YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE

LASDI ©

It’s a celebration, a love song, a lament, a lullaby, a singalong, a weeping, a rejoicing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking all at the same time. It is a song written in the 1930s long before I was born and has been timeless ever since, and much like its name, it continues to shine.

I first heard it when I was a child and my grandfather would strum his guitar and sing it to me, smiling. He was so handsome; his skin was soft, his hair white and slicked into a pompadour, and he smelled like Old Spice. When he sang that song to me, I truly felt like I WAS his sunshine.

In elementary school, it was the first time I experienced singing in a choir. The auditorium we practiced in allowed my small class to sound as though we were a thousand voices and also created a much tighter harmony in my ears somehow.

As I grew up, I heard it in movies. Most of those flicks were the kind set in the 30s or 40s in the back woods of some southern town with a pretty, barefoot, and scraggly-haired girl walking away down a dirt road toward a woven overhang of oak trees in the distance. Her cream-colored dress would be sprayed with little yellow daisies, blowing in the warm breeze and emphasizing that they didn’t wear slips back then. There would be a film that had a pie cooling on the windowsill of an old farmhouse, or one with a group of sisters sitting on the front porch swing and cascading down the porch steps as the sun was setting, sounding like an ensemble of songbirds as they crooned the song together to the sound of an old banjo.

Many times during my childhood - and up to this very day - I loved to sit outside on a sunny day, hearing the trees rustle and perhaps the sound of a droning airplane far into the sky, looking at the clouds and hearing that very tune ring in my mind. There is something about it that brings an intrinsic peace and internal joy, but also a melancholy feel and grave consciousness; a juxtaposition much like the song itself.

To impress The Hubster with my gifts and talents and prove I was a songstress, I would sing it from time to time when we were courting. It wasn’t often, but it was during specific times of camping or at the lake, or maybe just a forlorn, rainy day that I would impress upon him that he was, indeed, My Sunshine and that he made me extremely happy; especially when skies were grey.

When my children were babies, I would rock them in my arms and quietly sing it to them, professing my maternal love verse after verse, chorus after chorus, until their eyelids would slowly blink, and they closed in slumber. I would still lightly hum it as I transferred them from my arms to their crib so as not to wake them. I would hum it as I tiptoed backward out of the room, making my voice do the old-fashioned fade out, shutting off the light with a soft smile.

As The DAUGHTS grew and we realized she had the gift of song, we would often harmonize it at family events, with everyone gathered around to hear us sing to-and-with each other. As we reached the end they would burst into applause as my heart burst with delight.

It was the song I sang in agony the day The Middle Little was curled on his side in a hospital bed, his back to me and his knees lifted to his tummy as the needle went into his spine over and over again for the lumbar puncture. I stroked his curls and sang with intention so he wouldn’t hear in my voice the tears that were flowing down my cheeks.

The Kid would hear it when he was watching me cook. He would ask questions about what meal I was creating, tell me I was such a “good cooker”, and ask me to sing that song about the sun shining. I was impressed at his request nearly every time and would love to watch him lay his arms from his elbows to his hands on the counter, intertwine his fingers and rest his head on them, close his eyes, and rock his head back and forth as I sang. It made me feel somewhat nostalgic and sorrowful, even in those moments of happiness, knowing he was the baby of the bunch, and we were watching them all grow into adults so quickly it made our hearts spin.

Now The Grittles hear the song all the time. Not only from me but from their Momma, who remembers HER Momma singing it when she was a child. The song makes them feel a bit of wonderment, listening to the rich sound of her serenading them and then sharing the memories of how SheShe would sing it to her, and with her when she was their age.

It’s a warming sound of lyrics set to a sweet melody that is imaginable and akin to life itself: it’s a celebration, a love song, a lament, a lullaby, a singalong, a weeping, a rejoicing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking all at the same time. It is a song written in my heart and kept in the vault of my existence. It’s a part of my legacy that has been timeless in my life, and much like its name…

…it continues to shine.

NO LUCK AT ALL

LASDI ©

Photo credit HERE

When I was about seven years old, I was lying in the grass and clover at my grandparents’ house on a beautiful sunny day, looking up at the blue sky and making out what the clouds looked like with my imagination.  I could smell the strong scent of fresh tomatoes on the vine near their shed behind me and felt the slightest breeze washing over me as I lay there.  I lived in the city in quite a rough place, so any time I had the chance to visit them, it was a real treat. 

Though I was young, I was able to give pause and reflection to my surroundings and really appreciated being present in that moment.  It was one of peace and quiet, which I was certainly not used to.  I remember it vividly even to this day. 

I turned slightly on my left side, and looked into the clover patch when by chance, a little lady bug caught my eye.  I was only a kid, but I knew that lady bugs were thought of as good luck.  This was back in the 70s, so I don’t quite remember what specific term I used in my head, but I know I thought spotting her was wonderful.  Or groovy?  Maybe cool.  Either way, in my head, good luck was upon me!

I was watching the lady bug move about when she stopped on one of the clovers.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! I blinked a few times, and sat up on my knees, but never removed my eyes from what I was sure I had spied.  I started to move the clover patch apart with my fingers as the pretty little beetle stuck her wings out from under her shell and took to the air.  But my eyes never wavered from the spot from which she had ascended.  I got closer and kept slowly moving the shamrocks back until I was almost completely nose-down to the ground. 

And there it was: A FOUR-LEAF CLOVER!

I was polarized.  I didn’t know what to do!  This precious stem had three normal leaves as we are used to seeing, and right out of the center was a smaller, more delicate leaf.  I was excited, but cautious.  I didn’t want to run to my grandparents and leave this tiny gem, for fear I would lose it forever.  I didn’t want to just go for it and pick it from the soil willy-nilly, for fear I would crush it in my excitement.  My heart was pounding out of my chest.

But wait!  First, I saw a lady bug, and now this?!?  I was quite a lucky girl!  So I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, all the while staring at this four-leaf clover.  As I reached down, I remember thinking that this shamrock with four petals had unimaginable power.  It WAS a symbol of luck after all, right?

I gently reached down with index finger and thumb and moved to pluck the stem as close to the ground as possible.  Up it came, and I couldn’t believe it.  Still keeping my eyes upon it, even as I held it securely, I stood it up to the sky I had been staring into earlier.  I put it into the palm of my hand and covered it with my other hand, so as not to allow the breeze to carry my new good-luck charm away.

I slowly walked it into the house and to my Grandmother.  Suppressing the urge to shriek to her what I had found, I calmly expressed my delight at the treasure I was harboring betwixt my palms.  With cynicism, she required a look.  I slowly opened up the sanctuary of my hands, smiling widely, knowing she would be so proud that her Granddaughter was now the luckiest girl in the world. 

To my pleasure, she ooed and awed and confirmed not only was that truly a four-leaf clover, but that it meant that luck was indeed, bestowed upon me.  She opened a plastic sandwich baggie and told me to place my clover into it and be ever-so-careful.  She boasted to my Grandfather, my aunts and uncle, and even to her neighbors, encouraging me to show them all the plastic baggie of wonder.

As I rode back to the city, my thoughts were filled with show-and-tell the next day at school.  I placed the luck-filled baggie gently under my pillow that night and woke up elated at my upcoming presentation that day, which I had rehearsed even in my dreams. 

In the auditorium that morning as the classes collected, I told everyone I saw, students and teachers alike.  They all stared in wonder, some taking the bag to get a closer look.  We walked to our respective classrooms, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for all the other students, as I was clearly luckier than any other, and my pride swelled.  And so did my head.

As I stood up in front of all the poor souls that didn’t share in my luck, the teacher suggested we pass around the plastic bag that held the clover, allowing them to see such wonderment for themselves.  Of course I obliged, knowing luck was with me, and I would receive the accolades of my fellow pupils for carrying such good fortune. 

I received the bag back to my own protection while finishing my presentation, stuck it in my desk, passed it around at lunch, tucked it in my backpack to take home.  I walked home with my head held high, feeling on top of the world.

When I got home, I removed the baggie from my backpack.  My heart sank.  I blinked quite a few times to make certain what I was seeing was real.  And it was real.  Much more real than the meek possibility of luck being genuine.  There it was, that four-leaf clover, dissected from all the hands of astonishment, in five separate pieces.  I wondered how it could be!  If the Loch Ness Monster could live for centuries as a good luck symbol, why couldn’t this rarity do the same?

I learned a great lesson that day, even as a child.  I learned that life is intricate and delicate, from lady bugs to four-leaf clovers.  From warm, breezy days, to the smell of tomatoes on the vine.  I learned that we seek and long for tangible explanations to the things we believe bring about good fortune or even bad fortune with our own imaginations.  I learned that we make decisions with free will, and that those decisions can either lead to growth in our lives, or destruction.

I still kept the bag o’clover for days after its inherent demise, but never stopped thinking about how I had made the decision to pluck it, or even allow everyone to put their hands on it, never considering what the consequences could be.  I have continued to learn from that decision, knowing that the decisions we make are our own.  Whether it be to improve our minds, keep our bodies healthy, or make a spiritual decision that could change our eternal life, we get to make the decisions. 

I learned that it’s about living in the present moment while learning from our past and having hope for the future.  We are the clover in the baggie.  No matter what we are surrounded with in this world, the wonderment lies in what happens when we are plucked from here. 

I learned that more important and athentic than luck is faith, family, and the blessings that surround us, even in hard times. 

Most of all, I learned that if it weren’t for the desperate thought of luck, there’d be no luck at all.   

DON'T BE SCARED

LASDI©

Love is a many splendid thing, some say.  But love can also be a very scary thing.  Allow me to tell you a story about splendid love…and facing fear.

Once upon a time, there was a knight that came to a damsel in order for them to rescue one another.  He was tall, dark, and handsome, such as the fairy tales go. 

Let me start again.  A guy walks into a bar, and the girl ordering a drink says, “Why the cute face?”

No, no.  That’s not right. 

There once was a guy from Lake Jackson, who met a girl that gave his heart a reaction.

Uh, no.  This story is not a fairy tale, or a joke, or even a limerick.  This story is about crossing your fears to get to the other side.  Well, that part may sound like a play on the chicken-and-the-road thing but read on and you’ll understand.

As a small child, I didn’t have many examples of real love, but I faced fear in a sweet way.  “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.”  Those lyrics from one of the songs from the movie The Sound of Music were a repeated refrain for me.  I lived in poor and meager conditions, so “raindrops on roses” or “whiskers on kittens’” was not the typical go-to for me.

The song, though, helped to remind me to think of things that I liked during scary times, like Frankenstein-foot ice cream pops with a grape gumball on his big toe; or like dancing in front of the television when it was turned off so that I could see my bouncing reflection and dream of becoming a big star someday. 

When I was a teenager, true love was something I read about in books, so I ditched the song for a more rapid and practical approach to face my fears:  I would simply tell myself to not  be afraid.  Whether I was verbose about it, making it my mantra, or it was an internalized dialogue that couldn’t be heard by others, that was my way of alleviating and facing my fears.

For the majority of my adulthood, I have had my faith to lean on when it comes to facing things that scare me. I know my God loves me, goes before me, behind me, and beside me, even though there are things in this crazy world that tend to build fear and anxiety in all of us.  But faith hasn’t always been the way as a ‘grown up’. There were the times I turned to the things of this world to distract me from my fear. But as I grew in my faith, “don’t be afraid” or “don’t be frightened” just took on a different and deeper meaning.

I was at an early point in that part of my journey when I met him.  We had a mutual friend who had set up after-work billiards and cocktails.  Well, not exactly.  For the sake of the heart, allow me to stay transparent.  We were at a pool hall / bar / grill, with the least of the three being a grill.  The group was supposed to be the mutual friend, a guy he had grown up with, and a friend of mine.  My friend ended up sick and in bed, so it wound up being three of us headed to Rowdy’s Pool Hall Bar & Grill.  As I sat in the hard, wooden chair near the pool tables, the front door of the grill (um, bar) door opened.

Picture this: “Let’s Get It On” or even “I’m Too Sexy” playing in the background, intense wind in the air briskly blowing through his hair, and him with a slow-motion walk that would stop a clock.  Of course in reality, there was clanking and clattering of pool balls, drinks being clinked, and Hank Williams, Jr. playing too loudly on the jukebox.  Also in real life, I had no idea he was there as part of the group because I had never met him before.  But I sure saw him.  Everyone saw him.  He was stunning.  He was gorgeous.  He was HAWT.   HE WAS HEADED MY WAY!

Very suddenly, there was a strange voice coming from inside my spirit.  “Meet your husband.”  NO THANK YOU, Voice.  As I heard it again, he strolled right up to the table.  The mutual friend introduced us and as Prince Charming’s hand was extended in a greeting, I found myself thinking, “Oh, no.  This guy gets all the girls.  Let’s not be foolish.”  And my wrist went limp in the air as I offered the sort of hand that a Queen does when she expects to be curtsied to; like in a kiss-my-ring kind of way.  There was a bevy of butterflies in my tummy as his hand touched mine.

As he sat down, I heard the voice again. “This is your husband.”    Memories started to smoke within me.  I had such a sordid history of toxic relationships within all categories of people in my life.  I had already decided no more.  I had also vowed that not one more person would be able to penetrate the guarded walls I had so solidly built.  Certainly not this guy, who probably had a multitude of paramours to pull from whenever he wanted!  And the apprehension began.

We played a few games of pool, to which I put the smack-down upon him - though to this day he smirks and insists he “let me win” - and I continued to hear that confounded voice telling me I had met the man I would marry.  The louder the voice became, the more the fear factor intensified.

It grew late and the mutual friend decided to leave.  “Stay here with your future husband” I heard from deep within.  I started the inner conciliation of olde, telling myself there was nothing to be afraid of, but it wasn’t working.  I even began singing the great song of yore internally to remember my favorite things!  But he was already my favorite thing.

As the night wore on, I grew fonder of this stunning cavalier.  His inward charms were working, and his outward beauty didn’t hurt, either.  We decided to leave the bar, grab a snack of tortillas chips, ranch, and salsa at my suggestion, and find a spot for a nighttime tailgate picnic. And as the night expanded, we spent hours talking, getting to know one another, into the wee hours of the early morn.

Now Folks, this next part may sound like I’m right back to the fairy tale makeover, but I promise it’s all true: the moon was full and round in a black, clear-of-clouds sky, the air was thick with the steamy humidity only a Texas night in June can bring, but still, there was a warm, mild breeze blowing, and there was some soft music playing from the radio inside the cab of his truck.  As we sat on the tailgate with all of those stars aligning, I found his angel face staring at me. 

I knew it.  I could feel what he was feeling.  He wanted to kiss me!  As we gazed into each other’s eyes, my heart began to pound.  I could hear it in my ears.  Did I look all right in the moonlight?  Was I giving too many encouraging vibes??  DID I HAVE SALSA IN MY TEETH???

And then I said it.  I said it all right.  Out loud.  I said the words that still ring loudly to me to this day.  I said it with a wry little smile on my face.  I SAID IT.  Those three…little…words.

“DON’T BE SCARED.”

Looking back, I think I may have been talking to myself, actually.  Knowing what I felt in my soul, knowing what lay ahead, especially after what I had put behind me.  And for whatever was happening in that moment that made me afraid, I would feel a little better if I just SAID IT. 

And he smiled.  And he leaned in.  And he put his husband-to-be lips on mine.  And I thought I would cry.  Effectively, he did not try to be the guy who thought this would lead to anything more than a gentle touch of our lips together.  He was reverent and considerate of my dignity.  And as swiftly as he had leaned in, he pulled away with such ease, stared directly into my eyes, and smiled a smile that he has beamed at me every day that we’ve been together since. 

I loved him.  Immediately.  And he loved me, too.  Though it would be months of friendship and a few months more of dating before either of us would say so.  But it wasn’t because we were “scared”, as it were.  It was because we wanted to be wise; for this to be right.  We had both been through the wringer and wanted to make certain we understood the mutual respect we deserved, had earned, and wanted to continue to forge together.  We wanted to make better decisions…without fear.

He repeats those words I spoke to him that night as he tells The Kiddos and The Grittles the story.  And he tells it all the time.  We raise our glasses any time we hear the phrase spoken out loud whether stranger, relative, or friend alike, and we always kind of giggle about it together.  The Kiddos tease me about it, often saying, “Mom, don’t be scared!” to remind me playfully of that precious-but-powerful statement.  I tend to turn a little red in the face and hot behind the ears in surprising embarrassment, but it still brings a grin to my face and joy to my heart.  Mostly because I’m NOT scared.  There is nothing to be afraid of.

Do you sometimes feel fear creeping up no matter the stage of life you’re in?  Do you hear thoughts of fearful possibilities that polarize you?  Have you been in situations that have the potential to bring love and joy, but your fears drown them like quicksand? 

You could sing a little song, or say a little mantra.  You can try to shield the fearful thoughts by reminding yourself of things you like.  You could turn to the things of this world that will only distract you.  Or you could know YOU ARE LOVED.  Whether it’s your partner, your children, your siblings, your friends, or God Himself.  YOU ARE LOVED. 

Make the decision to learn from the history your past has brought you.  Allow it to make you stronger, wiser; BETTER.  Know you deserve and have earned respect, so long as you give it mutually.  Forge on with a solemn vow to make healthy decisions without fear.  In fact, you must cross your fears to get to the other side.

The story of your life will never be a fairy tale, nor is it a joke or a limerick.  It’s the culmination of the joy you choose, decisions you make, and the legacy you create.  We have this one life we’ve been given.  Pursue things that will create a peaceful mind, body, and spirit for the sake of It.

Don’t be scared.

PASS THE POTATO

Photo credit HERE

Standing in the government surplus line was actually fun for me. I was a child, and I would have to stand with whatever adult had drawn the short straw for that week. Whether it was extremely cold or very, very hot, I absolutely loved standing in the line that typically wrapped around the block and moved very slowly.

If I was standing in the line, that meant I wasn’t home, which was not collectively the most fun place to be. I also got to people watch, which I have loved to do from a very young age. It was a very diverse line, with people of all sizes, shapes, colors, and genders. Most of the time, the person either directly in front of us or directly behind us would strike up a conversation. Sometimes it was pleasant, but a lot of times they were complaining about the economy, their job search, or the government in general. They would toss about colorful language as though I were invisible. And oddly, I loved it. Perhaps I felt like a bit of a big girl.

I certainly had no concept of pride in the sense that it didn’t bother me that we were there for freebies because we were poor. Quite the opposite, in fact. Standing in that line meant we would get toilet paper, powdered milk, peanut butter and a pungent DayGlo orange cheese block!

Standing in that line meant we ate hot dogs instead of liver and onions that week because it helped the grocery budget. It meant I could go through the clothing donations and possibly get a nice jacket to keep me warm, if they had one that fit me.

Sometimes they would have paper grocery bags filled with canned goods. It was almost always heavy non-perishables, but I didn’t mind helping to carry the load home because when we would unpack them, we would find immense treasures of dried beans, plastic twist-tie baggies with some rice, and on occasion - if we were really lucky - dented cans of pie filling.

There is one day in particular that calls out to me. I remember how bad it had been the week prior, and that we were down to open-faced ketchup sandwiches for meals. I knew heading to the surplus line meant food! But that week was slim pickins, as we had gotten in line late and were one of the last to be able to go through. There was no toilet paper, cheese was gone about five people ahead of us, and they weren’t expecting powdered milk to replenish for a while. I looked across the little wooden card table with the metal trim that separated me and the kind, weary-looking lady sitting in a folding chair, who was looking right back at me.

Her heart reached out a hug to me through her eyes, yet she didn’t smile. Instead, she seemed sorrowful, and without breaking her gaze at me she said, “Wait here. Let me see what I can do.” She was gone for what seemed like an eternity, and not only to me, as the last few laggers behind us very openly noted.

She came back with one of the paper grocery sacks I was used to, but it was roll-folded in half, which meant though she had found a few items, it didn’t look like I would have to help carry the load. When we got home, I very distinctly remember anticipating a can of beets or green beans.

The bag was opened. Lifted out first was a bottle of Flintstone vitamins! I had never had vitamins, let alone some as wonderful as in the shape of Fred Flintstone and Dino the Dinosaur! Next, I saw being removed from the paper bag of tricks was a small package of bologna, which held a very famous first-and-second name I could spell in a song. What bounty! What beauty! What delight!

And then came the absolute showpiece that would change my whole life: one potato as big as my tiny face. It was as though Mary Poppins had pulled a spoonful of sugar from her carpet bag, because I felt the need to sing and dance boiling within me.

The aroma of fluffy white filling and crispy brown skin filled the tiny apartment to every corner, making my tummy rumble with anticipation. As six of us sat for dinner, I could hear conversation about how the bologna would be fried the following night for dinner. How rich was I that I could partake in such a feast two nights in a row?

There, in the middle of the table surrounded by small melamine plates of yellow with green vine along the rim was the wrinkly gem. Somehow it looked smaller, and not like the hero of the day I had remembered from only a few hours before, but my salivating mouth didn’t seem to mind.

I watched a silver butter knife carve the potato into six pieces, making it open up to the world like a starburst. There were two pats of butter on a plate next to the steaming spud, reserved for the two adults at the table, but I didn’t need butter! I needed my share of the potato wealth!

My mind was screaming. My belly was rolling. My flesh was goosing. I couldn’t stand it! Pass the potato! PASS THE POTATO!

I could have picked my share up and popped it into my gob, risking the skin on both my fingertips and the roof of my mouth without pause; instead, I decided to stare at it in the middle of my plate, both hands holding my face in an attempt to keep myself harnessed. With my lips in the form of a whistle, I gently blew over the potato piece so as not to miss one hot spot.

I picked up my fork and cut into the cut. I had to push rather hard once the prongs found the potato skin, but I managed to chop that tiny morsel into three tinier morsels. There was conversation going on around me, but I was focused on the prize. I gently picked up the first piece and lifted it to my lips.

It almost immediately melted in my mouth until it was time to chew the crunchier skin. And chew I did, but as slowly as I could. Then came the second piece, and alas, the third. As the last bit went down, I remember closing my eyes and making my brain hone in on that moment. Looking back now, I feel as though it were the face of someone eating an extravagant and rare piece of chocolate.

I drifted off to sleep that night reliving the meal of a shared potato over and over and found myself smiling.

Growing up without wealth has created a spirit of gratitude and appreciation in me as an adult. Sharing that potato helped me to sharpen the skill of focusing on being present in the moment. In this crazy world we live in of busyness and bustle, it is almost a forgotten art.

Do you find yourself grumbling if the line is too long? Do you get incensed at the very thought of having to carry part of the load for others? Are you in a hurry to get it all done? Are you stopping to breathe and be present in the moment, even if it isn’t overflowing with abundance? Are you able to find joy in simple provision, or do you find that you stretch yourself more and more to just have more and more?

Well then. I challenge you to pass the potato. It will change your whole life.

BABY YOU'RE A FIREWORK

LASDI ©

Photo credit: PxHere

I have a scar. I have many scars, as I’m sure we all do, but there is one scar in particular that makes me think of freedom. It sounds silly, I’m sure, but it truly is a symbolic scar that gives me liberty every time I look at it.

As a little girl, I did not have much in the way of riches or possessions. I certainly do remember lots of liver and onions for dinner (which is scarring in and of itself), and plenty of hand-me-downs to wear, but certainly not “lots of” and “plenty of” much else. So when someone invited me to a barbecue, campfire, and fireworks display one July, I jumped at the chance.

It was a marvelous evening. I was a spindly being, very tiny in stature and weight. I was not used to the incredible smell of sausages and hamburgers cooking on a grill, nor was I used to eating them. The extreme delight of feeling ten pounds heavier was the first of many moments that would create a euphoria I had never experienced. We sat near a fire in those old, webbed aluminum folding chairs that were so popular in the 70s and watched fireworks that the host had purchased for the event.

I sat in awe of the sights, sounds, and smells of something I had actually never encountered before. Firework sprays against the dark sky of red, white, and blue. My eyes were burning from the smoke, and I felt alive. My eardrums were swollen, and I was enamored by it. My nose breathed in the horrible smoldering aroma of lighting-and-take-off, and I never wanted it to end.

I felt froggy. So I leapt. I became a wild banshee, dancing over the fire, and prancing around so close to the fireworks I could have rocketed into space. I was taking dares from my own conscience and didn’t care what the outcome could be.

The night carried on until it didn’t – and it was time to clean up and go home. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to go back to my old life of mere hours ago. So as the adults cleaned up the food, the grill, and the firework carcasses, I decided I would live my new-but-soon-back-to-reality life to its fullest. I was eight, after all, and I had now seen the world.

I saw the host cover up the fire with dirt, leaving a nice stage for my foolishness to persist. I was having a very mature conversation with the other seven- and eight-year-olds there that had obviously acquired the same sophistication that I had that night and decided to lie down in a mature way straight on my side with my head propped up on my hand. I wanted to give the allure that this was not my first rodeo, after all, and lying in such a leisurely position would not give away the fact that it, indeed, was. What better place to do so than on the fresh dirt round that was previously a fire with blazing flames?

I felt it. It’s like when you get stung by a hornet. You know it’s there, but there is a strange feeling of shock that doesn’t register the pain right away. It takes a few seconds, but YOU FEEL IT. And I felt it. My ankle felt as though I were a cow being branded. There was the knowledge of it, and then the pain registered. But I didn’t moo right away. I didn’t know what it was, but I had a feeling I needed to carry on as the new person I had become. I lie there, talking so casually for a few seconds after I felt the pain. I had a reputation to consider, after all!

I heard a sound I hadn’t heard before, much like the fireworks of the evening. Wait. What was that? A new variation of sparkler sound meeting the night air? A siren screaming off in the distance? Perhaps it was an unusual creature, baying at the frightening sounds from the explosions.

It was me. It was me howling so deeply and loudly that I didn’t recognize it was me at first. I jumped up from the ground and looked down at the ankle that was angry at me for being so reckless. The ankle that had been put on a hot, burning coal and that was drooling skin. The ankle that smelled like burning flesh and was actually still simmering with red flecks of fire.

Of course, people sprang into action. Ice from the cooler, ripped t-shits drenched in cold water being wrapped around the damage, and questions about the absurdity of laying down on a former fire pad.

Medical disclaimer: I grew up very poor. No money. No insurance. Not much of anything. Except liver and onions, of course. I was not taken to a doctor or to the hospital, though I should have been. The wound was great and would end up taking months to heal.

I couldn’t sleep that night from the pain. I wondered how I could have ruined everything by allowing myself to get burned. I wondered how I let my arrogance get the best of me. And it really hurt. On both counts.

The burn left an oval scar on the outside of my left ankle that exists to this day, though it seems to soften as I get older. Most scars do. But though the scars may fade, what caused them and the memory of how they occurred does not.

Every time I see fireworks, I think of the scar, and sometimes even find myself absent-mindedly reaching down to touch it. I think specifically of the fireworks that night that created a feeling in me that there was a bigger life outside of the only one I had known. Opportunities to experience things I never had before.

People say scars are “earned”. Until this particular time in my life I never quite understood that phrase, as a petulant child who made a bad choice and got what she so unfortunately deserved.

But I realize now that is not how it works. Sure, some scars come from bad decisions, or folly, or accidents. Some scars come from medical conditions or things that change our bodies. Some come from things that are not our own doing. They can sometimes not even be scars we can see with our eyes. But no matter the source, they have all, indeed, been earned – especially dealing with the hurt and better yet healing of each one of them.

I changed that night. I became a firework. Not because of the burn, but because I learned about possibilities. I learned about pain and learning to live with it. I learned things can hurt you, but how you deal with that leftover pain is what creates the future of who you are and choose to be. I learned I could shine and sparkle through anything. It FREED ME.

Whatever scars you have or wherever they are, don’t look at them with disdain. Look at them and know you’ve been through so much, and that whatever suffering they’ve caused, they were definitely earned. Know that no matter the leftover pain they leave behind, they can soften with time and healing. Know that how you deal with that pain is what creates the future of who you are and choose to be, and even the legacy you leave behind.

Don’t let the lasting image of what caused you pain keep you in bondage. Be bright, be shiny, be free.

BE A FIREWORK.

JUNE BUG

©Artwork by: Kiren Garcia of The Captivated Canvas© (copy or usage prohibited)

Have you ever seen a firefly? Or perhaps you know it as a lightning bug. They are spectacular. They are kind of a crazy creation, in my opinion. And perhaps that’s the opinion of others, as well. Their bodies light up from deep inside and they have their own season in life. They don’t sting, and they don’t bite. They don’t eat crops or bother anyone’s garden.

There is even a phenomenon in Southeast Asia, as well as in The Great Smokey Mountains in Tennessee in June when they actually synchronize their flashes!

To their credit, their beautiful light actually releases a dangerous toxin that makes them taste bitter to predators or those species brave enough to attack their brilliance and go for a taste. The defensive steroid they contain makes them unappealing once attacked, which is ironic because their magnificent shine is what makes them tempting in the first place.

There are some sad facts pertaining to these peculiar beetles. They are on the decline. Mostly because of us humans. Yep. Not only capturing them in jars until their lights dim and their short-lived lives are even shorter, but also because we are tearing down their habitats, building our own.

ALL THEY WANT TO DO IS SHINE THEIR LIGHT.

Let me be clear: THIS IS NOT A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT REGARDING LIGHTNING BUGS. Rather, this is a story about how these creatures compare to us - primal nature versus human nature.

Every June, I think of my childhood in New York where fireflies were rare, but they were there. And yes, not knowing any better and being a kid from the projects who rarely got to capture nature, I “captured nature.” Every June I think of my time here in Texas out in the dessert country where they abound and quite frankly light up the sky bigger and better than the stars. Every June, I wonder where they are as I sit in my darling little suburbia, keeping the memory of their wonder very wistfully in my heart.

I recently tried to explain lightning bugs to The Grittles. They are 6, 4, and 3 months, and none of them have ever really seen one, minus on the youtube, of course. I started wondering where the insects have gone and asked The Googla if they are even still around. “They are,” said Google Assistant, “but are quickly vanishing and will one day only be considered folklore.”

I felt a little forlorn for my winged-and-lighted friends. Or maybe it was a self-imposed sadness based entirely on my selfish desire to recapture my youth. As I sat pondering the idea in its entirety, I found myself comparing the life of the firefly to my very own.

I’m kind of a crazy creation, in my opinion. And perhaps the opinion of others, as well. I definitely find myself lighting up from deep inside with joy from my faith, even in some of the darkest times. I know all about seasons in life, believe me. I have seen good times, tough times, scary times, angry times, sad times, and happy times. Though I know those times all depend on circumstances, innate joy continues to be a light in my heart and in my soul.

I have seen the seasons of friends that come and go, regardless of the reasons why. I have seen the seasons of sickness and health, no matter the eventual outcome. I have seen seasons of life, and I have seen seasons of death. Whatever the case, I know that is my lot in time, and my season in life.

I don’t sting, and I don’t bite. You’re welcome. I have taken some beatings in life, albeit not just physical. I have been imprisoned in toxic relationships, held captive by unkindness, and trapped by the exploitation of those in the position of power or authority.

I have never bothered the crops of anyone else’s life intentionally, nor can I say I’ve ever eaten from someone else’s garden without invitation.

Though I certainly don’t fancy myself a phenomenon of any sort, I definitely try to stay in synch with those closest in my life, like The Fam. #WeStandUnited. Whatever flashes are going on in any of The Kiddos’ and Grittles’ lives, as well as The Hubster’s, I try to make certain we are all doing our best to be together, supportive, and encouraging.

I, too, have suffered at the hands of predators or those brave enough to attempt to put out this little light of mine, and to my credit - though I don’t sting or bite - I can definitely emit a defense that can be viewed as unappealing once the attack has begun. The poignancy of that never ceases to amaze me, since it is my magnificent shine that made me attractive in the first place.

I have felt the tearing down of the habitat of my very emotions, my heart, from those wishing to only build up themselves.

ALL I WANT TO DO IS SHINE MY LIGHT.

I exist. I exist now. I am presently here, but I know in a hundred years anything I have said or done has the possibility of only being folklore, if even that. While I’m here I can shine the light inside me to as many people as possible, no matter my lot in time, or how short my season here will be. At the very least, I can leave a legacy that will shine on through those who have received it, and in turn, they shine it onto others as well.

Even as I write this, I am considering going somewhere in June that I know those bugs will be doing what they were designed to do. I want to see them while they still exist. I won’t imprison them in a jar or try to clutch them in my hand. I will simply capture it in my memory and hold it in my heart.

NO MATTER THE SEASON, IF YOU CARRY LIGHT INSIDE YOUR HEART, LET IT SHINE.

THE "OTHER JANUARY"

photo credit HERE

The first month of the calendar year always seems to draw reflection and represent new beginnings for all, and rightfully so. Whether you believe in making New Year’s resolutions, starting a new diet, or creating #goals or not, there is something quite inspiring about the month of January.

February through August, we are all fighting to either keep those resolutions, stay on our new diet, find ways to meet those goals, or have given up altogether. We fight the cold weather and the colds that go along with it; battle the heat of the summer and greet the hay fever blues.

And then it happens. Every single year it happens. Sweet September. The remarkable month of do-over, and the onset of Autumn. Oh, I know for most people it’s just another month, but for The Fam and me, this is the “other January”.

It is the month of controversy most certainly! This is the month people start to ask, “how early is too early to put up fall decorations?” or “we’re starting pumpkin spice everything already?” But not for us. Oh noooooo. We already know the answers to those intolerable questions! It’s NEVER too early, and pumpkin spice everything should be year-round!

September is the beginning of the best season in my family! We know Fall Family Day awaits; that Thanksgiving - THE most important holiday for us - is right around the corner; that the RenFest will be there to greet us as we enter the gates, ready to embark upon imagination and excitement in yet another day we assemble as a crest.

September is the forgiving month of old resolutions to fresh perspective! Gone are all the grumblings of yesteryear, and present is the arrival of seasonal smiles and joy in our surroundings. Grill marks change to roasted hues with intense aroma filling the house. Brights, be gone! It’s shades of gold and warm tones coming our way! Scarves of plaid and wide-brimmed hats for all, thank you very much! In-coming are the sights and sounds of hayrides, pumpkin patches, warm breezes, and giving thanks! Celebration for what’s to come begins to rise up in our very souls!

Yes, like a woman-with-child we wait for the ninth month to arrive, knowing full well it will give birth to our seasonal baby. We treat it intentionally, and with tender-loving-care. We collaborate our design for the remaining months of the calendar year as though our lives depend on it.

Up we go into the attic, and down comes the perennial leaves and plastic gourds. Sure, October may mean a skeleton or two coming out of the closet, but that is in accordance with what we have already displayed for our celebration of what is essentially our New Year!

September is crucial! It is essentially the month that starts the traverse to December, which harbors its own celebration. Without September, we would have no gracious entrance into Autumm. We would crash over into October from August without any finesse, like a belly flop into an empty pool.

September also gives us pause. It is a time of reflection and insight. Like a fall harvest, it is when we feel the most growth, individually and as a family. It is when we cultivate our connection and build our bond with intense purpose. It is the sound of the great love we share for one another at another octave.

Whatever time of year, be sure to create a season for your own growth and intention so that you appreciate the blessings you’re surrounded with. For us, that’s September.

We are ever-so-grateful this month comes around annually. It is “the other January”, but with a bigger and better expression and nostalgia. It is a newer beginning.

Yes. September holds the key that unlocks the door to one of the greatest years of our lives. Every year.

GOING VIRAL

When I posted the blog The Big Behind, it was because the year we had prior to this one was filled with personal hardships and losses – one right after the other, over, and over……and over.  Many people in our life would attempt to encourage us by saying that this new year had nowhere to go but up.

Without trying to be cynical, I told them to beware of that thought.  There is no magic in a number, or the flip of one day being New Year’s Eve to the next being New Year’s day.  Life still happens.

And it is happening now in a way that I’ve never seen, and no longer are we experiencing just private trials.  This is worldwide.  And it’s not just this historical pandemic.  It’s racism.  And violence.  And inequality.  And politics.  And violent protests.  And debates.  And relationship strains.  And loss.  And death.  And numerous kinds of epidemics that span the world  in the most provocative way. 

It doesn’t matter which political party you support, or even what country you live in.  ‘Pandemic’, they call it.  Well, I suppose we all call it that now - this contagion that has affected each one of us - whether we have contracted it or not. 

Isolate yourselves.  Don’t be together in groups.  Wear a mask and cover your face.  Social distance.  Don’t go out.  Close your businesses.

New spikes.  Partisan.  Controversy.  Challenge.

It has created a Divide of Togetherness, an Isolation of Fellowship.

Have you heard of the prolific book, Around the World in 80 Days?

If you haven’t, let me fill you in on at least part of the plot:  Phileas Fogg is a rich British gentleman living in solitude. Despite his wealth, Fogg lives a modest life with habits carried out with mathematical precision. Very little can be said about his social life other than that he is a member of the Reform Club, where he spends much of every day.

Sound familiar?  We are IN a fog, and, for the most of us, NOT wealthy but definitely living in solitude.  In spite of and / or because of our situation, we live modest lives with habits carried out with a new-normal precision.  Very little can be said about our social lives other than that we are in a pandemic and ordered to stay home, where we spend much of every day. 

Side note: The Reform Club was, until 1981, a club for men only.  No coincidence that systemic inequality, yet another epidemic, rears its ugly head in my analogy.

Oh sure.  We’re opening back up now.  Because everything had to shut down.  But what are we opening back up TO?  We have since seen another spike in cases and even in deaths. 

Yet we have realized our dream of toilet paper on the shelves enough for everyone again.  We are now allowed to buy enough chicken to start our own coop if we wanted to.  We are back to having what we want when we want it and how often we want it, and never feeling satiated.  Which still leaves us feeling anxious, sad, angry, or even despair.

It all can feel hopeless to be in humanitarian crisis and universal disparity.  There is a strange vulnerability and sense of feeling fragile in that.  At least I hope so.

My thought process in that hope lies in something better going viral, spreading worldwide.  Not the propagation of disease, or the fear of abuse or discrimination.  Not intolerance or political fervor.  Not entitlement or privilege.

I want for us, as a people, to remember what this year has been like.  Where each new calamity had us, and the susceptibility that rose in us like a wildfire.  If we forget or try to put it behind us, we will not have grown through it, because without learning from our past, our future is daunting.

There is a path to hope during the chaos of it all.  You can find peace and purpose in this one life we’ve been given no matter what the situation.

Focus on what is good around you and don’t let the negative lodge itself within.  How to do that?  Profoundly count your blessings!  We tend to put what is positive on a shelf and let it collect dust when the hard times seem to be raging. 

I am not implying that we shouldn’t be awake and aware to what is plaguing us as a society.  Nor am I trying to translate finding joy through it all into ignoring it or blocking it all out. I am not saying that we don’t truly suffer through losses and personal trials.

I am, however, saying to seek out a deeper love and appreciation of humanity – go ahead and stand up for what you believe in.  I am also saying to feel empathy and compassion for what is happening to someone else by putting the shoe, worn out as it may be, on your own foot – especially if you expect the same grace from others as troubles arise in your own life.  I am saying that growth, development, and understanding can only come through forging through tough times.

It’s an easy path to follow when we allow negativity to embed itself, and it takes discipline to find the joy through each circumstance.  Stop what you're doing - even if it's just for a moment - close your eyes and breathe slowly.  Test yourself by naming at least three things you're grateful for.  Is it your health?  Your family?  Your faith? 

Not one thing is greater than the other when it comes to blessings.  They are sanctioned by how you view them.  Let that perspective be the plague that takes over your mind, your body, and your spirit.  Let that be the positive test result you live with.  Let that be what you pass along to others so they, too, can share in the boons of  that particular epidemic.   Let it be CONTAGIOUS.

And perhaps that’s the story that will go viral.