Stain-glass Eyes

Small Cemetery outside of Doolin, Ireland Without thinking why, she left the road and decided to go over the fence through the long, thick, green grass. It would give her a chance to set her eyes on his gravestone, long before kneeling beside it.  The narrow, rocky road was beginning to feel like it would never end. Stopping, she took a deep breath, as she leaned her hips against the cold, ancient, stone fence. Layers of dry lichen spread across the rounded pieces of limestone.  Her hands felt the roughness, as she carefully pushed herself over. Her creamy, linen dress snagged as if holding her back. "He won't remember you," The whisper slid like ice water down her back. As she moved slowly away from the fence, she gently rubbed at the tear she noticed on her dress.   She frowned at herself for not wearing her jeans and sweatshirt. "He'll remember me," she thought. Aran Island Coast She lets

I've been keeping a personal journal for as long as I remember being able to write.  I don't remember how it felt then.  Except, I felt pretty cool watching my thoughts transpire on a page.  It's hard not to care about the handwriting, spelling, legibility and content at first.   When I was a young mother, I thought I should keep track of events when my girls were growing and developing.  Some journals were used keep track of trips.  I have this fantasy of my girls finding a detail in my journal, after I'm long gone, and retracing my steps to find the little spot I loved and visit my happy spirit there. (I'd much rather take them there myself, but I have crazy romantic ideas, sometimes) I kept journal entries on my students, to help me reflect on their circumstances.  I didn't want to forget how important those details were.  Sometimes, empathizing with one heavy load they carried, was the key to getting them to focus on learning.  I even have jour

Reading a quote in a small gift store in Nashville made me think in a new vein. Usually, I'm thinking, "I just have to work harder, think clearer, have more faith and get back up when I fall."  I spotted a quote on a small wooden box sitting on a small glass shelf.  It was hand-carved into the lid.  "What would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?"   I really try to be less fearful of things and not guess the failure-consequence of each decision I make.  But, to live believing nothing I do can be a failure, is a quite a bit of an adjustment in thinking.  It would be striving for what I want to achieve instead of striving for the least amount of failures and setbacks.  It pairs well with refusing to believe in perfection.  It supports the belief I have that I can make a difference in this world every day.  I may not know how or why or to whom, but I do make a difference. I'm sitting at Fido's in Nashville.  I ordered a chai.  When

Clearning Snow From the Pellston Runway We matter.  Knowing we do makes a big difference in our day to day existence. Not by someone verbalizing for us our importance and significance.  We have to know it about ourselves.  From the inside out.  Inside from the soul, where I think we feel the deepest about ourselves and others. Tonight, swimming alone in a motel pool, I felt close to myself.  The water was holding me, soothing me and letting me feel comfortable with very little clothing on.  I was comfortable in my own skin and it helped me look inside. I know I have a soul and I was feeling it.  My mind wandered to how people get randomly shot (New episode in Texas, on the news) and I started wondering if I had a destiny waiting for me I couldn't possibly fear ahead of time.  And my mind drifted to the "do I matter?" thoughts.  Those type of basic needs fascinate me.  Our need to belong.  Our desire to be loved.  Our need to be validated.  O

My eyes burn from the day.  From the unceremonious goodbye to the U.P., leaving me in salty tears. From squinting through sunglasses in the all white, blizzard-like trip from the Mackinac Bridge to Cheboygan (to get a new sleep machine), and then on to Pellston.  All this with the defroster on full blast to keep the windshield from icing up. The burn from the swirling mist of the motel whirlpool, as I soaked in the bubbly, heated water, watching the frigid wind blow past the huge windows next to me.   Burning from the unsuccessful attempt to watch a horrible HBO movie.  I could almost feel my eyes dilating, trying to let in some light.  Most of the filming was done in shadows, using rapids movements not unlike a video game. From the forced, hot air blowing from the small heater under the motel window, with its wide, vertical-striped curtains. Maybe even from sleep deprivation the last few nights.  It all starts to add up and topple from the weigh

St. Ignatious Loyola  There was a good selection of storm fronts coming in last night. I guess it was a tribute to my Godmother, Yvonne.  The sky just had to open up, spill it guts and tell everyone she's gone and will be missed.  Thunder and lightning seems strange lighting up the night sky, reflecting off the white snow. It even left us without electricity to seal the message. I took a few pictures as the sun was finishing up this evening.  No picture can show the ten degrees that felt way below zero, as I got out of the car (and left it running) so I could share with my readers.  The pictures can't possibly show the beauty after a storm.  Our eyes aren't always open to see, but it will always appear whether we're ready or not.   Background to a Frozen Marina Mackinac Island Left Overs From Christmas Decorations

Mantel in Thatched Cottage, Connemara, Ireland "It's none of your business what other people are thinking about you." A friend of mine quoted this from her counselor as a reminder for me to not "over-think".  To help me stop projecting someone else's thoughts and etching it in stone.  This is getting easier for me.  It's another exercise in letting go of crazy behavior not conducive to living a quality life. Church ruins at a cemetary in Doolin, Ireland I remember repeating over and over to myself as a teenager, "I don't care what they think about me."  It eventually had its convincing affect on me, but certainly wasn't as powerful as leaving it as none of my business.  I know now (but I still have to self-talk it through) even when people verbalize an opinion they have of me, it isn't always as straight forward as it seems.  I still project unnecessary filler between the words. A new train of thought o

Shadow-Self-Potrait Early Morning in St. Ignace Today is my birthday.  I feel exihilarated.     Student Artwork in the Hall at Eyuboglu I talked to my friend, Birim, this morning on Skype.  She lit an eight inch candle and sang Happy Birthday to me, while moving the candle in small circles.  We talked a little about aging and she guessed we're on a bell curve of maturity. We are decreasing our maturity rather than increasing with each new birthday .  We laughed about it, but I have to agree.  At least we have reached a peak and don't feel like we have to expect to become more wise with age.  We can be unwise if we want.  Or just un-mature.  I didn't have the heart to tell her I never really followed the curve very well. I fit right in with my first graders when I taught.  I took the responsibilities as an adult, and was able to keep from growing up. Is being mature being more cautious, less daring?   Is it a state of settling for t

My first memory of reading a story was looking at the pictures in books.  I'd get up on a warm lap of a sister, on the pew with the chilly wall behind it.  I'd read the picture, dulling the reader's voice and creating a narration of my own. I have four older sisters and can imagine any one of them taking the time to read aloud to a pesky, freckle-faced little sister.   I vividly remember the weird pictures of the naked butts of the little people in The Elves and the Shoemaker .   The boat floating in the clouds in the rhyme Winkin, Blinkin and Nod.  I also remember the young, black boy stepping in the pies on the step on the back porch.  The books they often read from were the dark, thick, red children anthology books. They had thick, embossed pictures on the cover. There were few pictures except in the nursery rhymes.  So pages didn't get turned much.   Inside Cover of Book Trails I remember the Dick and Jane series of rea

Lake Huron Shore During a Storm When emotions become overwhelming I turn to an outlet.  My mind has learned to grab a way to purge.  To let out those storming feelings out before I explode for lack of space in this body.  "Purge" sounds negative.  Like I have to get rid of garbage from myself.  It's not always negative.  I find myself with the "exploding" kind of feelings when an exciting, joyful or deeply satisfying time is filling me up.  But, as we all know, it usually is the negative that eats us up if we don't take control. The first definition at Dictionary.com is:  Rainbow in Ireland to rid of whatever is impure or undesirable; cleanse; purify. My definition is: to rid of whatever smothers normal thought processes; to control what is overpowering normal thought; to Oxi-clean, to reboot, to redirect. The quickest outlet I find to purge is to write.  I don't have to get ready to walk in nine de