Dont Believe Everything You Read Or Then Again....

A man went into a diner one morning (they didn’t have cafes in those days, nor latte either) looking through a pile of magazines he found in the seat beside him, he found something like a TIME magazine with a feature story of how bad the economy was with tips to survive the storm.

He went home and called his parents to warn them, sold his home and car, moved in with his parents who passed away from the fear of living through another depression.

He hunkered down into his job, told everyone there of the depression on the way, made no suggestions at work and only did what was required of him and nothing more, for fear of losing his job.

Lost his job because he did not meet his agreed performance targets (we have always had those in one way or another). Got depressed and spent his time wandering around the town spreading the news of the terrible economic situation with his friends and all who would listen to him.

The town went into an economic downturn and most lost their jobs. The gas stations closed cause most people didn’t drive their cars if they had them, stores closed. It was an awful time.

Then one day months later, the man went back to that same diner, with enough money to buy a cup of coffee. He spoke with the waitress (they were allowed to call them waitresses in those days because politically correctness was not invented yet), asked her for a pot of coffee and took extra cream and sugar while she was there (and hid them in his jacket pockets).

He asked if there was anything to read. She said there was a stack of magazines he could look through. He found the one he had read that fateful morning and began to carefully review the article again.

The waitress came with his coffee and looked over his shoulder and said, “Yes, it is amazing how people actually survived the Great Depression back in the 30s.

Someone died and left all these old magazines to me and it seems people enjoy reading about how hard it really was in those days. Anyway, is there anything else I can get you with your coffee?”

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There are days when being possessed by the need to write seems crazy or hopeless, when words come like extracting the proverbial wisdom teeth, when there is no reward, even a thank you, let alone pay for what you write.

But the pen remains mightier than the sword, mightier than the banks and mightier than our fears.

Think right now of the most difficult thing you have lived through. Remember how you felt as you faced this "challenge" (everyone calls it that thinking it will take the sting out of reality and well, I shouldn't be all that different in naming it)?

You never thought you would make it...but you did. You've come a long way and you are still here and tomorrow, as another character from another great book once said, "Tomorrow is another day..." and the hard things, well we can always think about them tomorrow.

The virtual world I live in, allows me to consider more positive alternatives and to fulfil dreams that sometimes the real world is not able to give me. So I enjoy the hope I can find, the posibilities. I hope you do too.

Of Hobos & the Value of Gifts

For me it sometimes takes three hits to get my attention.

Today, someone wrote me an email and asked me to start the New Year off with something new for my blog. As you will notice it has been a long time. My heart has been heavy and my Muse was destroyed to dust in front of my eyes, never to enter my virtual world again. Such a great loss I was not sure how to move in any direction, so choose to just stand still and let the dust cover me.

Second, something a new friend and told me recently I thought I would write again. He said that I live in the past....this stung me and seemed unfair. I am a writer, a journalist, a chronicler and editorialist who uses the past to stand on as a foundational step for seeing things today. But I try to take feedback like that the he offered as serious as important. So stopped to think about what he might be meaning and if this was actually a good or bad thing.

My conclusion is that I am better for a past of challenge and pain, than if I had had a lovely, protected, safe and pretty past...so I thank God/the gods for their constant and consistent hand in my life and that things have not been easy. I also am grateful that I remember these things in the hopes of not making the same silly mistakes again.

Third, as I went for my race walk this morning, I thought about a blog segment I have been meaning to write for a long time and having watched a video yesterday that had my mind moving in that direction, today was the day. Oh the move was called, Hearts in Atlantis. So here goes.

Of Hobos & the Value of Gifts

When I was about six years old, my Daddy took me on a long trip (only 70 miles in reality) to visit my Grandma Harris. I loved her and every summer I spent at her house for weeks on end.

Daddy and I would prepare for the trip for days, and Mommy would help me pack and eliminate the many extraneous things I would sneak into my little brown and tan suitcase with the brass clasps that would pop open with a special little noise when you pulled aside the little round lever.

We would work together to pack a lunch and lots of koolaid in a thermos (and a fresh bottle of Pepto Bismal for my car sickness). Daddy and I would pile into the car and set out on our next adventure.

The Stranger

As we rounded a bend, there stood a man on the side of the road with his fist out and his thumb pointed in the direction we were going. I thought this was rather strange. Then my Daddy slowed down, stopped the car and began to back up. I thought this was a great adventure and was suddenly alert to something we had NEVER done before.

A man’s face appeared at the window and my Daddy spoke with him. His voice was so deep I thought it was magic. I had been laying on the front seat with my head resting on my Daddy’s leg and now set up properly in the passenger’s seat as any grown up would. Daddy turned to me and said it was alright and that we would be giving this gentleman a ride almost all the way to Grandma’s house. How wonderful!

The man opened the door and I scooted over and he sat beside me on the front seat. He was not dressed very well, there was a strange smell about him that was musty. His clothing seemed not to match in anyway and everything was frayed and tattered, yet somehow clean. His skin was all dark looking and sort of looked like snake skin to me...with a pattern in it with his wrinkles. He had very deep wrinkles, especially when he smiled.

Boring Grown-Up Talk

He was pleasant as he spoke easily with my Daddy about stuff that was not of interest to me, so I began to count the telephone poles to see if I could beat my record and keep track of where we were as we travelled.

There were four little cities we would travel through that I came to memorise for one coming after the other: Crestline, Bucyrus, Upper Sandusky and then Carey. I had taken this trip many times in my young life and knew that when you got to the tree that the Chippewa Indians had bent into a special pointing shape (by taking a young tree and bending it and tying it with heavy ropes), we were almost at Grandma’s.

Now What

As we turned another bend, my Daddy stopped the car and the man turned to me and said he was thankful to spend time with me; that he thought I was a sweet little girl (everyone my entire life seems to think I am “sweet” and someday I will understand what they mean by that) and that he had a gift for me.

He put his old, tanned, gnarled hand in his pocket and pulled out a match box. I knew I was not allowed to have matches and thought this was not a very good gift for a little girl, but knew to say thank you anyway.

He placed the little “Red Head” match box in my hand and said, “Open it and see what is inside.” When I slid the little inner box out, there were a bunch of sort of purple beads. I looked at my Daddy, hoping he would tell me what this was and how grateful I was supposed to be for something like this.

My Daddy looked at the man and smiled. “Tell her what that is, my friend” he said.

“In this little match box are magical seeds. You remember the story of Jack in the Beanstalk, don’t you? Well these are also very special seeds that some (Native American) Indians gave to me. They will produce a crop of corn for popping. You do like pop corn don’t you?”

Well, of course I liked pop corn, especially in the big aluminium bowl that Mommy used to put it in and drizzle the butter and salt all over, then shake it up into the air to miss it well. But now I would have special pop corn that I grew myself.

The Precious Gift

I looked again at the seeds and closed the box carefully; hoping not to lose any and knowing Daddy would tell me how to plant them so they all grew into great bunches of popped corn.

The man left the car and closed the door and wandered away down a little lane way. My Daddy turned to me and asked me if I knew what that man was? And I said no, he was just a man.

He said, “That man is a hobo and he has no home and no family and no friends and no possessions but what he has on right now. So the gift of that popcorn is very precious indeed, because it represented all he has in the world.”

We planted those seeds in the spring. The popcorn from those seeds was the best tasting in the world. We harvested the seeds and replanted every year of my life while I was living at home.

The most important thing for me, however wasn’t how tasty the popcorn was. Instead, I thought of that man the rest of my life every time someone gave me a gift, thinking about the fact that it has nothing to do with the grandness of the gift itself, but the value of the heart of the giver. That Hobo had a most generous heart.

Best Wishes to You for 2009

The holidays have passed now and I can only hope you got something as valuable as magic popcorn to think about for this New Year.

The Beginning, Not the End

The Executioner's Song

“Help me,” she whispered into the sooty, black air, “Help me!”

Her legs lay as bloody pulp.

He watched helplessly, too far away to stop her jumping, and rushes to where she will never rise again. He leans over her and cradles her upper body in his arms, wiping the pouring sweat from her face, listening to her gentle gasps for breath. His eyes brim and overflow with tears as he holds her knowing shock is beginning to claim her inexorably.

Her hands flutter at her sides. She motions with them of her need and whispers with her weak and broken voice, “Take them off. Please, just take them off.”

Sobbing now, he knows what she means; he knows what she has always wanted but was afraid to try to do. He lays her softly back down, tearing off his own jacket to fold it so it will cushion her head.

His hands move to the red ribbons of the Red Shoes. They are already torn and broken, the blood seeping around the bony shards poking from her flesh. With the deepest of sadness he loosens the bits of ribbon and carefully slips off each of the damnable Red Shoes.

As he has done his entire lifetime with her, he unconsciously wraps the tattered ribbon around the pair of slippers to hold them together as a pair. He moves to look closely at her face again and to show her he has done as she has asked.

Her Farewell

She takes the slippers from his hands and rests them between her breasts as if they are a child who will suckle. She folds both her hands over the Red Shoes. Her eyes flicker. He panics for a moment until she opens them again; unlikely as it is there is a deep and mysterious satisfaction in her eyes and a beatific smile takes her lips.

She sighs and reaches one icy hand to his face and cups his cheek, pulling him to her for the last kiss.

Imprinting Of A Fairy Tale

As long as I have memory, that scene and most every detail of the 136 minute movie, “The Red Shoes” with Moira Shearer wil remain burned into my life -- imprinted so deeply I no longer realise they are there. But they are.

The original story was written in 1845 by Hans Christian Anderson and, having never actually remembered reading it, I just did (you can find it here) . It seems like a warning for all little girls to be in church every Sunday actually.

Yet, when made into this powerful movie, the theme changed to a backstage look at the fascinating world of ballet. Moira Shearer plays a lovely, yet somewhat fierce looking ballerina, who is given no choice by her dominant and single-minded impresario, Lermontov and gives up everything in her life, especially a romantic involvement, in favour of her illustrious career.

So she dances. The red shoes become her symbol of success from a special ballet that is written for her. Yet, the shoes enchant her life just as deeply as those in the original story and her career is blessed on every side.

Her love life does not exist for want of time to nurture it and as her success grows her heart grows increasingly sad and cold from the pressure of practicing and performing for her ballet director and Master.

Her Last Choice

One day her love comes to her and asks her to choose between him and the Red Shoes. Of course she does not know how to take the Red Shoes off. So he leaves her standing in her dressing room, about to dance a special performance.

She hears the curtain call by the stage manager and trembles. She looks slightly mad, enhanced by her stage makeup. She glances in the mirror of her dressing table, straightens her hair, pinches her cheeks to add colour and then walks slowly out of her dressing room.

She turns to walk to the Green Room to await her curtain call but stops and slowly turns the opposite direction. She begins to run toward the tall French doors leading out to a luxurious balcony. She runs right to the edge of the railing and stands still, listening for something.

She hears it in the distance and carefully climbs onto the top of the stone railing, balancing there carefully and waiting. Waiting for her executioner, as the little girl in the fairy tale finally did.

There poised on the railing, her hands raise above her head as if to dive into a lovely pool of refreshing water. She raises up on her tip toes, still encased in the controlling Red Shoes and watches her timing as the train begins to pass under the balcony. She leaps in perfect harmony with the train’s approach and lands precisely under the engine, yet between the rails, all except her legs.

Not a Simple Film

Many books have been written about the hidden meanings in this film and for me it remains my dilemma. But who can help me take off these shoes? Or will I have to dance forever until I find the executioner for release?

She Says - He Says

She Says

You are so far away
I wish you were closer...
You don't know enough of how much
But you can't

He Says

It is as if I am being given a peep
Into a beautiful room
And the door is slammed shut

She Says

Just come inside first.

He Says

I suppose in a way
This is a new world
We have to find a way
To live in it

She Says

I must fix this somehow

He Says

It’s ok
Just be you

She Says

It is not enough!
I so need to rest in a safe place...
I need to run away and find something lost

I want to be comfortable
With a mystery that I cannot see
I desire to share more of me with ... another
I desire to be cared for
And be needed

To give what I can
With what I have and am....
Not materially
But out of a heart so bursting with this ...
Drive

He Says

That’s poetic

She smiles and says

Thank you...
It has been a long time since I wrote anything ...
Just so much struggle lately

Someday ...

Some days I feel like Cinderella in a amazingly beautiful fairy tale, but I remember that most fairy tales don't always have a "happily ever after." Perhaps today is different.

I have a special friend who shared this film with me today and she said it reminded her of me. Now isn't that something?!!

Hugs....

Looking for Something

She groaned, "Oh my lord,
why am I so stupid sometimes?"

"Oh," said he, "you are not, my lady!
You are only like me.
You expect the best from people --
and you keep on believing."

"Perhaps, then," she said,
"that is why I like you....
you seem to understand."

He said, "It is the way we are, my lady."

She wonders inside her heart
how "they" might be "we".
Words touch her....

Hopeful.
Optimistic.
Unrealistic.
Silly.
So very vulnerable!

"But there must be something I am missing?
Why do I always keep searching
for something", she sighs?

"You ARE searching....
Yes, this is true,
but perhaps not for what,
but for who.
Because it just might work this time",
he grins and holds her as she weeps.

'Maybe," she says.
"Yes," he says.

"It just might work,"
they say spontaneously
and together.

He touches her cheek and whispers,
"Yes, it just may work, my lady.
It just may work."