Send Me a Treasure of a Handwritten Letter

Letters.
We have all gotten them.
Its amazing how treasured these simple pieces of paper can be.
Aged and delicate from years of being folded and unfolded, sometimes stained by tears over time.

I have a box of old letters, from my dad, from my brother, from friends throughout my life, and I could never part with any, though some are beyond legible in their current state.

Now in my impatience, I eagerly wait for that instant reply through my electronic mail. Always bright and new, no matter how long ago those words were composed. No character, just a white screen with little overly neat and perfect black typing on them.

But beauty is often found in the flaws and the best things in life are worth waiting for.

I miss my snail mail letters. Even if they test my sanity as I wait and wonder for weeks if the intended recipient received my paper present and will be replying with their own for me, I still long to have those pages to tuck away in a special place to look at occasionally throughout the years that pass, and remember. They invoke so much more memory and emotion then anything I could pull up on my computer screen. They are gifts of the time and thought taken to share with me stories from across the miles. They are a little piece of the love from family and friends fit into a tiny envelope.

Far above any jewels or gold you could send me, I crave a handwritten note, one that someday I can pass on to my own children as an heirloom, a memorial, a bit of the writer suspended in time and space, the words as ageless as the paper it is written on is aged.

Have we forgotten what a treasure a handwritten letter can be?

Crayon Therapy

Once upon a time I worked in childcare at our church on the East coast. I loved every minute of it! It was mostly nights, a few weekends if there was something extra special happening. I loved my coworkers and I loved the children. We did crafts, read books and colored with the kids. Before this if you had asked me to color, I would've stuck up my very mature adult nose at you and said, "Coloring is for children, I am an adult. I just don't color!" And if by chance I ever did, it wasn't with crayons, after all I am much more refined then that, I would use color pencils or markers. Of course this was all before Natalie hit the age when coloring became an art form. Now its one of her favorite pastimes. And sometimes I even join her.
Do you ever wish you could go back to being a kid again? Life seemed so much simpler, no stress and responsibilities to get in the way. I, being not a therapist but a regular patient to this form of therapy, propose that as adult when we are stressed out to the point of hair loss, deeply longing for something simple to soothe us, that we color. And not just color with anything! Oh for this therapy to truly work we must use the most essential medium available to children, the crayon. Let the crayon flow as an extension of yourself, as you concentrate on staying within the lines of any random picture in a book full of colorless pages. Use the repetitive and constant movement of your hand as a way to erase all the tension from your body and mind. Remember an easier life, filled with coloring pages, juice boxes, and cookies waiting patiently for you when you return home from school. Then be bold, post your newest masterpiece on display for all to see. The best of your work should go in a place of honor, right alongside the greatest artists of our time, our children, on the refrigerator. And as you stand back to admire your work, consider what your next project may be!
Need more therapy...give finger painting a try next!

And Then There Were Three (Part 3)

This is the 3rd part in my fictional story. Check out the rest starting here.

The next Monday I woke bright and early to some small birds singing from the maple tree outside our bedroom window. If it had been spring, this would've been a regular performance and I would've opened the windows to let the fresh air flood inside carrying the tune along with it, but in October, the bird's song was a rare treat. Ben had already left for work and other then the sweet soft song from outside, the world was silent. I hated to break that silence with by making anything to eat quite yet, so I plopped down on the love seat in the corner of the room nearest the window, and curled up under a soft chenille blanket with a book. It was a romance novel, but not the hot and steamy kind with no substance, no this book was more real. Even more to me since it was the first book I had ever gotten published. It was a fictional tale of love based on how Ben and I had met, courted and married. Of course I added a little more drama to the actual events to grab my readers and suck them in, but under all the fluff it was real.
Ben had been taking night classes at the local community college 4 years ago when I moved into town. A week after I had arrived, on my way home from the grocery store in my little Ford Focus, I had gotten my first ever flat tire. I managed to steer my car over onto the side of the road safely, but it was dark out and I was in an unfamiliar town on a deserted road surrounded by looming pine trees. I had no one nearby to call to help me or get some for me, no directory to call for a tow truck or a cab, and no knowledge of how to get my spare on, let alone a jack to do it with. I just put on my hazard lights and prayed that someone would be coming along soon, kind enough to assist me somehow. I didn't have to wait long, within 20 minutes I saw the headlights of what appeared to be a truck or SUV coming around the bend in the road about 100 yards to the north of where I sat. It was Ben, my hero then and now. Despite a late night class after a long day at work, Ben pulled over to see what the trouble was. I was struck by how handsome he was. In the city, I had dated all the clean cut, savvy guys who looked sharper then a double edged knife, but Ben was a little more masculine somehow, and of course, tall, dark and handsome. His eyes were what drew me in. They were the kindest eyes I had ever seen. I could see the wear in them from all his years of hard work, and despite a tired appearance they were so alive with energy. A pale light blue with the most subtle green undertones, I loved the way they seemed to watch and take me in as we stood there. I was absently explaining what was wrong while being transfixed to look nowhere else but stare into his hypnotic eyes. Well eventually he looked down at my tire to make his own evaluation about the circumstance and I was forced out of my momentary trance and landed back in reality. I told him I did have a spare but unfortunately no jack stand. As luck would have it, Ben was the most prepared guy I could've run into that night, not only did he have a stand, but the back of his red truck looked like a whole auto supply store! He certainly wouldn't be stuck anywhere with car troubles for very long! Looking back I still find it odd though, that a man who so loved working on cars could not stand to be dirty. Seems to me that those two go hand in hand, but Ben somehow manages to be the cleanest car mechanic I have ever seen.
After replacing my shredded tire with the spare, Ben offered me his phone number, just in case I had anymore car troubles tonight...or another night. I took the hint. Between his eyes and his deep soothing voice, I knew I would be making that call, very soon. By the following weekend we were on a picnic at the local beach. And I knew he was the man for me, when we held hands for the first time that same afternoon. He had been working up to it as we walked along the water. First gently bumping into me as our bodies swayed side to side at our slow pace, then I could feel his fingers reaching, searching for my own. Slowly, sweetly our finger entwined. His hands were much larger then my delicate, lady-like ones, but even just to the touch of his hand, I could feel the security in them. I imagined his hands, protecting me, helping me, and caressing me. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands, my mom used to tell me. I didn't understand what she had meant until that very moment.
Ben and I began seeing each other every spare moment. His schedule was always busy between work and classes, but mine was flexible and we made it work. It was only a few months later when we were out and about that he pulled over to the side of the road, among trees that oddly reminded me of the forest that first night we had met. Ben said he was hungry and out of the blue pulled a picnic basket from the bed of his truck with a rather familiar meal, in fact that same meal from our very first date. It was unusual but I went along with our sudden lunch break and we laid a blanket out over the top of the cab and he stood in the bed of the truck leaning onto the cab as I perched myself, legs crosswise on the blanket.
We ate in the silence of the woods, listening and watching the nature all around us. A chipmunk scampered out towards the truck to investigate and I dropped some food for him. He hesitantly approached as if debating all the while whether the small crumb was worth the risk of being close to these strangers. Apparently it was, but not for very long, he snatched it and scurried as fast as he could back into the undergrowth.
After we packed up our leftovers, Ben walked around the truck to open my door for me, but then blocked my way at the last moment. He had dropped down to one knee with a tiny velvet box in one hand, I gasped and realized what this peculiar afternoon had been leading up to. Before he had said a word, I shouted "YES!" and the smile that spread across his face was brighter then the sun itself. He was beaming and I was all aglow as we got back in the truck, me with a new piece of jewelry proudly displayed on a very important finger.
The wedding was simple but beautiful. We didn't waste anytime in planning it either. Only 2 months after our picnic in the woods we were man and wife, the happiest couple you could ever meet.

Coffee Desired, Tea Inspired

What is it about the Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino or the Caramel Macchiato that have me longing to like coffee? I wish I could find a comfy spot lounging in a dim but cozy coffee house, ordering a fancy sounding cup of coffee to sip as I read a classic piece of literature on my day off. This has actually been a fantasy of mine since I was young. Coffee was a sophisticated drink that only the older and mature people drank. It seemed a symbol of age and wisdom which I foolishly longed for ahead of my years. I wanted to be the moody poet whose inspiration struck in the intimate low lighted corners of some posh coffee shop while surrounded by other melodramatic writers huddled over their own laptops and miniature cups of steaming espresso.
I don't really remember when I first tried a sip of the coffee flavored water my mother would brew every morning. But even her weak and creamer diluted version of the coffee I so admired and aspired towards, left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, literally! I discovered I couldn't stand the dark stuff in even its weakest form. Despite my utter disgust at the taste, I still considered it a status symbol for many years. I was jealous of my sisters who did develop a liking towards it, and I too wished to make my rounds through the local Starbucks ordering vastly overpriced and fancied up vente lattes or frappuccinos.
At some point I just had to except that coffee would not make me more sophisticated or a more mature and wise adult. I have now embraced tea as my new beverage of choice, particularly the green variety. And while I don't think it makes me any wiser- unless you count the added health benefits it may provide over coffee- or mature- unless you count the years it has taken me to discover this alternative beverage- it does somehow make me feel more sophisticated as I sit and sip it from my over sized Tinkerbell mug, in my well lit living room, surrounded by piles of toys and playful children. Here, with my tea, I now find all the inspiration I need.

Teach Me Tuesday: Writing Tools

While I believe most know how to use this wonderful invention, I wonder how many truly do. I find it to be an invaluable tool as I write. It is the Thesaurus.
I would be willing to bet that anyone who enjoys writing, and does it regularly, keeps a dictionary beside them on their writing desk (or in my case on my end table nearest where I usually sit to type on our laptop). But how many people keep a thesaurus within reach? I don't dare to guess, as I know few writers, but my hope would be quite a few.
With a thesaurus I am able to sit here and write my poetry, stories, and even my blog with what I hope would be an air of grace about them. I hate to be too repetitive, constantly using the same word over and over again throughout a piece. I personally find it dull to read something that has been written like that, and would quickly loose interest. But as a sometimes sleep deprived mom, I find I need help to find a variety of words that can all be interchangeable to a point. It also gives more specification in writing as readers have a chance to more clearly grasp at what you want them too with each additional descriptive word.
For example, did you know that if you looked up 'disaster', you will find 44 other words to possibly suit your need! Some are more specific to a particular type of disaster: casualty, rainy day, and bankruptcy; and some would work generally: catastrophe, calamity, and tragedy.
It also words in the reverse. Think back to those old lessons in elementary school, do you remember the term 'synonyms'? how about 'antonyms'? While the synonyms are words meaning the essentially the same thing, antonyms are words meaning the opposite. So if you need a word to describe the exact opposite of 'variety', you could look that up in the thesaurus and find the options 'equality' or 'similarity'.
Of course you must also know the meaning behind those words, so a dictionary is another necessary implement to keep on hand (if you don't already!). Another one of my personal favorites is a rhyming dictionary, but that one is more for fun! I use that if I am writing a poem and I need a rhyme, though most of the poems I have written do not actually rhyme anyway. Still I think it is something that will be fun to use as my children grow and marvel at the amusement a good rhyme will bring.
Overall I find these treasures to be such gifts to me as a writer. A dictionary and thesaurus are my paint sets; Words are the colors of my art form. I love to use a variety of vibrant and brilliant colors as I paint my word pictures; a dictionary and thesaurus allow me to do so!

What have you learned this week?

Story Time: And Then There Were Three (Part 2)

As requested by at least one friend, I will add to my story of last week since no one else did. I will post another link if someone would like to join me this time as well, but it will only be open a week before I may add another segment myself!

Interrupting my moment of solitude, Digger, our chocolate lab scratched at the door. Right on time, he did this every night around six o'clock to demand he be fed. I would worry if he didn't. I got up from the couch and dragged my feet into the tiny kitchen. Struggling around my protruding belly, I squatted and eventually was able to reach back under the sink to scoop out a cupful of Digger's favorite organic dog food. He was almost as picky an eater as a human would be! As a puppy, when we first bought him from the farm up on Buck Road, he would refuse to eat what we gave him. It took us weeks, not to mention several dozen bags of food- dog food is not cheap, to discover a kind he liked.
Unlike his difficult to please appetite, he was quite content to being an outside dog. He was never allowed in our house, but wandered mostly from the garage to the yard which had a very comfortable and modern dog house, as far as those go. Nothing about even the harshest weather, thunder storms, hail, and the buckets and buckets of rain that poured on our little town in upstate Maine, seemed to phase him. If it was winter he preferred the garage, sleeping next to the space heater I would hook up to keep the chill away. Then in the spring, he would take up residence once again in his dog house. And before the fall gave way to the truly frigid weather, he seemed to favor neither, sometimes even opting to just sit between my dying rose bushes in the muddy soil. Such an odd dog sometimes, but I loved him all the same.
Digger had been our first baby, when Ben and I had struggled to conceive. We spent nearly sixteen months it seemed, always waiting and watching for the double pink line on the pregnancy test. I never thought it would be that difficult to get pregnant. After all I had many friends from church who would share their blessed news only a month or two after getting married! How could it come so easy for them, and while I, who watched everything I ate, took vitamins and supplements galore, swore off caffeine and alcohol long ago, and jogged for an hour each morning, couldn't seem to get that elusive bun in the oven to bake! Of course as fate would have it, as soon as we had started the paperwork for an adoption, the Lord had decided to finally give us our heart's desire.
One early morning in the middle of March, frost on the window from an everlasting winter, I woke up, stretched my arms high, caught a whiff of the bacon my loving husband was making for breakfast, and quickly had to dash into the bathroom, heaving as I ran! Something was different, I could feel it, and later that morning, Ben and I celebrated the long anticipated appearance of those two pink lines that we had begun to think would never show up!
After pausing to reflect over all that had happened in the last two years, Digger reminded me he was waiting for his dinner with another scratch at the door. He was beginning to wear out the bottom of my back door. Where once it had been a scarlet red, towards the bottom it now faded into the worn wood showing through the paint in many tiny crevices that where an exact match to Digger's front right claws. I gripped the top of the counter and used my arms to help pull myself back up into a standing position, though my knees were painfully protesting this change in position. I waddled over to the door in the corner of the kitchen that led out to our small yard, and opened the door as Digger backed away to make a path for me. I took the two steps off the door stoop very carefully and dumped the food into one of his empty bowls. The other bowl I filled with water using our old patched up garden hose. Digger instantly went to work clearing his dishes of any trace of dinner, then went around the corner of the house to the side where his favorite rose bushes were, with the perfect Digger-sized gap between them in the mud, as I made my way back inside to begin preparations for a late meal to share with Ben.
I snacked on some crunchy carrots as I boiled the water for the spaghetti noodles. The crunch of the crisp carrots as I chewed echoed loudly in my ears as I was distracted watching a blue jay hoping around on the window sill. I jumped when I felt the two arms attempt to wrap around my extra-large midsection. After the initial surprise wore off, I relaxed into the warm body standing behind me and closed my eyes. I turned to try and bury my face into Ben's chest, but failed as I craned my neck just to be able rest the top of my head against him. My belly was squeezed in between us, and as if trying to be included in this tender moment, our little one gave her- or his- Daddy a sharp kick. If only I could freeze time, I would stay here forever.
All to soon, Ben brushed his lips against the top of my head and planted a kiss somewhere in my tangle of brown curls, before taking a step back and asking "What's for dinner?"
"Spaghetti," I said as I walked to the stove, salted the water, and poured some noodles into the now boiling pot of water. "Should be ready in about 15 minutes, if you want to get a quick shower in while I finish."
"Sounds good."
As Ben headed into the bedroom, stripping off his shirt before he was even halfway down the hall, I was mesmerized by his half naked backside. I was more in love with him now then I had ever been. The love I had for him was so overwhelming sometimes, that I wondered how I could still contain so much affection for him, and share it with our baby as well. Would my love be split in half between the two, or could my heart possibly handle even more love and devotion, doubly what it contained now?

What happens next? Its up to you!

Story Time: And Then There Were Three

It was a chilly wet day in October. I was walking home from the store burdened by my plastic grocery bags. I thought, at least the rain has stopped, as I ventured on my shortcut between two old houses, one looking as if it would fall apart the next time a slight breeze passed this way. Luckily it had been abandoned long ago, so it seemed like it would have little effect if any on the town. Probably wouldn't even rate an article in the Daily Beat, our small town's pathetic excuse for a newspaper.
Endeavoring on before the break in the rain would end, I raced up the next street and planned on crossing Hadley Field, but when I came to it, I decided it would be better to finish the home stretch with buckets of water dumping down on me, then risk the puddle and mud speckled field. I should have known better then to expect the route being clear. After all it had been storming for days. And Hadley Field had on more then one occasion left me needing to be hosed down before I even considered entering the house I called home, with not even a speck of dirt or dust to be found inside.
My husband, Ben, had it in for dirt. Maybe it was because of the uncleanliness of the environment he grew up in. His father moved them around from basement to basement of friend's homes. One time they even lived under a bridge for a month! His hands were stained by the filth in which he lived, and as a child he swore he would provide better for his own family someday. And that he did. Ben often missed dinner due to the late shifts he would work at the factory where he had been employed since he was 17 years old. Over the past 10 years he had worked up to a manager position of sorts, but along with it came the need to work extra hours, likely finishing up his daily tower of paperwork. I didn't mind, while I loved my husband dearly, I enjoyed the quiet time to myself also.
I often would just sit and watch the bulge in my belly wiggle from side to side, occasionally bringing a small cringe to my face when I caught a shot in the ribs, mostly though I would just smile. On the small dark table beside the couch, I stashed my baby name list. I had it narrowed down to my top ten first and middle name combinations for each a boy or a girl. We had decided to let the gender be a surprise, though secretly I felt I would cry if it weren't a girl. Though you would think based on my long list of girl names we were undecided heading into this last month of pregnancy, we actually already had a beautiful and most perfect name picked out should we have the opportunity to use it. I still enjoyed the thrill of experimenting with other names, but the number one spot had always been Lilliana Grace. A name our little princess would one day soon share with her mother as well as her grandmother, that is if God chose to answer my desperate plea for a girl as I wished.

Now it's your turn! Lets try to keep it going through 3 to 4 posts, so don't end it right away! I look forward to seeing how others will build and transform Ben, Lilliana, and their little one into a family! Just be sure to link up with one another, I can't wait to see if this works out!

Continued here.

Story Time Link

I found a very neat tool, that I have yet to see used on another blog. When I signed up for the Linky Tools website, I discovered a whole list of different types of links. On that list was one in particular that brought back memories of my creative writing class I took in the 8th grade. In that class our teacher would occasionally have us do an exercise in writing that I just thought was really neat. We would have a set time to begin writing a story, usually along the lines of 10 minutes. After our initial 10 minutes was up we were to pass our papers forward for the next person to continue with our story! There were some very creative stories going around the room! At the end of class we would each share whatever paper we had ended up with last, usually each contained about 3-4 different authors at the end.
Now on the Linky Tools, one link up option is the Create a Story Link. Someone would start the story and then others link up to finish it! So I thought I would give this a try and see how it goes. To read the beginning of my story, and add a middle or the end, click here.

No More Chef Boyardee for Me!

No more Chef Boyardee for me! I am disowning this once beloved brand name for once and all. * Important note: If you still ignorantly enjoy Chef Boyardee, and prefer to keep things that way, I recommend you read no further!*
Just a few weeks ago, while munching on one of my childhood favorites- the mini ravioli- I discovered what looked like the leg of some sort of creepy crawly creature tucked away inside the little pocket of pasta. Even though I was only half way through my bowl, that was the end of my meal. I lost all interest in not only the ravioli, but in any food I might have eaten for a little while following. I was one hundred percent grossed out, though I wondered if my imagination had gotten the better of me and saw something that wasn't necessarily what I had deemed it to be.
A few days later, I headed out to the commissary, list in hand. I browsed through the usual aisles, grabbing the foods my family loves as I went. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a towering shelf packed with a variety of Chef Boyardee canned convenience. I cringed as I thought back to the trauma the last purchase of this product had resulted in. But in the end I decided everyone, and everything, deserved a second chance, so I reluctantly added a few cans to the growing collection in my cart, and continued my shopping.
The days passed, as most in my life do, with me awakening to a crying kiddo, calling out for mommy before the sun has even gotten out of bed. I make a simple breakfast and get on about our morning routine. But on one particular day, before I realized it, I was staring at lunch time feeling as drained as if it were bedtime! I quickly called on the old reliables for my kids, a recent favorite, Eggos with honey and some canned fruit. Now I don't much care for that particular meal so I decided to take the plunge and dive into a bowl of Chef Boyardee ravioli once again. I popped the bowl into the microwave with a sigh escaping my mouth and a grumble rumbling from my stomach.
I cautiously examined my first bite. That's when I saw it. What looked to be another leg of some sort poking its way through the sides of the pasta. I began to investigate further, I pulled apart the top and bottom layers of pasta and I followed the leg as it trailed further into the 'meat' of the ravioli. With my fork, I prodded around inside it until I found what appeared to be a ball like body attached to the stingy leg!! At this point I could go no further. My decision was made and absolutely final: Goodbye Chef Boyardee, I will no longer be able to enjoy the tomato drenched morsels from your quick and easy meals. While others may find spiders, cockroaches, or any other many legged miniature beasts to be beneficial and full of protein, I personally prefer the flavors of steak and chicken to fulfill that particular part of my nutrition.

Opera in the Clouds

Ah, the familiar sound of rain spilling from the sky! It has been a dry year so far, but I am excited to have those gray clouds coming back to visit again. I like to crank up the AC, snuggle up in sweats- the only pair I have- and sip from a steaming cup of chamomile tea sweetened with honey. I pop in a movie, something that brings back memories of home. Maybe even a Christmas movie, letting the warm fuzzy feeling of the season wash over me. Or something from my childhood, like Beauty and the Beast, the first movie I saw in theaters as a child.

Oh and the sound of rolling thunder. Not a memory from my home, we didn't get those very often, but from the first years of marriage with my dear husband. Thinking back to our first little apartment together, staring out the window into the dark, wet night, listening to the clouds roll in. Lightening spiking the sky with brightness for moments at a time. Curling up in bed with Jon under thick warm blankets and just listening to the storm as if it were an opera playing out somewhere high above us. Blocked by the clouds, we can only hear the remnants of the music as if we are behind the curtains, backstage.
I know right now, somewhere, someone is wishing this storm would pass. As for me, I will enjoy it as it grumbles on like a grumpy old man, and I will pray so that maybe our visitor will stay just a little while longer.

Ants in My Pants!

Ants in my pants, and crawling up my arms. They line up around my kitchen sink and parade across my dining room table in search of crumbs- they must know I have young kids! I find them in books and by the toilet seat. I even found them lazying about in a sauna once, only for me, that sauna was my chamomile tea! No peace from these little pests, not anywhere!! No matter how hard I clean, they come in their armies, marching in despite the causalities they continue to face. I must confess and ask for your forgiveness, because when I think about these tiny nuisances, a smile works its way across my face at the thought of squishing or stepping on them. I admit it, I enjoy ending their miniature lives almost as much as they seem to like driving me 'ant-y'!

"I want to be a grown up!"

Do you ever find yourself getting nostalgic for those old childhood days? When the magic was alive and bright before your eyes. Everything was new and exciting and full of wonder. Of course we can never have those days back, as hard as we may wish. I remember being so anxious to grow up, to make my own decisions and do whatever I wanted. Of course, now I try to convince my own daughter to enjoy her childhood as I hear those fateful words come out of her own mouth, "I want to be a grown up!". As hard as I try to convince her, there is no swaying her wish. Someday she will be a grown up, and no doubt regretting those words as her own children utter them and the cycle continues.
I hope one day she will sit down and listen to me before its too late. Before her eyes begin to age and the magic and mystery of the world dims into reality. Before those fairy tale dreams, of princes and castles, of fairies and magic wands, fade away into homework and body image, popularity and boys. Maybe I could convince her to cling onto her dreams, and the magic. And then one day I can share with her about a new kind of magic, love and grace.
Her eyes will again be wide with wonder as she sees the world as God created it. She will know the magic of real love, the love that only Jesus Christ could give her. She would feel her burdens lifted as God's amazing grace washes down upon her. Even the rainbow she once dreamed of going over would have new meaning and magic as a promise from God.
This is what I dream of. My children embracing the magic of childhood, when hope is all they have, and as their eyes grow dim to that magic, that the wonder of God will light them again, when grace is all they need.

As the Sun Sets

Have you ever looked out over a beautiful sunset, or sunrise, and wondered how anyone could possibly believe it was just an accident? I find it much more believeable that there is a wonderful and mighty God, who finds it relaxing to begin and end His days by painting a beautiful scene across the sky for all of us to witness and enjoy!

As the Sun Sets

I have come to the edge.
Glancing over the weathered earth,
The grass covered turf reaches down,
As if each blade of green wants to see just a little further,
Trying to get just a closer look.
The ocean battered rocks that emerge from the
Dark churning water below,
Play a soothing melody
Composed by the waves as they flow in and out.
I let my legs dangle over
And dance in midair,
Carefree, not burdened by
My weight for the moment.
A cool breeze sweeps my hair across my eyes,
I quickly tuck it back behind my ear
I want to watch, and not miss an instant.
I stare out across the sea,
I too wish I could get just a little bit closer.
I watch as a giant blazing ball of light
Sinks into the far off depths of the ocean.
Brilliant pink hues fade into melancholy purples
Quickly losing the race as night edges in.
The light of day is swallowed up by the mighty deep
As the all encompassing wave of darkness
Creeps up from all sides
And forces it under, out like a flame in water.
Each sunset, so uniquely, perfectly, unchanged by time.
I linger on the edge,
Marveling at this miracle.
How beautiful to witness God’s painting every twilight,
To watch an original masterpiece being created each night.
Every brushstroke different from the last,
Each color something new painted across the sky,
By the master of all creations.
I marvel and I believe.

Autumn

I have never posted my poetry before, but I have been writing since I was about 12 yrs old, though not often in the past few years. I don't always like the way they come out, but this is one I wrote late fall when I was feeling quite homesick and tired of the tropical weather here on Guam. I thought I had lost this when Jon cleared the computer without having it saved somewhere else, but I found it yesterday in an old email I had sent to someone! Let me know what you think, I enjoy getting the occassional comment! Thank you!

Autumn

The frosty wind breathes crisp golden leaves
From the heaven stretched arms of Old Man Maple.
They flutter as butterflies into a blanket
To warm the earth as autumn falls over the countryside.
A blazing fire over the land in crimson, orange, and honey.

I walk swiftly with a chill biting at my nose
Click, clack, as my heels splash
Upon the concrete Sidewalk River.
Crunch, as my footsteps lead me over
The lone leaf dusting across the path.

Overhead a sea of charcoal clouds
Form an oil painting on an ivory canvas
As tears begin to fall from Sister Sky
Down to the world below,
Showering us in all of Washington’s glory.

All creatures scurry for shelter,
As the sky is ignited for a moment
And a roar is sounded from above.

I walk as booming thunder claps around me,
Icy rain soaks into my fleece jacket,
And brilliant lightening blazes my trail
For only moments at a time;

Yet I am flooded with warmth.
Encompassed in the familiar world
My heart has long yearned for.

Feeling bitterly cold,
Surrounded by autumn’s vivid blush,
Bombarded by flashes of lightening
And ear splitting thunder,
I am enveloped in memories of home.

The sweet scent of gingerbread and cinnamon
Tickles my nose as images of pumpkins and hayrides
Play like an old movie through my mind.
Laughter and singing ring in my ears
As I reminiscence, and my mouth begins to water
Over the traditional pumpkin pie.

Now I eagerly let Madam Gale push me along,
Forcing me to the place
I have long found my comfort in,
She ushers me inside like a long lost friend
Before rushing off to tend to other homecomings.
Autumn has brought me home.

An Exercise in Writing

I want to write. More then anything I wish each time I sat down at the keyboard that God would bless me with an endless flow of words. I want to paint pictures with my words, I want to inspire with my words, I want to create with my words. Just as God created man, I wish I could create my own masterpiece, to make others contemplate, wonder, explore their own hearts and minds. But it doesn't come as simply for me. My words come when they come, I cannot force them out. I may have the idea, the thought about which I want to write and share with everyone, but it simply isn't as easy to put it into words. But the feeling, once I do get the divine inspiration from heaven, is so overwhelming, sometimes I can't even sleep at night as the pen and paper, or the keyboard, just calls out my name. I have to get it out of my head before it fades away, and I am again left sitting at the computer with a blank screen and my fingers glued to the same keys just waiting for the moment to begin, flying across the keys when the words do, hopefully, eventually, come out.
Click, clack, click, it begins as an electric spark flowing from my brain, down my neck, into my arms, through my hands and finally escaping with the click, clack, click out my fingertips as I type. Oh the music to my hears to here the keyboard buzzing! I have often wished I could play the piano, make wonderful music to share with all those who could hear, but I find myself now just content and happy when I am able to play on the keyboard of my computer, its almost like music and the words are my notes. But all music, even good music, must have an ending. And too soon, I am speechless again, the keyboard is silent, my thoughts have returned to those of the dull, day to day chores variety. But at least, no matter how occasionally, I am able to write again.

This is one of my exercises in writing, I just sit down an write whatever comes to mind, usually not quite this fluid but I liked this one! Its just something to do when I want to write but don't feel like I can, or don't know what to write about! I actually think its fun and I totally recommend it to anyone even if you do it just when you get bored!

The Short Story of My Name as I Know It

Growing up I remember thinking my name was so masculine. It was absolutely clear to me at the time, that it was a name that a boy should be labeled with. I genuinely couldn't stand it. Of course now I realize what I didn't like was the nickname 'Chris' that seemed to naturally come to mind for anyone trying to tease me somehow, because I have yet to meet a boy named Crystal.
I once asked my mom why she named me that, but all I got was what I thought was a cop-out: "I just liked the name Crystal!" Really?? You liked a name that's meaning is a clear rock? Not even a diamond or precious gemstone, just a clear rock?? I remember as a kid saying at one point that I was named after a famous movie star, to make my friends all jealous. I wanted some claim that my name was more important, more special.
Eventually I realized though that Lynn, my middle name was truly a treasure. I share my middle name with my grandma, my mom, and now my own daughter. And though it is a common name, I knew more girls with the middle name Lynn then I can remember, it was special to me just because of who I share it with.
And as for Crystal, I can't say I am thrilled with it anymore then I was as a child. But I definitely don't hate it, I no longer view it as masculine and I can't say it sounds bad, especially coming from the mouth of the man I love, who funny enough can't stand his own name (which of course means I love it).
I just hope someday my own children will treasure the names I have picked out so thoughtfully and lovingly for them, as I now realize my mom did the same way for me when I was still a baby kicking her from inside her belly.

This is the 1st in a 15 week series I am doing to record my youth with other woman. Check it out at

Dreaming Big Dreams

Once upon a time there was a little girl. She dreamed big dreams. Dreams of becoming a doctor, as she would practice on her friends and pets; Trying to fix every little boo-boo. She dreamed of being a lawyer, arguing seemed to be only too natural to her as she constantly tested her theories among her siblings; much yelling ensued and the judge always had to step in to keep her in line. She longed to be a great chef, and would whip together her favorite macaroni and cheese whenever the opportunity provided itself! She aspired to become a photographer and hang her many beautiful photos in the best galleries. And sometimes she would picture herself as a designer and architect, dreaming up the most awesome and creative buildings, stretching her creativity farther then she could ever imagine, time and time again. This girl would often sit in her English classes, as she would read the novels of amazing authors such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, and imagine herself someday winding a wonderful tale with words to create wonderful lands and far away places only seen through the eyes of her readers. But soon it was time for her to grow up and choose a path to follow. Would she be a doctor, a lawyer, or a chef? Should she become a photographer, an architect, or a writer?
The decision became very clear to this little girl, as she quickly was becoming a young woman, she would be a mother and she would be so much more.
A doctor who would heal her children's wounds with bandages, hugs and kisses. She would be the lawyer who cunningly convinces her children they want to clean their rooms and go to bed on time so that they can be well rested for the adventures tomorrow holds. She would be a chef, constantly experimenting with new ways to tuck nutritious vegetables and grains into food that would end up in her children's bellies and not splattered on the walls or floor. She would become a great photographer, constantly trying to snap that extra special shot that would make it onto the walls of her own gallery, the most precious gallery she could ever hope to make it into, the gallery of a happy home. She would become an architect, constantly using her creativity to build the better fort, or construct the perfect science or craft project with her children. She would even become the author of the best story ever written, as she created her own unique tale with her wonderful children and family as they have their ups and downs on the long winding path God has led them down. She would even be things she hadn't dreamed of as a child, a teacher, a counselor, an entertainer, an artist, a party planner and anything else her children would require of her as they grow and dream their own dreams. But most importantly of all she would be a mother.

What did you dream of when you were a child? Did your dreams come true in some form?