Stain-glass Eyes

Why would a young person see an advantage in aging if most older people they’re exposed to complain all the time, focus on the past and yank back on their aged ideas like they were snagging and reeling in a huge pike?   Would there be any hope in aging? I’m not talking about physical traces of aging. I’m talking about the possibility we can evolve our opinions, values and dreams over time. Young people need hope, they are deciding what they want for their life, their future. It’s not helpful for them to worry about dilemmas aged people keep putting front-forward. They need space. They need to feel trust in us to keep our act together so the youth have room to create chaos, take risks and gamble on their own future, which means to make inevitable mistakes we all did. I believe wholeheartedly we are not doing youth any favors by giving the impression we float on our merits when we get “older”. It’s difficult, but we need to impress on them each year there is hope. Seeing our open-min...

  Dear Happy Little Snowflake, I have some questions for you. ( I’ve been watching you outside my window the last few days) l.   How does it feel to float around so carefree? 2. How do you just drift with the wind? 3. How is it possible not to worry about viruses? Fondly, Your Friend,   Maggie Snowfall in Berlin Dear Maggie, It’s creepy you’ve been watching me. (Just saying) I’m a simple snowflake so I thought I was invisible to your world. I’m always hearing about how horrible we are and how people want to sweep us away, plow us over, pee on us or simply leave and go south. Thank you for writing, though, I’m sorry for your loss since Covid-19. To answer your questions…when I’m floating with the wind senses take over. The cold (as I like it best) makes sounds muffled, I fall with a wet, crisp taste of being a snowflake. Each day I transform into a new design. A new entity. I am aware of my priceless freedom. I will miss my window of time if I don’t cherish each hour, each...

I’ve wanted to write lately. But, I’ve stopped myself so many times. I finally felt desperate enough to slap myself across my avoidance-face today. To see what my mind thinks it can shield me from.   My mind is sly. It’s good at evading at all costs. But, what have I been slithering away from? What thoughts? What emotions? It’s been like Pong* of the 70s. With each bounce it challenges me, “Are you there yet? I’ll be back.” My mind-trickery helps me believe I’m immune to thoughts and feelings when I avoid.   When I let the words come out I realize why I've stopped myself. The minute I let my fingers touch the keyboard this morning shame and fear dangle in front of me. They felt they needed to remind me I’ve dodged the virus-hardball, for now. S hame judges me harshly for side-stepping loss. Loss of a job, health, a loved one, a home, an income. Hope, faith, sanity. Fear wants to graciously help me control “Future”. To know what the unknowns are — - — - ---- -- --- -  ev...

On my long, curved, clay-colored, couch, I watch a golden shadow with blotches of darkness go over and across where my legs would be if I was sitting there in the shade from the sun. Like a mesmerizing strobe light it insists I watch. I hear the steady tap sound of the pendulum return to its place of origin, over and over. The shadow mimics the clock’s rhythm with a dance on my couch. I turn and stare up at the clock mechanism four feet above the floor, encased in a deep red, wood frame with windows up and down on all sides. “Now I’m here, now I’m there.” If I listen hard enough I can hear the violins rise to accompany. Sweet, soft and entranced. It stays in rhythm but in butterfly-wing-chants of sound. The score of time. Constant motion. As the shadows slowly fade on my couch, so does each minute of time. Grandfather Clock continues its movement of song. I turn now toward my apartment window. The sun no longer blinds me. I notice my maroon shamrock (in the pot by the window) has drift...

The turtle’s back is orange and I wasn’t watching. (Mackinac Island - Ojibwe "Big Turtle" - Mishi-mikinaak) Summer crept away.   The moment this dawned on me I remember well.   I was looking across Lake Huron facing Mackinac Island on a cool afternoon. It had mutated into a mass of oranges. I tend to mentally flog myself if I don’t pay attention to seasonal changes. Seasons haven’t looked the same since March. That’s when I migrated to St. Ignace to temporarily be with my mom. Acute awareness of changing seasons is ingrained in me. I grew up in northern Michigan among fisherman, sailors, tourist traps and upper peninsula survivors.   If you didn’t have your cords of wood stocked up for the winter, your boat ship-shape for summer, your garden planted in spring and your snow-tires on in autumn, natural consequences hover like a silent teacher reeking with vapors of “I told you so!”   This is the first time Covid-19 marked itself as a season of its own. A season of gloo...

I’ve often wondered why I notice flowers.  Their yellows, blues, purples…framed with varying shades of green.  Like the smile of an infant, seeking approval. I think I’m charmed by their delicateness long before color catches my attention. There’s a vulnerability. They have no way to check or dress for weather. Delicate faces lure streams of sunlight for food.   With unmistakable patience, they twist and bend in the winds. I envy their strength. The honesty of their existence reminds me of my humanness. Lessons from a bend-over-to-see plant took time for me to process. But lessons waited for me. To admit I’m vulnerable. Patience helps me delight in soft as well as forceful winds. My existence is fragile but with obstinance I can hold on to present time. The soft rains helps me reserve my strength. For the soil-sucking rains which always come. My roots dig in my purpose as stability washes past me. Streams of sunlight feed my soul. Its hope lights on me and whispers, “Yo...

I spoke to a woman who was a wooden fence and a house yard away from me the other day. I noticed I’ve been utilizing three “Masks” during this pandemic.   ONE  ➤   One mask is obvious. It’s the one I hang on my door knob to put on before I leave for ANY reason. I listened to her story about her husband going through the back part of the garage to begin his clean-up after coming home from his work as a doctor at University of Michigan.   I feel like my other small mask around my mouth and nose, was nothing compared to what he has to guard himself with. He puts on layers of protection all over his body and face area, every single night (he works the night shift and sleeps during the day).                                                                                TWO....