...quiet, about a lot of things...

I'm a detail person. That's where I find God. I am not a perfectionist...Just the opposite. If I can see beauty in the small, I can overlook a whole pile of ugly.

Here are some of the details of our Christmas. Hope your own tiny moments of the day, were stunning.




Angel




I love this strap of antique brass sleigh bells.



Elves just like my grandmother had. Isn't ebay a WONDERFUL thing! circa 1940




The Only Acceptable Military Presence



THE SUPPORTING CAST


Zeus



Zoey




Lola




And a very Happy Mia



THE BIG PICTURE


Mom's Tree





From my home to all of yours...
Thank you for touching my life. And if you ever get to Colorado for a visit...Bring a jacket, it's cold. Just look for the star..I'm right underneath it.

Ya know how they say that no news is good news? Well, I have news. Ergo: bad in nature.

No one wants bad news during the holidays. We all would like to act as if we are protected by this bubble of Christmas cheer. Unbreakable.

Now, I am not one to break bubbles. I am a big supporter of fairy dust and windward wishes. But sometimes reality comes bearing a long sharp stick.

In this case, that stick is pointed right at my dear sweet horse, Roux. You remember him..The leaper of ditches, the jumper of oxers, the dancer of dressage?

Well, he is one seriously sick puppy right now. He is out of the woods critically speaking..but his jumping days may be over. So,in a strange way, this season has given it's own gift to me..however wrapped in ugly, as it is.

The gift? I remember, that I love this horse, for WHO he is, not just what he does for me. Watching him take very painful steps, when he was once light and quick on his feet, reminds me to savour the next time, if there is a next time, I get to ride on his broad back..even if it is just down the trail.

He showed me today in his stall, the same thing he has shown my during competition in the field many, many times. He is a trooper. I have made him as comfortable as possible. Even drugged, he nickers to me. I have been forbidden to give him any treats with sugar in them...so I got him sugar free peppermints. He knows they are not the same...but he takes them any way.

His life has changed. My life has changed. But, through the bitter and the sweet...He will remain my brave Rouxby..and I will always be his girl.

Michael and I took dancing lessons for three weeks before our wedding. I think we needed three years! Our first dance went something like...

One two three,
trip two three.
On my train,
and two three

Now, big finish:
dip.

Ah well. At least I would play the same song...What A Wonderful World...Louis Armstrong.

I have always loved to dance...doesn't mean I am good at it. I dance with abandon at least once a day. Weird huh...a girl thing I suppose. Sometimes I hula..sometimes I bop..and sometimes I even grind. My dogs look at me like I am having an epileptic seizure. But I bump on.

Dancing makes me feel alive. I just watched a documentary today on Ram Dass...the guy who was a Harvard professor (with Timothy Leary)..and was one of the first professors fired..for experiments with psychedelics.

He later went to India..and became a teacher. Don't worry...there's a point here. The documentary shows a tribe of Krishnas descending on his parents estate. Footage shows them dancing to the very basic, but deep intrinsic sounds of sitars and bells, chanting and moving. I know, had I been more than one or two then..I would have joined them. Dancing is mystical. Dancing is essential.

I did some research on this guy. One of his many books is called The Only Dance There Is.

Life; that is. I couldn't agree more.


Prompt for Sunday Scribblings

The challenge over at Read Write Poem...is to take on a different persona when it comes to line breaks. This is when you know you are talking to a different crowd folks! See, a poet knows, there is a certain pattern they flow into when writing. A certain form, a shape to their poetry.

The problem being, out of comfort or habit one may choose the same coat time and again...because it just feels right. And in truth, it may be " just right". But it may be just convenient, or a tad lazy.

So I am up to it..I think. As you may know,I am the queen of the short line, the short stanza, the short poem. The fact that I am 5' tall may or may not have anything to do with it.

Be that as it may, today I will ramble and amble, down the long winding line. Why? Because they told me to.


Undertone

I should have given you anything else, I suppose. In truth I wish I had a choice.
But, as it turns out, I didn't. This does not surprise me at all, really. That

what I wanted,didn't (doesn't) count. Just like when I made you,I guess. I had
no say into what pocket they dipped..to create you. I was splayed open; all

pieces and parts...Some one other than myself, picked and poked at what was to become YOU. I was just the aisle marked MOTHER. What an odd assortment of things?!

On my shelves.Disorderly conduct, haphazardly thrown. Illogically arrayed attributes
nuzzled cheek to cheek with hard cold facts. I had no judgement in their placement.

I wonder what was on the list when they made you? You are certainly more exotic than
you ingredients. More nuances for all the quirky blends.I only wish they had pushed

the more obvious aside, and plowed deeper into the back stock. I always have kept the best stuff hidden. Perhaps they did find the treasures I had squirrelled away.

Perhaps, just like your mother, you are good at hiding too.
So much of you is undertone.
wlf 11:59


Thanks for such an interesting and challenging prompt. For the basis of mood.. go below one post for explanation..the one with the Santa hats.

PS..Blogger wanked up all the line breaks..funny huh?.. Each stanza should be two long lines. I swear I wrote it that way. This disproves form over function.

Now,
get
over
to

Read
Write
Poem.

Shoo.

This picture was taken the evening of a doctors appointment. One of my daughters is struggling. I have passed my depressive spirit on to her. I watched as the joy drained out of her in the last year.

Enough was enough. I took her to the doctor, and gave them my permission to help her. The tears of relief spilled down her oh so young cheeks.

I feel profoundly ashamed. I have burdened her with my dark side. With my unshakable melancholy. With my slightly eschew point of view. I feel like I have betrayed her.

The good thing, and there is always a good thing, is that I sucked it up and got her help. I chose to look her in the eye and admit that something was not right. I chose to drag her from her bed. I helped her.. help herself. I believe I was just her age the first time I retreated into the black of my room for months. No one seemed to notice. As mad as she is at me, she at least knows I noticed.

As that same layer of shame began to fall on her shoulders...(I mean how many times have we told our kids how "Blessed" they are..how privileged...how spoiled (sigh))..I told her I was proud that she decided to take control of her life. I told her now she was becoming a woman. I hope that this choice to fight for herself, will help her speak up in the future. Ask for birth control when she needs it..Insist on condoms..and say No when no is what she means...in all kinds of situations.

Not that taking a pill makes you better; but telling the truth does. And trying to dig out; does. Asking for..and accepting help, certainly does.

So, is this above picture a lie? A delusion? I don't want to think so. I want to think of it as a vision...a diffused glow of what we almost are..perhaps what we really are, when we slow down, drop our masks...and believe.

Perhaps this is the Christmas portrait of the family we truly are, when we all decide to see ourselves for who we really are. Right now. Right this moment.
amen.

At last a poem. Not much of one...but something on this page.
The snow is coming. The white storm. The peaceful cold. I will know I am alive. My breath will hang in the air.


PATTY CAKE


When you give a dog a bone,
at first he will love you.
He may dance on cue,sit or

spin. You will be magic. But,
the time will come. It must.
When you give that dog his bone,

he will seem changed. As if
suddenly he knows,you could have
given him meat, instead.




wlf 9:54

Labels: Poetry Thursday

Is writers block. I don't get this malady often, as I can drone on and on...

But...

It comes from keeping secrets. Holding on too tightly to (dastardly renegade) feelings. Smiling so long that your muscles twitch with exhaustion.
Eyeing the door a bit too long, with the desire to bolt.
Waiting for the fever to pass.
Not wanting to speak of hallucinations.


ya know..the typical holiday crud.

Please bear with me.
This too, shall pass.

I've just returned from a trip to San Francisco to go Christmas Shopping. I just wasn't feeling it.

I have time, right....to catch the holiday spirit?

What do I give my daughter for her last Christmas as a child? Next year..she will be off to college, 18...and away....

What do I give my other daughter for her journey through High School? I have looked and looked for a magic mirror..to show her the true beauty she contains. It eludes me. All I find are cheap knock offs.

What do I give my husband, that I haven't already given? I wish I could give him my restlessness, my un ease. But again, I only seem to find disguises..and false smiles painted with great sparkly lip gloss..


What would I give to myself....That I would not be afraid to unwrap?