Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

When the School Bus Came

At the end of the summer 2001, I surrendered. I put both my sons into school against my own better judgement and wishes. I cursed the world for allowing my ex-husband (and all the others involved ) to keep me from doing what I knew was right. My severely autistic son did not get taken right away. The school district had to arrange a special bus to pick him up. I prayed that bus would never come. But eventually it did. The bus came and picked him up sometime after 8:30 on September 11th, 2001. I regretted it the moment the bus pulled away. I went inside and screamed and cried and inside; died.

I don’t know how much time passed. It can’t have been long, before my mom (who watched the news every morning) called and told me about the planes hitting the towers. It felt like it had been hours and when she told me. I didn’t care. I hated the world so violently at that moment. Eventually, my body still shaking with fury, I turned on the news and watched the reenactments of the planes. I knew I should feel bad but I still couldn’t care. I remembered the voice warning me of this when I wrote the Red Letters but I didn’t care. It wasn’t until the towers collapsed, the shock of seeing those buildings crashing down, finally my fury abated. I still felt dead inside, but my hate was gone. Sorrow and a sense of mourning took the place of my hate .

As the days passed, guilt and hopelessness came to be my close friends. My sons drew away. My sons cried. I knew they were being hurt at school. But I was paralyzed, unable to help. My ex-husband came to the school meetings and blamed everything on me. I was too tired of fighting to argue. I put on fake smiles at the meetings and cried at home as I watched my sons lose their way. As the years passed worse things happened, I eventually tried to kill myself.

But the voice was still there. It told me I would not be allowed to die. I could continue to hurt myself but death was not allowed. I had a job to do and it was still waiting for me . I guess I believed it because I called 911, went to the hospital, choked down charcoal and got better.

The guilt never left me. I know it seemed silly to believe that me writing those Red Letters actually made 9/11 happen, but that was not the first time that the voice told me something would happen and it did, nor has it been the last. In fact I eventually had to admit I can not remember the voice ever telling me something would happen and it didn’t.

For a long time the question of how could my feelings matter so much plagued me, I would imagine a person throwing a single small stone. Most places it wouldn’t matter, but what if you were standing on a mountain and you threw the stone on a pile of others stones and set off an avalanche. Eventually those stones would have fallen anyways but the triple connection, first the prophetic  graveyard dream, then the voice and vision and last that the time so perfectly coincided with my son being picked up by the school bus, I could not shake the suspicion there had to be a connection.

So what is the sane thing? Science can neither prove nor disprove God. In the end, I decided it didn’t make sense to not listen simply because the “voice” couldn’t be explained. So I listened more.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Red Letters

My neighbor started out by complaining about what my boyfriend had dumped in the compost. But it turned out that was only the tip of the iceberg. It turned out my neighbor had a long list of problems with me.

I was okay with her list until she got to my son. My severely autistic son. I had already lived through two years of hell because my ex-husband blamed me for everything that he saw as wrong with our children. Like all sociopaths he was a gifted liar. The stories he told got all kinds of people to call protective services on his behalf. I must have had five visits already. Two of the visits had been thorough to the point of leaving me feeling violated. I submitted to a psychiatric evaluation, I opened all the cupboards to show I had nothing to hide. No charges were ever filed but always the threat loomed.

The real reason I knew was because I believed homeschooling was the only ethical option for a parent whose children can’t speak for themselves and when the teachers available were either not trained in working with autistic children or not able to use their training due to the schools administrative policies (as I had learned was the case in at least one classroom I had visited.) I had been trained in an intensive therapy I believed in 100%. Son-rise is its name and it recommended that parents not only take an active role in the therapy of the child, but also direct the child’s therapy at home according to the needs of the individual.

Unfortunately the homeschool laws of my state and the fact that I had two autistic sons made for an even greater challenge. Still the improvement of my younger son was tremendous, he had been totally transformed by the therapy, his violent outbursts became rare and short lived. My older son improved more slowly, he was more severely afflicted from the start, but he also had improved. My older son was vocalizing more, he spoke his first and last sentence that summer. “Maaaom neee eeeeat,” he looked right at me when he said it and I knew he wanted something to eat but was too busy playing in the sand to get up and show me as he normally would have done.

The thought that now my next door neighbor would now harass me too was unbearable. As I pulled my sons into the house I couldn’t help saying to her. “Of all times to do this, the Fourth of July is next week.”

“Yeah!” She replied, “You should be cleaning up your yard for guests.”

I stood there stunned. Not sure whether to be more shocked by the ignorance that she didn’t realize that never throwing parties in my own home were part of the price I paid in order to give my autistic sons as secure and stable environment as possible to do their therapy or the lack of her ability to see Independence Day as anything more than another reason to party, I shook my head and pulled my sons inside.

As I lay crying on the bathroom floor that weekend, I counted off the closed doors, social workers, teachers and doctors had all been crossed off when my case worker had explained that they had no choice but to call protective services even though none of them actually thought my children were in danger, because they had to protect themselves. In my state, any professional could be sued and loose their ability to continue their career if a child came to harm and they didn’t call protective services. I certainly didn’t want to ask anyone to risk their career to help me, so “Slam.” That door was shut. Friends, that door had shut years ago, I had none. Family, they were too busy with their own lives, not that they understood autism anyways. My ex-husband and his new wife called me up to tell me that they think this is all my fault.

“Autism isn’t genetic,” she insisted, “You must have done this.” So no help from the father.

Hardest was my own boyfriend on hearing my ex-husband’s threats. “Your going to have to do what he wants, this fall,” my boyfriend warned me. And now my neighbor, she called protective services, I know it was her. Who else would complain about our cats having a cat-door as if that was a health violation?

I lay there and asked God, “is there anywhere I belong? Is there anywhere that a mother like me would be respected for sacrificing so much for her children instead of being made the villain?”

“No where you can go now.” I knew the answer already and I already knew I was going to give up. But my fury required an action. Something to show the world, the whole world, God willing, the fury of a mother denied the right to protect her children from hate and harm. Alone though I seemed, I knew I was right and they were wrong and if only I’d had one person to stand beside me. I would never have surrendered.

It was just before the Fourth of July, I took some red paint and painted the windows of my front porch with the Patrick Henry quote, “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death.” As I began to paint the last word, I heard the voice clearly, “Stop or death shall come to remind all the price of liberty.” And in that moment I knew that if I finished those words as I had written them that a terrorist attack would occur against the United States that autumn, before snow fell and the attack would shake the nation.

For a moment I paused. I did not want to cause death. But then I shook if off, I needed an outlet for my fury. Terrorist attacks were happening all the time. What reason could there be for my red letters to matter? I finished the letters. I hoped someone would read them and understand the most dangerous enemy is the lone, meek and cornered, for they are most likely to feel they have nothing to lose.

I had forgotten the graveyard dream. I had no idea that I could possess the power of more souls than just my own, no idea that the action of writing those red letters could awaken a demon of titanic stature.

(This is part two of a series I wrote last fall called “My 9/11 story.” Part one I posted last week as Graveyard Dream.)

Posted in Dream Masters, Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Graveyard Dream

Ever fall asleep in a graveyard? I used to go there to get away from home, I had no friends. I would lay in the sun, my thirteenth summer, in the afternoons listening to the crows caw, wishing I could stay on that grave covered hill and never go home. Drifting off to sleep, I had no idea the change I was inviting.

I preferred  that graveyard to home so much that I began to dream about going there even when I slept at home. This is the dream I had many years ago. It was the first dream I can remember in which I was “called” by a powerful being. The being was so powerful that I was afraid to look at it as I felt it beside me. It called me to a graveyard where I looked in a shallow grave and saw tarot cards.

I could hear voices from the cards speaking to me. I could feel their frustrated souls crying to be set free from their prison. But it was not the cards that imprisoned them. It was their own regret, bitterness or pain that was keeping them from moving on. They called to me to speak for them to help the living to hear them, to ease their troubled souls. I did wish to help them, but when the presence told me I was “chosen” to do this, I balked.

I can not speak for them. I can not even speak for myself. People already treat me like I am crazy. No one listens to me, they only laugh,” I argued.

If you refuse, this is what will happen.”

The spirit pulled me up to the clouds. Flying though space and time it showed me a huge city full of skyscrapers. New York I thought, having seen it in many movies. I watched as two planes flew toward the tall towers. I knew they would kill many. I wondered why. That was when I saw the monster, a “Godzilla” like creature as big as the towers. It was making it happen. I could see the minds of the men flying the planes were blinded by the monster which had filled their thoughts with hate and numbed their hearts. Looking closer at the monster I saw faces and recognized the souls from the cards in the grave. They were darker, angrier and more twisted. They had given up on redemption and passing on. Instead, since the living continued to ignore them, they had bound themselves together with thousands of other lost souls to make the living notice them the only way they could. Through murder and destruction. And the more they killed and the more fear and hate they spread the bigger they/ it (the monster) would become.

Then the spirit lifted me again and carried me in the opposite direction and further forward in time. I found myself looking down upon an island. I saw people that looked asian near the waters edge. Again, the “Godzilla” creature came. Out of the water, it roared, pushing a mammoth wave ahead of it. Bigger than before, fed by all the deaths of the past. I could not imagine anything, anyone could ever stop its ravenous craving for death and destruction. And more people would die, oh so many more to feed and fuel this monster.

I refused to watch anymore and the spirit took me back to the graveyard.

That is what will happen.” It repeated.

Again, I argued. “I am not the one, chose someone else,” I begged. “Chose someone people like to talk and listen to,” I thought of all the people in my life who others listened to without ever getting called weird or crazy.

No, they are star children,” the spirit informed me. “You are a moon child. You are chosen. If you do not accept it these things you have seen will happen. Then you will know, absolutely, you are chosen.”

I did not trouble too much over the dream. It was just a dream. I wanted a normal life, if I could have it. I told no one of the dream. I told no one how real it felt. I told no one how I worried that the dream was important. I wanted a normal life, I wanted to be a normal person.

But I did not have a normal life. Nineteen years passed by. I had too many other problems to think about dreams. Nineteen years passed. In the summer of 2001, I learned to hate. I had never truly hated before, but that summer I hated like I had never hated before . . .

Posted in Poems, Winter 2015 - 2016

What’s In A Word

This is the oldest, 

the strongest,

magic I know.

Start with a word, 

speak it aloud, 

watch it grow.

It will come to be, 

sometimes fast, 

sometimes slow.

In the beginning, 

the words made 

shape from shadow.

Now at the end, 

we are parted 

by the word “no.”

We walked together, hand in hand,

and you said, “This is good.” 

In that moment, I loved you so.

Kissing me over and over  

I thought this meant 

you were my beau.

But your words, 

cut like razors, 

as lies did flow.

Saying I was a friend, 

only a friend, 

filled me with woe.

What’s in a word,

from Heaven to Hell, 

a difference you bestow.

Nothing more clearly ended our life,

than when you called her your wife.

That was the final blow. 

For the word was the deed, 

now space I do need. 

Not hesitating to let go.

Let these words become true.

Let me be nothing to you, 

but someone who walks alone.

Posted in Texts, Winter 2015 - 2016

The Root of All Evil

Money may not be truly evil, but interest, especially compound interest is a leading candidate. What better, more efficient mechanism has man created to keep the rich getting richer off the poor getting poorer at an ever increasing rate. For only the rich can lend and only the poor must borrow. Here is where legal slavery grows and breeds.

Researching the concept, I learned a new word “usury.”

usury |ˈyo͞oZH(ə)rē|


the illegal action or practice of lending money at unreasonably high rates of interest.

archaic interest at such rates.

ORIGIN Middle English: from Anglo-Norman French usurie, or from medieval Latin usuria, from Latin usura, from usus ‘a use’ (see use) . – New Oxford American Dictionary

Did you know that originally charging any interest was considered illegal by both Christians and Muslims? This makes sense because in both religions, charity is not only encouraged but demanded of the good Christian and the good Muslim. Islam still considers charging interest sinful today in many places. Now I understand why my Kurdish friend kept asking me where he could get a loan without having to pay more back. I told him I didn’t know of such a place and he was quite frustrated.

Many religious texts have condemned usury and a number of ancient countries outlawed loans with interest. What is really sad is that unable to work legally in other professions Jewish people often became moneylenders. The Old Testament encouraged this practice.

Thou shalt not lend upon interest to thy brother: interest of money, interest of victuals, interest of any thing that is lent upon interest.

Unto a foreigner thou mayest lend upon interest; but unto thy brother thou shalt not lend upon interest; that the LORD thy God may bless thee in all that thou puttest thy hand unto, in the land whither thou goest in to possess it.-Deuteronomy 23:19-20

Here is religious prejudice sown, and what could come of it but what did. Hatred and prejudice came back. I have read that Islam teaches that there are corruptions in the Bible. I think this must be one of them. To understand this corruption we must look at the world in which Judaism was born.

Most early religious systems in the ancient Near East, and the secular codes arising from them, did not forbid usury. These societies regarded inanimate matter as alive, like plants, animals and people, and capable of reproducing itself. Hence if you lent ‘food money’, or monetary tokens of any kind, it was legitimate to charge interest. Food money in the shape of olives, dates, seeds or animals was lent out as early as c. 5000 BC, if not earlier. …Among the Mesopotamians, Hittites, Phoenicians and Egyptians, interest was legal and often fixed by the state. -Paul Johnson, historian.

So in a world where everybody else was charging interest, Jews were taught not to charge other Jews. It was the first step in the right direction, but when other religions condemned the practice it made Jews look like the bad guys. Was this the doom of millions?

Posted in spirituality, Winter 2015 - 2016

Quickening Moon

Quickening Moon

Looking at different names for the full moon of February, I decided the Wiccan Quickening fit best for this year. The Snow moon didn’t work because we just had a lovely weather warm up. Most of our snow has melted. The Hunger moon feels at odds with my sense of being overwhelmed by how much I am trying to do now. But quickening, full of life, full of ideas, that is how I feel.

quicken |ˈkwikən|


1 make or become faster or quicker: [ with obj. ] : she quickened her pace, desperate to escape | [ no obj. ] : I felt my pulse quicken.

2 [ no obj. ] spring to life; become animated: her interest quickened | (as adj. quickening) : he looked with quickening curiosity through the smoke.

[ with obj. ] stimulate: the coroner’s words suddenly quickened his own memories.

[ with obj. ] give or restore life to: on the third day after his death the human body of Jesus was quickened by the Spirit.

archaic (of a woman) reach a stage in pregnancy when movements of the fetus can be felt.

archaic (of a fetus) begin to show signs of life.

[ with obj. ] archaic make (a fire) burn brighter.

-New Oxford American Dictionary

I still have so many stories I want to write, it is a struggle to decide which to do each day. I wish I had more time for research, writing and reading.

The warm weather has me dreaming of my next garden. Now is the time to get started planning. We had a great harvest of tomatoes last year. This year I want to have more squash and beans. Hopefully we can get some decent corn. But there are also the taxes to be done, and spring cleaning to start on too.

Last night the full moon and the pain in my shoulder kept me up most of the night. While my humerus is healed, the physical therapy and stretching exercises keep me hurting most of the time. Today my doctor said I might not get back full mobility of my shoulder, all I could think is, “you don’t know me very well.” I use this arm all the time and I can’t stand not being able to do things for myself. That is why it hurts so much.

To give me more time and increase my groups, I plan on changing my blog categories this spring so that I only do the really long blogs one to three times a week and the other days just do quickies, like five-minute Fridays and quote Mondays.

What about you? Do you have any plans you want to bring to life this month?

Posted in spirituality, Winter 2015 - 2016

Live Simply

Today I had to relight the pilot on our hot water heater. It was no problem once I looked it up online and could see from the pictures that I had the knob in the wrong position. Hot water may not be a necessity but it is pretty high on my list of things I’d hate to live without. But that reminded me that the time is here when the world must take global warning seriously and ask what so we really need and what can we do without.

I was surprised to learn that fracking (hydraulic fracturing) is advertised as environmentally friendly. It is controversial and I hold with the cautious. Increased seismic activity is dangerous. When nuclear power was first introduced, it was believed to be the answer to all our energy problems. But I grew up with The China Syndrome for fiction, Silkwood and Chernobyl for reality. Even without any accidents the question of what to do with the waste is a difficult. Most are not very economical much less practical.

It is like that saying “You get what you pay for.” Only as I see it the cost isn’t just about the quality of the material good you buy, but also about the social and environmental impact of how it is manufactured. Nuclear power and fracking aren’t magic, they have a price, the same as all other sources of energy. Knowing that they have a huge potential only makes them more frightening.

To live simply has to be the ultimate goal for the spiritually aware. In harmony with nature, is the only answer that has true long run potential for our world. The Native Americans knew it and the Amish do too. Hopefully it’s not too late for the rest of the world to learn.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Threads of Bondage

May 2013, 1,130 workers died in the Savar building collapse. I remember seeing a man on the news yelling. He blamed the United States and our demand for cheap clothing. Pope Francis said,

“A headline that really struck me on the day of the tragedy in Bangladesh was ‘Living on 38 euros a month’. That is what the people who died were being paid. This is called slave labour. Today in the world this slavery is being committed against something beautiful that God has given us – the capacity to create, to work, to have dignity. How many brothers and sisters find themselves in this situation! Not paying fairly, not giving a job because you are only looking at balance sheets, only looking at how to make a profit. That goes against God!”

I agree with the man in Bangladesh, and I agree with Pope Francis and I wonder why it is that threads have proven to be such an effective incentive for slavery for hundreds of years.

In school I was taught that it was the invention of the cotton gin that kept slavery profitable in the south. Cotton, more than tobacco or any of the other plantation crops was the one so profitable, the confederacy felt assured they could win the civil war.

At the time it upset me because I loved the cotton commercials on TV. They showed happy families experiencing special moments together. I can still hear the tune in my head, “the touch, the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives.” I didn’t want to think about it too much.

Then I watched the movie Gandhi and saw him sitting in a loincloth, spinning. I didn’t really get why, but I knew it was important. I knew it mattered, there was some irreplaceable meaning there.

As I got older I learned about child labor and sweat shops both historical and modern. I have watched prices for clothing go down, while other prices skyrocketed. Finding shoes and clothing made in first world countries is nigh impossible at the local stores I shop and getting harder all the time. Even before the disaster in Bangladesh, I could not look at the cheap imported clothing with out thinking “slave labor,” now it shouts at me.

I have come to hate going anywhere but the second hand shop. At least there I know I am reusing the resource. A few months ago I got a flyer saying that while clothing and textiles are 100% recyclable, 85% end up in landfills. Seriously! Early Americans used to save every scrap to make patchwork quilts and here we are throwing fabric out with the trash.

Recently I found this passage.

About a good wife . . “In her hands she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers. She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet. She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple.-Proverbs 31:19-22

Of course, once upon a time we didn’t need so many clothes. My mother used to read me the Little House on the Prairie books. They had two sets of clothes, everyday and Sunday. They slept in nightshirts and nightgowns and hung up their clothes overnight to freshen, then ironed them in the morning. They only got one new outfit each year at Easter. I know because my Grandmother made a big deal about us getting Easter clothes, every year.

It’s hard to imagine doing that now, but when I think of Gandhi’s courage sitting half-naked, spinning his own thread, I pray we can find a way to let go of this insatiable hunger, save or reuse our clothes and only buy what is not only well made, but clothing and fabric for which has been well paid, to the ones who grow, spin and sew.

Posted in Poems, Winter 2015 - 2016

Pieces of Leisure

These are moments I must Treasure

your voice gives me such pleasure

so strong it sounds even at leisure

Listening to you read how to measure

medicine for high blood pressure

my heart is yours for certain

We met at the bus stop huddled under

standing close to escape the weather

as the rain fell ever faster

trying not to get any wetter

my heart awoke at your laughter

having forgotten love can be pleasure

Before that day I felt deader

than a corpse breathing never

I felt doomed alone to wander

each day a little sadder

a bouquet of tears did I gather

My heart is alive that is certain

Happiness is riding this bus together

looking down at abandoned papers

your eyelashes thick as black feathers

as you practice reading every letter

your English is getting much better

A precious gift, this moment of leisure

My soul flies like a bird

as I sit with you, a Kurd

my respect for you is assured

how did you survive and inure

yourself to so many murdered

a war so long, violence beyond measure

I know life is sure to sever

our differences push like a lever

they cause my hopes and heart to waver

though I want not to hurt you ever

no happiness lasts forever

love breaks often under pressure

I am certain too much pressure kills all pleasure

no matter the measure that we treasure.

Please enjoy these pieces of leisure

Posted in Society, Winter 2015 - 2016

Light vs. Dark

Is the story of light versus dark the same as good versus evil? Dark demons and angels of light are integral parts of my tales so the question must be answered. To be brief, “no” dark is not necessarily evil and light is not always good. Rather, here is where I must credit the wisdom of Taoism because both light and dark are good in there own way and each can be destructive.

The argument for light is most obvious. Light is needed for most forms of learning. The Age of Enlightenment was called that because of the strides made by scholars, (not because the sun was any brighter.) Enlightenment in Buddhist terms also means an awakening to knowledge in a spiritual sense as opposed to actual illumination. 

Light has another meaning though in referring to the weight of something. Is that a coincidence? Maybe not, when someone is described as lighthearted, they are using the word not only to mean cheerful and carefree but also to mean with few worries to burden them. In my spiritual learnings souls that are light in appearance, glowing white like the moon, are also light in weight because they leave by floating straight up to the heavens.

The argument against darkness is just as plain. The Dark ages were named for the lack of scientific achievement and the accompanying rise in superstitious beliefs. My friend Vibrant used this meaning in his thought provoking piece, Beyond Being Helped. Interestingly by linking darkness to both ignorance and suffering, darkness becomes like a “heavy weight inside you.” My own experience follows this track. When I meet dark demons, they are tethered firmly to the earth by their pain and bitterness.

Fortunately, in my mission to help these trapped demons, I have been gifted with an alternate view of both light and dark. The argument for darkness begins with the womb. This is where our mortal lives begin. Again and again when I have known difficulties and pain, I retreat like a hermit in a cave. Reminiscent of the womb, I find my ability to heal and grow, magnified in an environment of quiet, darkness and security.

Sometime ago when I wished to become a teacher, I took a class on positive discipline and self-esteem. There I learned of emotional-intelligence. The idea, as I understood it, was that even when a child seems not to be progressing at all, in a visible manner, the child is likely learning essential things inwardly, emotionally. The theory made so much sense I converted immediately. Now I understood the need for darkness like I never had before. There is a reason we sleep better in the dark and (traditionally) had sex in the dark and like to cry in the dark. Darkness gives us a sense of privacy. It gives us a safe haven to experiment with new things, feelings and thoughts that allow us to grow inwardly; emotionally.

As for light, just as too much time in the sun can give you a painful sunburn. Too much time spent in front of an audience, being judged or tested is damaging to your soul. We all need to feel free to try new things, make messes and mistakes, to grow our own sense of spiritual well-being. That may be what Heliopolister was onto when he said, “contained in even that which is judged to be horrific is a certain divinity” in his stirring post Gratitude Unbound. Often it is from our greatest mistakes we learn our most deeply valuable lessons. I have found that the most grotesque spirits contain the most beautiful and powerful souls.

In the end, light and dark, like day and night, move in a cycle of inner emotional study and outer intellectual reaching. A floating detachment is associated with light while firm attachments tend to darken and weigh down our spirit. Neither is entirely good nor evil, both have their purpose. Attachments teach us how to care for our physical bodies and empathize with others, detachment allows our spirits to soar through intellectual learning and spiritual awakening. Attachments give us a sense of identity as a single unique being, detachment teaches us we are but a piece of a far larger whole. I believe we are on this earth to learn both and through the balancing of light and dark enrich our souls beyond the reaches of either alone.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Darkness Falls

He was my daughter’s oldest friend’s father. I met him only once, but I think of him whenever I hear James Blunt. He even looked like Blunt. He looked at me like I was an angel, but I had no time. I was busy with my own kids. Walking them home from school., I worried he was making a pass at me, when he asked me to watch over his son. He killed himself on Valentine’s Day, less than a week later. I’m sorry, I’m not that kind of angel. I chose darkness not light.

I tried to be angry at God, “Why is my life so full of sorrow?” I wanted to yell. But the words never left my head, as soon as I thought them I knew the answer. I picked this path of my own free will before I was born.

I picked it when I saw her die in the snow, my beloved from a past life. A demon took her soul and if I am ever to find her I must search every shadow. Darkness will not tolerate light. So I tucked away my light and concealed myself in misery and loneliness. I chose to be born in virtual Hell, that I might serve my Lord best by finding and purifying the darkest demons. In so doing I serve my own soul by reassuring myself, she that was lost, can again be found.

When he died that winter, it was so hauntingly familiar.

How many die of broken hearts?

Millions every day. They suicide or have heart attacks. Some drink themselves to death, or overdose on drugs. Some have accidents because they were too distracted by pain to watch what they are doing. Many just don’t take care of themselves, they die from their own neglect.

Others die as a result of the broken hearted. Victims of murder and terrorism die when the broken hearted take out their pain on the world. Even those that die from natural disasters. Those disasters are caused by the power of demons fed by bitter heartbroken souls.

Millions die everyday of broken hearts.

Was it my fault he died?

No he chose death, just as she did. You chose life, that is why you can help them. Only the living can save the dead.

I can feel the truth of it, I don’t know why. Only the living can save the lost souls of the dead. So I have to live, to embrace darkness despite my fear, and keep feeling and loving. For love is the magic that transforms the darkest demons into beings of light and joy.

I chose darkness, happily and humbly, and hopefully. Love is the only light I need. It blossoms in my heart like a flower. I water it with tears of joy to know that I can love have been loved. I know death and misery, but I remain unstained so long as I keep love alive in my heart like a lotus. When at last I drop the mantle of misery, darkness fades before my light as night disappears before the dawn.

Posted in Gratitude, Winter 2015 - 2016

Full Moon Reflections

Saturday was the full moon in Cancer, which put me in mind that now is the time to “reflect” on the past month and look to the next.

Undeniably, the best thing that happened this last month is what didn’t happen. My severely autistic son didn’t have a single seizure. (Sorry, I never mentioned his being epileptic.) No matter what else I do, taking care of him is my first job. He likes getting up early and finding me typing away. But then he is always happiest when I stay in one place, am available to him and in a good mood. We share sweet tea with milk and giggles at four am. This is my bliss.

After that, writing again is my biggest personal accomplishment. I feel like I have been waiting for years for everything to line up. Not just me realizing I’ve had enough little tries, and deciding to go for my dream, but things all around me pulling towards this future. Like this broken shoulder which makes everything else I do incredibly frustrating, and all the other ways I’ve tried writing online that never felt right. All the different times I’ve tried to share my weird dreams, but there was never enough time to explain it all, nor could I reach more than a few somewhat interested people.

And then there’s the money, which kept me ever on edge. While the federal government gives money to my son for his care, those of us who care for him get nothing. It’s been quite a struggle. After all these years my mother finally said she wants to help financially, so I can be with my son. And thanks to the tireless prodding of one sister and months of searching by another, we found a home for my mother that is affordable, suitable to her needs and best of all run by loving and kind couple who authentically felt right. Only now I can accept the money without fear or shame. She was my first reader and would love to see me get published as much as I would.

Next is how wonderfully well this website WordPress works. My daughter recommended it to me when I asked about blogging sites. I was quite uncertain and confused, there is too much out there for a web-wader (not surfer) like me. I have thoroughly enjoyed the Blogging 101 class. I think we had about a hundred students from all over the world. It kept me from being too overwhelmed, trying to figure out everything at once. Each day I would try one new thing and that was cool.

Last though is the dream, I have felt so haunted by, for the last eight and a half years. I never before told anyone about my dreams until after the stuff happened. Years of guilt followed Nine-eleven, and the Indian ocean tsunami of 2004. Nor did I speak about the voice that told me  things I could not normally know. The 2008 Sichuan earthquake and 2011 Tohoku tsunami filled my being with cold the day before they happened. I don’t know if I can describe how it feels, knowing people are going to die, hearing others cry, the earth itself saying why. It feels horribly wrong and yet . . . it all makes sense. We are all connected, the earth too. That was how the dream felt. Only this time I have a guess when, and clues to where. Things I lacked before. Believe me, I want to be wrong. I want to change this. I want this all to end up the ground work for a great fictional novel. But I’d be damned if I said and did nothing. Seven hundred and nine days more should give me plenty of time to explain.

Next month I hope to work on continuity, choosing what to blog with a little more flow than last month. I also want to cut the pieces shorter and if my arm is willing draw more pictures.

Thanks for reading. Love to all.