversies, the choices afforded about them expand globally. Each user initiates their own level of responsibility according to their own ability and resources as well as the life experiences they bring. Culminating active and worthy solutions for others in doing so and often finding resolve. Even bridging real life communities in some cases one tweet at a time.
While my friends there have often seen me refer to myself as the-girl-box, in initial jest, I have had to back step my own poke in fun at this. It amused me at one point to coin the phrase, but after having the opportunity to cultivate my own friendships that are truly meaningful to me, I have since realized there really is no box. It is a soulful transmitter, reaching hearts, connecting dots beyond a time and space continuum in higher purpose.
So, no sweet son, it is not a glorified chat room. Though I couldn't have told you what a chat room looked like until now, for now I am often lead by the hand to chat rooms from friends here for all manner of reasons. Charity events and fund raisers, blog radio shows and the like. I have even lead others to fun things as well, that some have found delight in.
The one thing I've neglected to say is there is pure love with those whom I have found on Twitter. Pure and unconditional. In our world of technological rampage, economical downturns, and societal breakdowns, there is something wonderful this way comes in cyber world. Authenticity can be found in anything you bring authenticity to. Like attracts what is like minded in the physical world, as well it does in what appears to be a virtual world.
A profound blessing for me is to now see the difference I can make with my energy and contributions.
A cord was struck in me long forgotten until recently. As a young girl I was a "wave the banner" kind of girl. Attending "No Nukes" at the Hollywood Bowl on what was called Survival Sundays and "Save the Whales" events were a regular part of my routine. When life changes occurred, I sadly had to put down my banners and attend to my own survival. Now as a direct result of being a viral part of the Twitter community, dear friends are not only helping me to heal old wounds but showing me how I can help heal others. So I'm personally blessed to have an opportunity to soon pick up my banners again, but now on a much more universal scale. As a matter of fact something very important is about to come out of me that may have the potential to help a lot of other people. Not something I would have ever expected to happen.
So, what's a twitter? Not a video game, honey. Nor a toy to be played with or taken for granted. It is a place where lives come together to share in hope, in love and inspiration that once upon a time didn't have this platform. It is a place where people honor and respect each other no matter what walk of life they come from or where they are going. We can't help being drawn to it. Some of us, me included can't help our obsession with it. Twitter Name: @SchuggaJoy
Where ever it is friendships are born so sacred is the meeting place.
After all, we are all only human. ~djs
***
But he’s 24, and as he hovers over my shoulder in baited curiosity, I laugh at his response as I show him my Tweet deck in all its buzzing glory. “Wow, What IS that?” he gasped. Prior to this moment, I had been subjected to all manner of assumptions about my online activities of late, having been too busy on Twitter to bother trying to explain, which would also require further diagnostics for my own self discovery regarding it.
By the way, It was quite novel for anyone to see me glued to the computer, the telephone no, they were used to that. Being an extremely social person and having had a high profile career most their life, my children were unfortunately subjected to my constant barrage of phone activity. While my work and my writing often found me at the computer before, they were curious to see me now so engaged in laughter and intensity. So in order to refute what otherwise would have been left to imagination and to avoid additional inquiry, I stopped everything (as mothers do) mid stream, and attempted to explain.
When I got past the quirky tools, the system dialogues, rules of 140 characters or less, and novelty of celebrity interactions; I showed him how Twitter is an online community full of some of the most amazing people I have ever had the privilege to meet. There is heart, etiquette, understanding, compassion and caring which all took me quite by surprise.
I happened upon it purely on a fluke. Having gotten laid off my job in the entertainment industry. I thought it might be a good resource to network and find possible future employment. I had no idea I would find a life! By this I don’t mean a virtual life, because much of it has more meaning than that.
Intention is everything in all things. People can feel the intentions of others through time, space and distance. Twitter is no exception to this rule. The intentions of support and caring bleed through the cyber box and into real time, real life experiences for all of us. Twitter has become a tool for us to connect not only with people we may not have otherwise met, but to also cultivate awareness of issues for all of humanity. People all over the globe are coming together in these exchanges in order to communicate and assist hard and meaningful change for others. From celebrities, wealthy socialites to the homeless, they all have a voice. Many are championing causes on behalf of the sick and those affected by catastrophic life events. Some are mentors who bother to take the time to share their life experiences in hopes of making a difference.
I started out cautiously with mere funny banters with others a little at a time. As I began to friend some truly gifted and amazing people I became less leery and more revealing about myself and my personal interests. To my ultimate surprise, others appreciated my contributions of flavor and in site which had not otherwise been apparent to me.
I must also say, it took being apart of this community to realize how disconnected and unaware I really was even through all of my own life experience. The difference Twitter has made for me was the broad spectrum perspective of communal effort. The people I engage with are without prejudice or discrimination and are open and welcoming on all fronts. Rarely this is found in our neighborhoods, schools or work places.
Though the Twitter community is no stranger to controversies, the choices afforded about them expand globally. Each user initiates their own level of responsibility according to their own ability and resources as well as the life experiences they bring. Culminating active and worthy solutions for others in doing so and often finding resolve. Even bridging real life communities in some cases one tweet at a time.
While my friends there have often seen me refer to myself as the-girl-box, in initial jest, I have had to back step my own poke in fun at this. It amused me at one point to coin the phrase, but after having the opportunity to cultivate my own friendships that are truly meaningful to me, I have since realized there really is no box. It is a soulful transmitter, reaching hearts, connecting dots beyond a time and space continuum in higher purpose.
So, no sweet son, it is not a glorified chat room. Though I couldn't have told you what a chat room looked like until now, for now I am often lead by the hand to chat rooms from friends here for all manner of reasons. Charity events and fund raisers, blog radio shows and the like. I have even lead others to fun things as well, that some have found delight in.
The one thing I've neglected to say is there is pure love with those whom I have found on Twitter. Pure and unconditional. In our world of technological rampage, economical downturns, and societal breakdowns, there is something wonderful this way comes in cyber world. Authenticity can be found in anything you bring authenticity to. Like attracts what is like minded in the physical world, as well it does in what appears to be a virtual world.
A profound blessing for me is to now see the difference I can make with my energy and contributions.
A cord was struck in me long forgotten until recently. As a young girl I was a "wave the banner" kind of girl. Attending "No Nukes" at the Hollywood Bowl on what was called Survival Sundays and "Save the Whales" events were a regular part of my routine. When life changes occurred, I sadly had to put down my banners and attend to my own survival. Now as a direct result of being a viral part of the Twitter community, dear friends are not only helping me to heal old wounds but showing me how I can help heal others. So I'm personally blessed to have an opportunity to soon pick up my banners again, but now on a much more universal scale. As a matter of fact something very important is about to come out of me that may have the potential to help a lot of other people. Not something I would have ever expected to happen.
So, what's a twitter? Not a video game, honey. Nor a toy to be played with or taken for granted. It is a place where lives come together to share in hope, in love and inspiration that once upon a time didn't have this platform. It is a place where people honor and respect each other no matter what walk of life they come from or where they are going. We can't help being drawn to it. Some of us, me included can't help our obsession with it. Twitter Name: @SchuggaJoy
Where ever it is friendships are born so sacred is the meeting place.
After all, we are all only human. ~djs
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