It's 2:30 in the afternoon. I'm sitting in front of my computer, staring at a game I'm tired of playing but too distracted to close the browser window. My tomato soup in the coffee mug next to me is still steaming, but the heat warms my hands. It's a shame I can't hold the mug with my feet, I think to myself. My toes are so cold my toenails have all turned a lovely shade of bluish purple. They always remind me of Christmas lights for some reason when they go that color. The blue house lights are always my favorite...
My thoughts wander here and there throughout the day. I know what must be done, but getting there won't be an easy road.
I take another sip of my tomato soup in a mug, the thickness filling my mouth and surrounding my teeth with a warm blanket of flavor. I've always loved tomato soup. A car insurance commercial comes on the television and instinctively I reach for the mute button on the remote. The noise makes it hard to think. I turn the volume back up right away though... I've done enough thinking lately. I need a distraction.
Another sip. Another sigh. Another weak moment. Finally the show comes back on. Two and a Half Men always seems to make me forget my own dramas and helps me to realize how lucky I really am to have this life that I've got. Ironic - the star (Charlie Sheen) has everything but love, and yet he's not happy. He's got a career playing the piano. He has a gorgeous house in Malibu. He has a brother he's close to, a nephew he sees all the time, and more beautiful women walking through his door than a Victoria's Secret with a turnstyle. Yet he's not happy.
I haven't ever really cared about material things... big, fancy houses and fast, sporty cars aren't that important to me. I don't need diamonds or rubys. I don't want expensive clothes. All I've ever wanted was to be remembered and loved. I've got that. I should be happier than I am at the moment, but something is preventing me. It's a big something. But it's only a hiccup. We'll get past this.
Another sip of my tomato soup and it's gone, I realize. I suppose it's time to run some hot water in the sink so I can wash the dishes.
Off to bright new horizons we go!
It's in the future we will be found,
Where love, hope and faith abound.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Mine for Tonight
Hold on to me
Lead me on all you like
I’ll smile for you now,
But you’ll leave me later tonight.
Keep reaching for my hand.
It’s here for you to hold
I can feel myself falling for you
But I shouldn’t be so bold.
Tell me I’m the only one.
Leave me with a smile.
Later I’ll have time for doubts.
I want to be happy a while.
Spend all the time you can
Taking me out with you.
It’s not until we’re really apart
That I’m ever feeling blue.
I know I’m not the only one.
You’ve told me that yourself.
I’ll mourn the day I loose you
And you place me upon that shelf.
But for now you’re mine each day
I’ll never take that for granted
I’ll smile at you and kiss your neck
And hope to God you're enchanted.
You’re mine for tonight.
I’ll hold you as long as you allow.
I’ll run my fingers through your hair
And live for here and now...
Amanda Martin
08/07/06
Lead me on all you like
I’ll smile for you now,
But you’ll leave me later tonight.
Keep reaching for my hand.
It’s here for you to hold
I can feel myself falling for you
But I shouldn’t be so bold.
Tell me I’m the only one.
Leave me with a smile.
Later I’ll have time for doubts.
I want to be happy a while.
Spend all the time you can
Taking me out with you.
It’s not until we’re really apart
That I’m ever feeling blue.
I know I’m not the only one.
You’ve told me that yourself.
I’ll mourn the day I loose you
And you place me upon that shelf.
But for now you’re mine each day
I’ll never take that for granted
I’ll smile at you and kiss your neck
And hope to God you're enchanted.
You’re mine for tonight.
I’ll hold you as long as you allow.
I’ll run my fingers through your hair
And live for here and now...
Amanda Martin
08/07/06
Monday, June 21, 2010
I Love Because I Can
The eagle soars high because he can. The coyotes cry at night because they can. The cougar screams aloud because she can. I love as I have never loved, because I can.
Perhaps it's the feeling of having loved and lost. Perhaps it's knowing that love is worth risking all. Perhaps it's because of the struggles and trials I've had in my life. Whatever it is, I know that I risk nothing and yet risk everything to love another. Still, as I always have, my heart freely gives of itself.
There's always that chance that someone won't love or can't love in return. And yet, what is risked?
When a gift is given, it's not done with the intention of receiving something in return. It's a thought, a gesture. It's a way to show someone that we care about them, appreciate them, will miss them, or even that we love them. Why should it be any different with love?
Love is a gift. It's one of the greatest gifts we can give to another human being. It should never be given expecting anything in return, even for our feelings to be returned. If they are returned to us, it's a reason to be overjoyed. We have, in return, been given the greatest gift someone can give to us.
How does someone "give" their love?
It can be a simple gesture - a hand picked rose placed on the windshield of a car. It can be a picnic in the park with cold chicken and baked beans. It can be a bottle of wine with crackers and cheese on the table when coming home from work. It can even be a romantic comedy rented at the video store and watched in the privacy of ones own home, snuggled together on a cozy couch with a little dog licking at your hand.
How do you know it's love?
This paragraph remained empty for a long moment as I sat here trying to decide what I would write about this subject. How do you know it's love? How would I know just from being near someone if they loved me? How would someone I love ever know of my affections? How would anyone ever know if they were loved unless someone told them as much in plain and simple terms?
I can drop hints and clues with the best of them, but far too often the hints are cryptic and the clues are acres above the heads of others. I could tell someone that I loved them, but the words are used far too often these days to have as much meaning as they are meant to have. I could tell someone I missed their voice, or that I liked their laugh. I could tell them that I loved their smile, the twinkle in their eyes or the way they looked at me. So if I can do all of that, why is it I don't feel like telling someone I love them is ever enough? Even defining the word "love" with the help of dictionary.com doesn't seem to help with the struggle I have of trying to indicate how I feel when I 'love' someone, even with it's 28 definitions exquisitely spelled out in plain black and white print.
I can even go so far as to say I adore someone, but to say "I love you" just doesn't seem strong enough. It's more than four little letters. It's more than the love song written in cliche rhymes and sappy lyrics. It's more than a photo of a stolen kiss, a moment suspended in time. It's more than the parallels of two lives, always coming so close to touching and never reaching out.
Love is simply this:
I 'love' wanting to be around someone all the time, to be near them, to talk to them and to touch them. I 'love' with my whole heart, every fiber of my being, every basic instinct in my body. It's a raw emotion, animalistic and instinctive. It's the emotional need of knowing that the person you love is right there at a moment's notice, that they would drop everything to come to the rescue. Love can be shared between friends, family, soul mates and lovers. Love is so much more grand than just a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Love is a feeling of belonging, to read the words or to hear the words "my girl" and to have them shoot a shiver through your spine. Love is knowing that you 'belong' WITH someone or TO someone.
Love is all of that and more.
love [luhv]
–noun
1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
3. sexual passion or desire.
4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
5. (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, Love?
6. a love affair; an intensely amorous incident; amour.
7. sexual intercourse; copulation.
8. ( initial capital letter ) a personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid.
9. affectionate concern for the well-being of others: the love of one's neighbor.
10. strong predilection, enthusiasm, or liking for anything: her love of books.
11. the object or thing so liked: The theater was her great love.
12. the benevolent affection of god for His creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.
13. Chiefly Tennis . a score of zero; nothing.
14. a word formerly used in communications to represent the letter L.
–verb (used with object)
15. to have love or affection for: All her pupils love her.
16. to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).
17. to have a strong liking for; take great pleasure in: to love music.
18. to need or require; benefit greatly from: Plants love sunlight.
19. to embrace and kiss (someone), as a lover.
20. to have sexual intercourse with.
–verb (used without object)
21. to have love or affection for another person; be in love.
—Verb phrase
22. love up, to hug and cuddle: She loves him up every chance she gets.
—Idioms
23. for love,
a. out of affection or liking; for pleasure.
b. without compensation; gratuitously: He took care of the poor for love.
24. for the love of, in consideration of; for the sake of: For the love of mercy, stop that noise.
25. in love, infused with or feeling deep affection or passion: a youth always in love.
26. in love with, feeling deep affection or passion for (a person, idea, occupation, etc.); enamored of: in love with the girl next door; in love with one's work.
27. make love,
a. to embrace and kiss as lovers.
b. to engage in sexual activity.
28. no love lost, dislike; animosity: There was no love lost between the two brothers.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Perhaps it's the feeling of having loved and lost. Perhaps it's knowing that love is worth risking all. Perhaps it's because of the struggles and trials I've had in my life. Whatever it is, I know that I risk nothing and yet risk everything to love another. Still, as I always have, my heart freely gives of itself.
There's always that chance that someone won't love or can't love in return. And yet, what is risked?
When a gift is given, it's not done with the intention of receiving something in return. It's a thought, a gesture. It's a way to show someone that we care about them, appreciate them, will miss them, or even that we love them. Why should it be any different with love?
Love is a gift. It's one of the greatest gifts we can give to another human being. It should never be given expecting anything in return, even for our feelings to be returned. If they are returned to us, it's a reason to be overjoyed. We have, in return, been given the greatest gift someone can give to us.
How does someone "give" their love?
It can be a simple gesture - a hand picked rose placed on the windshield of a car. It can be a picnic in the park with cold chicken and baked beans. It can be a bottle of wine with crackers and cheese on the table when coming home from work. It can even be a romantic comedy rented at the video store and watched in the privacy of ones own home, snuggled together on a cozy couch with a little dog licking at your hand.
How do you know it's love?
This paragraph remained empty for a long moment as I sat here trying to decide what I would write about this subject. How do you know it's love? How would I know just from being near someone if they loved me? How would someone I love ever know of my affections? How would anyone ever know if they were loved unless someone told them as much in plain and simple terms?
I can drop hints and clues with the best of them, but far too often the hints are cryptic and the clues are acres above the heads of others. I could tell someone that I loved them, but the words are used far too often these days to have as much meaning as they are meant to have. I could tell someone I missed their voice, or that I liked their laugh. I could tell them that I loved their smile, the twinkle in their eyes or the way they looked at me. So if I can do all of that, why is it I don't feel like telling someone I love them is ever enough? Even defining the word "love" with the help of dictionary.com doesn't seem to help with the struggle I have of trying to indicate how I feel when I 'love' someone, even with it's 28 definitions exquisitely spelled out in plain black and white print.
I can even go so far as to say I adore someone, but to say "I love you" just doesn't seem strong enough. It's more than four little letters. It's more than the love song written in cliche rhymes and sappy lyrics. It's more than a photo of a stolen kiss, a moment suspended in time. It's more than the parallels of two lives, always coming so close to touching and never reaching out.
Love is simply this:
I 'love' wanting to be around someone all the time, to be near them, to talk to them and to touch them. I 'love' with my whole heart, every fiber of my being, every basic instinct in my body. It's a raw emotion, animalistic and instinctive. It's the emotional need of knowing that the person you love is right there at a moment's notice, that they would drop everything to come to the rescue. Love can be shared between friends, family, soul mates and lovers. Love is so much more grand than just a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Love is a feeling of belonging, to read the words or to hear the words "my girl" and to have them shoot a shiver through your spine. Love is knowing that you 'belong' WITH someone or TO someone.
Love is all of that and more.
love [luhv]
–noun
1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
3. sexual passion or desire.
4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
5. (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, Love?
6. a love affair; an intensely amorous incident; amour.
7. sexual intercourse; copulation.
8. ( initial capital letter ) a personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid.
9. affectionate concern for the well-being of others: the love of one's neighbor.
10. strong predilection, enthusiasm, or liking for anything: her love of books.
11. the object or thing so liked: The theater was her great love.
12. the benevolent affection of god for His creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.
13. Chiefly Tennis . a score of zero; nothing.
14. a word formerly used in communications to represent the letter L.
–verb (used with object)
15. to have love or affection for: All her pupils love her.
16. to have a profoundly tender, passionate affection for (another person).
17. to have a strong liking for; take great pleasure in: to love music.
18. to need or require; benefit greatly from: Plants love sunlight.
19. to embrace and kiss (someone), as a lover.
20. to have sexual intercourse with.
–verb (used without object)
21. to have love or affection for another person; be in love.
—Verb phrase
22. love up, to hug and cuddle: She loves him up every chance she gets.
—Idioms
23. for love,
a. out of affection or liking; for pleasure.
b. without compensation; gratuitously: He took care of the poor for love.
24. for the love of, in consideration of; for the sake of: For the love of mercy, stop that noise.
25. in love, infused with or feeling deep affection or passion: a youth always in love.
26. in love with, feeling deep affection or passion for (a person, idea, occupation, etc.); enamored of: in love with the girl next door; in love with one's work.
27. make love,
a. to embrace and kiss as lovers.
b. to engage in sexual activity.
28. no love lost, dislike; animosity: There was no love lost between the two brothers.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, June 14, 2010
My Greatest Addiction
There are many things that the human race has been addicted to since the beginning of time. Probably one of the first and most primal addictions was adrenaline. The cave man knew not why he enjoyed the hunt so much other than the feeling of accomplishment once the kill was on its way home to feed his fellow tribesman and woman. What he didn't realize was that a catecholamine secreted by the adrenal medulla in response to stress was stimulating an autonomic nerve action; in other words, an adrenaline rush. A day in the life of a Neanderthal wasn't overly exciting, I imagine. Suddenly, during the thrill of a chase, the danger of the kill, he felt alive. He felt new and refreshed, like there was a reason he was alive. His body tingled with the very sensation. His hearing was more keen, his sight more honed in, and his nose far more sensitive. He could feel every breath of air that swept past his bare arms.
Man has had the grand misfortune of finding many more highly addictive substances over the past couple of million years, some of which we've discovered how to fabricate for ourselves. The number of drug and alcohol addictions in this country is staggering!
One must wonder who it was who discovered that this horrible, tiny, hard, bitter bean would be wonderfully pungent and delicious once ground into dust and hot water was filtered through it. Did you know that Americans use more than 2.3 billion pounds of coffee beans each year? We are addicted to caffeine!
But my addiction is none of these. My addiction is something much more serious, and taken with a much more lighthearted attitude. My addiction is love. Some of you may sneer, jeer, jest, heckle, and just plain roll your eyes at this. Others may say that I'm either crazy or headed that way. Maybe so! All I know is that I love to be loved. I enjoy that feeling. I crave it! And I know that when I cant get the love I crave from the source I so desperately want it from, I become a very sad person. Its a horrible addiction, and one that I feel I am on the road to recovering from. I do not wish to live for that feeling. I don't want be depressed, sad, or lonely when I feel I don't get the attention I want. There will be times in my life when I wont be able to have that attention and I must learn to live with that. Just knowing that the one I've decided to give my own heart to loves me should be enough but I crave that interaction between two hearts and souls; that beautiful moment when nothing else in the world matters but the two in love.
I have known many that said they loved me, far less that meant it, and far fewer than that whom I have ever loved in return. Still, I let those who loved me believe that the feeling was mutual so as not to loose their love. Was that bad? Was it wrong? I believe it was, and yet I could not help myself for so long. Every time I had the opportunity to let one of those people I did not love fade off into the background, I seemed to pull them back in and dangle that carrot just out of reach once more.
It took so long to grow into the person I've become. I know now what I want in life, I know how to let go of those I do not and can not love, while at the same time holding tightly to those I do. I know finally what real love feels like. I know it's waiting for me - just patiently waiting. He's right there. Maybe he's waiting for an email or a text message from me... but he's out there. Very soon now, I'll be looking into his eyes as he looks deep into mine, soul mates seprated too long ago and forced into strange lives we were never meant to live appart.
Man has had the grand misfortune of finding many more highly addictive substances over the past couple of million years, some of which we've discovered how to fabricate for ourselves. The number of drug and alcohol addictions in this country is staggering!
One must wonder who it was who discovered that this horrible, tiny, hard, bitter bean would be wonderfully pungent and delicious once ground into dust and hot water was filtered through it. Did you know that Americans use more than 2.3 billion pounds of coffee beans each year? We are addicted to caffeine!
But my addiction is none of these. My addiction is something much more serious, and taken with a much more lighthearted attitude. My addiction is love. Some of you may sneer, jeer, jest, heckle, and just plain roll your eyes at this. Others may say that I'm either crazy or headed that way. Maybe so! All I know is that I love to be loved. I enjoy that feeling. I crave it! And I know that when I cant get the love I crave from the source I so desperately want it from, I become a very sad person. Its a horrible addiction, and one that I feel I am on the road to recovering from. I do not wish to live for that feeling. I don't want be depressed, sad, or lonely when I feel I don't get the attention I want. There will be times in my life when I wont be able to have that attention and I must learn to live with that. Just knowing that the one I've decided to give my own heart to loves me should be enough but I crave that interaction between two hearts and souls; that beautiful moment when nothing else in the world matters but the two in love.
I have known many that said they loved me, far less that meant it, and far fewer than that whom I have ever loved in return. Still, I let those who loved me believe that the feeling was mutual so as not to loose their love. Was that bad? Was it wrong? I believe it was, and yet I could not help myself for so long. Every time I had the opportunity to let one of those people I did not love fade off into the background, I seemed to pull them back in and dangle that carrot just out of reach once more.
It took so long to grow into the person I've become. I know now what I want in life, I know how to let go of those I do not and can not love, while at the same time holding tightly to those I do. I know finally what real love feels like. I know it's waiting for me - just patiently waiting. He's right there. Maybe he's waiting for an email or a text message from me... but he's out there. Very soon now, I'll be looking into his eyes as he looks deep into mine, soul mates seprated too long ago and forced into strange lives we were never meant to live appart.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Matters of Love
"The only thing in love that matters are the first moments of arousal and intense pleasure that follows."
-Anonymous Friend.
I got this very interesting thought in my emails a couple of years ago from someone I respect, admire, and trust. It's given me much to think about.
The first feelings of love are those that overwhelm us and blind us to all of our other senses. The fight or flight instinct is gone in those first few moments. Casanova was said to have many lovers, but only one love. Romeo and Juliet looked at one another across the room, and it was love at first sight. They forgot for a moment all of the family rivalry issues between their namesakes. Did things loose their spark or passionate energy after those first few moments? For Casanova, perhaps that was the case, for no woman could ask a man such as him to be faithful. For Romeo and Juliet, perhaps that was true as well, for they lasted not long after that first encounter. The love and passion they felt for one another consumed them until death, however.
What of it for me then?
I am the exception to many rules, as Ive said before. I believe that the first moments of arousal and that intense pleasure that follows are very important to a relationship, and if the relationship is a good, healthy one, this very moment can happen often, sometimes several times in a single day. The two fall into each others arms, consumed by their passion for one another, and completely loose themselves in the moment.
I imagine that's the way it will be when I can finally have an unbridled amount of time with the one I find myself thinking about night and day. He fills my mind and heart night and day, and consumes more of my senses than I ever thought a single person could. What would those first moments of freedom together be like if there was no place we needed to go, nothing we needed to do? Would we be consumed by that sexual adrenaline for merely an hour? Would we feel just as much passion if not lying naked on the top of rumpled covers together? Is it possible to feel that same passion, longing, and devotion if only sitting on a couch together watching a sappy old movie? How about if we were holding hands as we walked along a dirt path in the green hills on a cool spring morning?
I know I would feel that way about my mate as we walked along in a crowded shopping mall around Christmas time, barely able to hear one another over the children shouting at the first signs of the fat man in the Santa costume. Would he feel the same way? From everything I know I desire in life, he most certainly would. THAT is how I will know that he is the one I've looked so long and hard to find.
No, I think more than the first moments of arousal and intense pleasure are important to me. I believe its the very sense of knowing that the person you love is also your best friend. Its knowing that even blinded by age, deafened by time, and crippled by long existence, the one you love will still love you passionately.
Have you ever seen the movie "The Notebook"? That's how I envision it to be the last moments in life,... and in love.
Where I've Been
I've been the guest of the richest.
I've slept on a few park benches.
I've been loved and adored
I've been hated; abhored,
Forgotten, neglected,
Remembered and rejected.
I've been beaten and bruised
My heart has been used.
Kidnapped and trapped,
Alone and relaxed.
I've had time to ponder over eternity
I've been striped of all my dignity
I've been held in the highest esteem.
I've wondered what life could possibly mean.
I've been kind; I've been vain.
I've danced like a madman out in the rain.
But until I knew more about me,
I never knew what love could be.
March 31st, 2006
I've slept on a few park benches.
I've been loved and adored
I've been hated; abhored,
Forgotten, neglected,
Remembered and rejected.
I've been beaten and bruised
My heart has been used.
Kidnapped and trapped,
Alone and relaxed.
I've had time to ponder over eternity
I've been striped of all my dignity
I've been held in the highest esteem.
I've wondered what life could possibly mean.
I've been kind; I've been vain.
I've danced like a madman out in the rain.
But until I knew more about me,
I never knew what love could be.
March 31st, 2006
Friday, June 4, 2010
Horse Farm Arthritis
My knees are bothering me a little today. Its a strange thing, this arthritis. I feel as though Im too young at 30 years old to have it, but yet it plagues me. My mother warned me about it, but I guess I just never really believed, or wanted to anyway.
I was only 19 years old when I went to work at Cadron Creek Arabians. I lied to get the job. I loved horses so much that I just knew this was the perfect job for me. When they asked if I had experience, I told them all about taking care of a sick friends horses which never actually happened. Rather, the friend got so sick that he had to sell his horses. It wasnt long after that his health finally gave out and Jerry passed away peacefully in his sleep, in Clearfield Utah.
So the story goes that I began to work at Cadron Creek Arabians in Quitman Arkansas back in 1999. I loved my job! I got to roam fields just filled with beautiful mares, feeding them, bathing them, brushing them, and during my first month there, assisting in the birth of a new foal. The horses were almost all straight Egyptian Arabians, with bloodlines fully traceable back to the time of Alexander the Great. They were proud horses with tiny ears, huge eyes, graceful necks, and the most beautiful gait Id ever seen.
I got used to my job. I even got to know a few of the mares and was very close to them. There were two in particular that were outcasts because they were not the precious straight Egyptian bloodline. One was a Russian Arabian named War Princess, the other was a Polish Arabian named Sonrisa. They were both lovely and I adored them. But because of their lineage, they had been, I dont want to say mistreated, but perhaps not treated with the same courtesy and kindness the others had been treated with. War Princess was a beautiful Bay with long black stockings and a tiny white streak in her pitch black tail. But this is the story about Sonrisa.
When I reached out and put my hand on her flank, her dappled gray body quivered. I ran my hand slowly down her legs, getting her used to my movement. I was about to do something with her Id not done before. I wanted her to be prepared for anything. My hands went down to the hoof, and back up again coming up her back against the grain of the hair, lightly scratching as I went. I got to the base of her mane and her head lifted. Her lower lip began to tremble as though she were trying to tell me how good my scratching felt, so I lingered longer. I lifted my hand higher, stroking under that beautiful silvery mane as I went. Finally I reached her head. I ran my hands over her face, her ears, her eyes, her nose, and finally under her head.
I reached behind me and lifted my foot. The reins came with it, silently and unnoticeable - part of the reason I had paid so much attention to her face and eyes. I untied the reigns as I played with her face a little more, and finally was able to manage getting one side around her head. She didnt budge. It was as though she finally trusted me where she wouldn't ever allow anyone else to go. I fastened the bridle on her elegant head and began to walk with her. She came along as obediently as a well trained Golden Retriever.
My mother warned me about arthritis in my foot. When I was 15, I broke my foot in 3 places playing football with a friend. The bones were never set, and instead I limped about in a bulky cast for 6 weeks, only to have an odd lump on the top of my foot afterward. Mom was convinced I would have arthritis before long in that foot. To this day it doesnt bother me.
My arthritis stems from another adventure all together. It comes from a horse farm. Yes, a horse farm.
I was only 19 years old when I went to work at Cadron Creek Arabians. I lied to get the job. I loved horses so much that I just knew this was the perfect job for me. When they asked if I had experience, I told them all about taking care of a sick friends horses which never actually happened. Rather, the friend got so sick that he had to sell his horses. It wasnt long after that his health finally gave out and Jerry passed away peacefully in his sleep, in Clearfield Utah.
So the story goes that I began to work at Cadron Creek Arabians in Quitman Arkansas back in 1999. I loved my job! I got to roam fields just filled with beautiful mares, feeding them, bathing them, brushing them, and during my first month there, assisting in the birth of a new foal. The horses were almost all straight Egyptian Arabians, with bloodlines fully traceable back to the time of Alexander the Great. They were proud horses with tiny ears, huge eyes, graceful necks, and the most beautiful gait Id ever seen.
I got used to my job. I even got to know a few of the mares and was very close to them. There were two in particular that were outcasts because they were not the precious straight Egyptian bloodline. One was a Russian Arabian named War Princess, the other was a Polish Arabian named Sonrisa. They were both lovely and I adored them. But because of their lineage, they had been, I dont want to say mistreated, but perhaps not treated with the same courtesy and kindness the others had been treated with. War Princess was a beautiful Bay with long black stockings and a tiny white streak in her pitch black tail. But this is the story about Sonrisa.
Sonrisa was a beautiful and elegant Gray who had an incurable disease called EPT. The way it was explained to me, this disease made her legs completely numb, which in turn made her rather skittish. This EPT was a fatal disease. She tended to prance a bit since she couldnt feel where she was stepping. I think that would make me nervous, too! Sometimes the other people working on the farm would get frustrated with her and smack her on the butt with the reigns when putting her out to pasture, as though they were in a Wild West movie.
It took me months to get her to where she would allow me near her with reigns of any kind. I worked with her for what felt like ages before she would trust me at all. At first I bribed her with sugar cubes and carrots. Usually I just left the reigns behind and didnt mess with them. Then one rainy day it was time for a vet check and guess who was sent after Sonrisa to put her in the stocks? Im sure you've guessed already. Me.
I tied the reigns around my foot so she wouldnt see them I went out to her as I normally would, one hand extended, palm up. She came to me as she had been doing for the past week, nuzzled my hand, and then reached down to pick at the grass around her hooves. Her beautiful silver mane cascaded around her head, the matching tail swishing at the flies near by.
When I reached out and put my hand on her flank, her dappled gray body quivered. I ran my hand slowly down her legs, getting her used to my movement. I was about to do something with her Id not done before. I wanted her to be prepared for anything. My hands went down to the hoof, and back up again coming up her back against the grain of the hair, lightly scratching as I went. I got to the base of her mane and her head lifted. Her lower lip began to tremble as though she were trying to tell me how good my scratching felt, so I lingered longer. I lifted my hand higher, stroking under that beautiful silvery mane as I went. Finally I reached her head. I ran my hands over her face, her ears, her eyes, her nose, and finally under her head.
I reached behind me and lifted my foot. The reins came with it, silently and unnoticeable - part of the reason I had paid so much attention to her face and eyes. I untied the reigns as I played with her face a little more, and finally was able to manage getting one side around her head. She didnt budge. It was as though she finally trusted me where she wouldn't ever allow anyone else to go. I fastened the bridle on her elegant head and began to walk with her. She came along as obediently as a well trained Golden Retriever.
One of my coworkers, Keely, who had been working at the farm for many years reached out to touch her nose and Sonrisa reared up instantly. I immediately stepped in to calm her. I walked right in front of her, put my hand out with the palm up, and bent my knees slightly, making myself smaller. She lowered herself, nuzzled my hand, and calmed immediately. That was the day I gained the respect of my coworkers.I got her all the way to the vet stocks and marched her right in, with everyone I worked with standing in astonishment at the ease to which I accomplished this task. I clipped the stocks closed behind her and removed the bridle. Her head moved not an inch. She stood as still as a marble masterpiece.
I went to gather some hay into the back of my farm truck to feed to the mares while the Vet was doing his inspections. I wanted to have a nice surprise for Sonrisa when she came back to her stall later. She had earned it. The rain started coming down harder, and the wooden ladder was starting to get slick, so I climbed the bails of hay instead. I was climbing high into the loft to gather a few of my hidden sugar cubes to hide in the bottom of her feed trough when I lost my footing and came down hard. When I saw the bed of the truck looming before me, coming faster by the second, I twisted in midair somehow. By doing this, I caught my foot between a couple of hay bales and my body suddenly was jerked to an excruciatingly painful halt, leaving me dangling from the bales like a rag doll stuck in a tree. I cried out in pain, as anyone would. Somewhere off in the distance a horse whinnied aloud.
My foot finally came free of the hay, my knee feeling like it was being torn in half, and I plummeted the rest of the way down to the bed of the truck where I hit with a thunderous explosion of crunching body parts on a hard metallic surface. Moaning, I wrapped my arms around my knee. It had already begun to swell. My Wranglers were feeling tighter by the second.
I got up, leaving the truck where it was. I limped the 100 yards or more to Sonrisas stall and finally opened my hand. The sugar cubes were slightly crushed, but she'd still have a treat when she made it back. I turned around to go back to the truck, and there stood Keely right behind me.
"Everything ok? Sonrisa started screaming out for no reason a minute ago. The vet told me I was upsetting her, so I thought I'd come up here for a minute. It's funny, though. Nobody was near her when she started screaming."
My mind flashed back to when I hung from the hay, dangling like a loose thread from a hem. I remembered hearing a horse scream. Could that have been my Sonrisa? Did she hear me? Did she love me as much as I loved her?
About a month later, it was decided that I was in need of surgery for some severely torn cartilage in my knee. I was to fly down toFlorida in order to have it done. Little did I know I would never have the surgery, and would instead find myself homeless for the first time in my life. But thats another story.
That leaves me here, now, feeling arthritis from a horse farm. I wouldn't trade that day or that memory for anything in the world.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Little Love
Late last night I had a dream
That you were laying next to me
And in that dream I touched your face
While you curled up in my embrace.
You touched your lips upon my brow
And made me feel ok somehow.
You always have been there for me,
Even in my dreams, I see.
You loved me with no boundaries
Always uncondtionally.
Never have I loved so much
And now my Love, I miss your touch.
I miss your tongue and furry face
Your perky ears and prancing pace.
Your loving heart and listening ear,
I'll always love you, my little Dear.
That you were laying next to me
And in that dream I touched your face
While you curled up in my embrace.
You touched your lips upon my brow
And made me feel ok somehow.
You always have been there for me,
Even in my dreams, I see.
You loved me with no boundaries
Always uncondtionally.
Never have I loved so much
And now my Love, I miss your touch.
I miss your tongue and furry face
Your perky ears and prancing pace.
Your loving heart and listening ear,
I'll always love you, my little Dear.
Guitar Girl - The Story of Terry Ray Day
It had been such a long day. The drive home had made it seem even longer, winding my way through traffic for more than an hour. I pulled my car up to the house and gathered my things to climb out. My quickly wilting hand picked rose was in one hand, my keys, phone, purse, and little blue pine tree berries in another.
About the time I closed my car door with my hip, the sound reached me. I closed my eyes and listened as I heard someone up the street play the guitar with a gentle touch to a soft melody. Somewhere in the distance, a kid called for his mom to read him a bedtime story. The birds sang the day away. People went inside turning out their porch lights as they went. The man and the music played on in the most beautiful melody I’ve heard in such a painfully long time. It’s amazing, all the memories that can come from just a simple sound.
Daddy learned to play the guitar while I lived in Arkansas as a kid. I use to play with his guitar if ever he left it where I could reach it. I remember him playing "Home on the Range" so sweetly. I don’t think I really paid attention to the sounds of a guitar before he played for me. Ever since then, the sound has always brought back memories of my childhood, of my father playing guitar for his children.
A friend in Arkansas named Jeff tried to teach me to play guitar. Stevie RayVaughn blasted through my speakers for the first time when my roommate gave me a CD of his. I was dancing to the Guitar solo in "Freebird" by Lynard Skynard with Eric in Arkansas shortly after meeting my dear lifelong friend Robert. Another friend, Terry, played for me the first time I went to his house. The Guitar is a powerful instrument. It can take you back in time in mere seconds, transporting you to a world that no longer exists but in memories.
Terry – what an interesting character he was. Terry Ray Day was his name. When I first met Terry, he was the very most popular guy in school. He had one particular spot in the hallway where he always sat with his friends. He had long, rebellious red hair and vivid green eyes. When he stood up, he towered over me at about six foot four inches, and was still only in the 11th grade. Everyone in school knew who Terry was.
Even back in High School I loved to walk a lot. There wasn’t a while lot other than art that could keep me in my seat. At lunch I would roam the halls, usually alone since I didn’t have many friends. One day I wandered into Terry’s neighborhood. I felt really self-concious as I walked in front this popular guy and all of his friends. I felt the eyes of his friends looking me over and judging me, as was usual for me in those days. I was a social outcast in most circles, and this one wasn’t an exception. Some of them would laugh and joke to themselves and eachother.
"Hey look, it’s Nerd Girl."
"Shut up," Terry spoke over them. Shocked, I looked straight down at my feet, awaiting the verbal assault that was sure to follow, aimed at me. He was the coolest kid in school – surely he would want to out do the guys who worshiped him. I walked faster.
"Dude, she’s a nerd. We all call her Nerd Girl in Chemistry."
"Shut up," Terry repeated. "What’s your name," he asked me.
"Amanda," I replied without looking up.
"Well, Amanda, why don’t you come over here and sit with us a while. You know, kinda prove these idiots wrong," he thumbed at his posse of assorted jackasses. A few of them looked like they really didn’t like the idea of Nerd Girl sitting there, while others looked like vultures about to swoop in for the finish. All Terry had to do was give the guys an odd look, and they wiped the looks off their faces and cleared a spot for me to sit next to Terry.
I wound my way through the small crowd and had a seat, turning brighter red as I went. I didn’t know what I thought I was doing – the most unpopular girl in school was sitting with the very most popular guy? There were certain protocols that were to be followed. I was ignoring all of them. It was well known that Terry didn’t have a girlfriend, and hand’t had one in over a year. When asked why, he just responded that he hand’t found a girl that could hold his interest for long enough.
Terry began asking me questions. At first I was very quiet with my answers, terrified of what the general reaction of the crowd around us would be. I felt like I was being interrogated at first. Slowly I came to realize he was genuinely interested, and finally, I forgot the crowd completely.
"Where are you from?"
"Everywhere," I blushed.
"Where were you born?"
"Germany," I blushed harder.
"You’re German?"
"No," I hung my head.
"No? Why were you born there?"
"My Dad was in the military."
"Really? Cool! Where all have you lived then?"
As I rattled off the places I had been, the crowd faded out of my mind, though to them I was suddenly the center of attention. Terry asked me what each place was like, since most of the group had never been out side of the Utah borders. Everyone leaned in close when I started talking about California. Pretty soon everyone was asking me questions, and I was no longer Nerd Girl to them. Suddenly I was almost cool.
"Was it hot?"
"Did it ever snow?"
"How long were you there?"
"Ever go to Hollywood?"
"What’s L.A. like?"
"Have you been to Disney Land?"
"Ever seen any famous people?"
"Were you ever on T.V?"
The bell suddenly rang and we all went our separate ways to class, but a new aire surrounded me in the halls at school the rest of the day. People whispered, but didn’t giggle anymore. Something had happened.
"That’s the girl Terry Day wanted to sit with him," I overheard once and smiled to myself. "She lived in California," I heard another say. "I bet she knows a movie star."
"Amanda," Terry called out when he saw me the next day, "we saved you a spot." Sure enough, he didn’t have to give any funny looks. Everyone cleared a path to a spot right next to Terry, who had saved it specifically hoping I would show up. I waded through the crowd, for once being able to smile at the faces there, that welcoming sea of their anticipation smiling back. After all, I still had questions to answer. Mom taught me that making people wait was rude.
I went back to the group every day at lunchtime for a long time after that. People didn’t laugh at me in the halls anymore, I didn’t get spit balls in my hair in class anymore. I even started to care about my clothes and the style of my hair a bit more too. After a few weeks, Terry reached out and held my hand one day. A few glances were all we got. That day Terry walked me to class and kissed me before I went in. There was another shift in whispers, and people didn’t mind sitting next to me, or even having to work with me on projects after that.
One day, Terry invited me to his house after school. He was the first really genuine person I had known for some time, and I trusted Terry. It was not misplaced. That afternoon, after sitting on his porch swing and eating ice creams while staring down the view at Riverdale’s main road, he pulled out his guitar and played a while.
Terry played what was popular at the time; a Metalica song, Megadeath, ACDC, and others. He completely surprised me when he began playing a Classical piece I knew. It was beautiful! He played one after another, some I had never heard before. I loved it! It suddenly dawned on me… long hair, rebellious look, and classical music? He was once an outcast, just like me.
It wasn’t too much longer after that the world and life forced us into opposite directions, but Terry Ray Day made a lasting impact on my life with words and music that I’m certainly not soon to forget. I stood outside that night, listening to the guitar with my eyes closed, hearing Terry’s heart tell me that someone out there understood me. After such a horrible week, after feeling like I would never be OK again, I was miraculously reminded by the wilting rose, the four pine berries, and anonymous guitar music, that I wasn’t alone after all.
That was the last night I ever walked back through the door of that home I hated to the people I couldn’t stand.
I broke free the next day... but that's another story all together.
About the time I closed my car door with my hip, the sound reached me. I closed my eyes and listened as I heard someone up the street play the guitar with a gentle touch to a soft melody. Somewhere in the distance, a kid called for his mom to read him a bedtime story. The birds sang the day away. People went inside turning out their porch lights as they went. The man and the music played on in the most beautiful melody I’ve heard in such a painfully long time. It’s amazing, all the memories that can come from just a simple sound.
Daddy learned to play the guitar while I lived in Arkansas as a kid. I use to play with his guitar if ever he left it where I could reach it. I remember him playing "Home on the Range" so sweetly. I don’t think I really paid attention to the sounds of a guitar before he played for me. Ever since then, the sound has always brought back memories of my childhood, of my father playing guitar for his children.
A friend in Arkansas named Jeff tried to teach me to play guitar. Stevie RayVaughn blasted through my speakers for the first time when my roommate gave me a CD of his. I was dancing to the Guitar solo in "Freebird" by Lynard Skynard with Eric in Arkansas shortly after meeting my dear lifelong friend Robert. Another friend, Terry, played for me the first time I went to his house. The Guitar is a powerful instrument. It can take you back in time in mere seconds, transporting you to a world that no longer exists but in memories.
Terry – what an interesting character he was. Terry Ray Day was his name. When I first met Terry, he was the very most popular guy in school. He had one particular spot in the hallway where he always sat with his friends. He had long, rebellious red hair and vivid green eyes. When he stood up, he towered over me at about six foot four inches, and was still only in the 11th grade. Everyone in school knew who Terry was.
Even back in High School I loved to walk a lot. There wasn’t a while lot other than art that could keep me in my seat. At lunch I would roam the halls, usually alone since I didn’t have many friends. One day I wandered into Terry’s neighborhood. I felt really self-concious as I walked in front this popular guy and all of his friends. I felt the eyes of his friends looking me over and judging me, as was usual for me in those days. I was a social outcast in most circles, and this one wasn’t an exception. Some of them would laugh and joke to themselves and eachother.
"Hey look, it’s Nerd Girl."
"Shut up," Terry spoke over them. Shocked, I looked straight down at my feet, awaiting the verbal assault that was sure to follow, aimed at me. He was the coolest kid in school – surely he would want to out do the guys who worshiped him. I walked faster.
"Dude, she’s a nerd. We all call her Nerd Girl in Chemistry."
"Shut up," Terry repeated. "What’s your name," he asked me.
"Amanda," I replied without looking up.
"Well, Amanda, why don’t you come over here and sit with us a while. You know, kinda prove these idiots wrong," he thumbed at his posse of assorted jackasses. A few of them looked like they really didn’t like the idea of Nerd Girl sitting there, while others looked like vultures about to swoop in for the finish. All Terry had to do was give the guys an odd look, and they wiped the looks off their faces and cleared a spot for me to sit next to Terry.
I wound my way through the small crowd and had a seat, turning brighter red as I went. I didn’t know what I thought I was doing – the most unpopular girl in school was sitting with the very most popular guy? There were certain protocols that were to be followed. I was ignoring all of them. It was well known that Terry didn’t have a girlfriend, and hand’t had one in over a year. When asked why, he just responded that he hand’t found a girl that could hold his interest for long enough.
Terry began asking me questions. At first I was very quiet with my answers, terrified of what the general reaction of the crowd around us would be. I felt like I was being interrogated at first. Slowly I came to realize he was genuinely interested, and finally, I forgot the crowd completely.
"Where are you from?"
"Everywhere," I blushed.
"Where were you born?"
"Germany," I blushed harder.
"You’re German?"
"No," I hung my head.
"No? Why were you born there?"
"My Dad was in the military."
"Really? Cool! Where all have you lived then?"
As I rattled off the places I had been, the crowd faded out of my mind, though to them I was suddenly the center of attention. Terry asked me what each place was like, since most of the group had never been out side of the Utah borders. Everyone leaned in close when I started talking about California. Pretty soon everyone was asking me questions, and I was no longer Nerd Girl to them. Suddenly I was almost cool.
"Was it hot?"
"Did it ever snow?"
"How long were you there?"
"Ever go to Hollywood?"
"What’s L.A. like?"
"Have you been to Disney Land?"
"Ever seen any famous people?"
"Were you ever on T.V?"
The bell suddenly rang and we all went our separate ways to class, but a new aire surrounded me in the halls at school the rest of the day. People whispered, but didn’t giggle anymore. Something had happened.
"That’s the girl Terry Day wanted to sit with him," I overheard once and smiled to myself. "She lived in California," I heard another say. "I bet she knows a movie star."
"Amanda," Terry called out when he saw me the next day, "we saved you a spot." Sure enough, he didn’t have to give any funny looks. Everyone cleared a path to a spot right next to Terry, who had saved it specifically hoping I would show up. I waded through the crowd, for once being able to smile at the faces there, that welcoming sea of their anticipation smiling back. After all, I still had questions to answer. Mom taught me that making people wait was rude.
I went back to the group every day at lunchtime for a long time after that. People didn’t laugh at me in the halls anymore, I didn’t get spit balls in my hair in class anymore. I even started to care about my clothes and the style of my hair a bit more too. After a few weeks, Terry reached out and held my hand one day. A few glances were all we got. That day Terry walked me to class and kissed me before I went in. There was another shift in whispers, and people didn’t mind sitting next to me, or even having to work with me on projects after that.
One day, Terry invited me to his house after school. He was the first really genuine person I had known for some time, and I trusted Terry. It was not misplaced. That afternoon, after sitting on his porch swing and eating ice creams while staring down the view at Riverdale’s main road, he pulled out his guitar and played a while.
Terry played what was popular at the time; a Metalica song, Megadeath, ACDC, and others. He completely surprised me when he began playing a Classical piece I knew. It was beautiful! He played one after another, some I had never heard before. I loved it! It suddenly dawned on me… long hair, rebellious look, and classical music? He was once an outcast, just like me.
It wasn’t too much longer after that the world and life forced us into opposite directions, but Terry Ray Day made a lasting impact on my life with words and music that I’m certainly not soon to forget. I stood outside that night, listening to the guitar with my eyes closed, hearing Terry’s heart tell me that someone out there understood me. After such a horrible week, after feeling like I would never be OK again, I was miraculously reminded by the wilting rose, the four pine berries, and anonymous guitar music, that I wasn’t alone after all.
That was the last night I ever walked back through the door of that home I hated to the people I couldn’t stand.
I broke free the next day... but that's another story all together.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Haunting Blue Eyes
Originally posted to Myspace Feb 23, 2004
The first time he came to visit me was in a dream when I was only around 7. I had met a boy at school I developed a crush on. For a long time that boy wouldn't pay any attention to me. Finally one day he smiled at me. We started to talk, and eventually, Travis decided he liked me back. The day he admitted to it, I was floating on cloud 9. I was a homely child - it was the first time a boy I had liked actually felt the same way back.
That night I went to sleep, peaceful and happy. The dream that followed haunted me for many years.
I was standing with a flag in my hand. It was a black and white racing checkered flag. Far off, in the distance, stood two people. One was Travis, the boy I liked. The other was a complete stranger. Somewhere in the distance, a shot rang out and the two of them suddenly bolted. They were close for a while, Travis gaining at one point, the stranger at another. As I watched, they made a great arc across the ground, and came running at the white line I found myself standing over. Travis sped up and looked like he was about to win when the stranger suddenly picked up speed and beat Travis by a foot fall.
The stranger walked calmly up to me as though he had not just run a challenging race. His black hair was long and some of it was hanging around his eyes. Still, through the midnight color framing his face, I could see his stunning blue eyes. He reached in, looked me in the face, and opened his mouth to say something. That was when I woke up sitting straight up in bed. It was too late, though. I couldn't see Travis in the same light after that. I started to look into the faces of strangers for the blue eyes that haunted me.
For months I had that dream every time I fell asleep. He never got to say anything because I always woke up. Eventually the dream stopped comming all the time, and started to only come whenever I started to date someone new. Those blue eyes would always come back to haunt me after the first date. It was the new guy in my life and him, always in a race, and he was always the winner.
The dream finally stopped comming all together when I hit about 18. That was 6 years ago now, and for a while I actually tried to have the dream. I tried to think about it as I fell asleep. The dream wouldn't come.
Until 2 nights ago.
It wasn't the same dream, but it was close.
At the end of the dream, the man I had fallen in love with was sitting in a chair, getting ready to leave. His blue eyesstared straight ahead, his black hair framing his face. He had a 2 day growth on his face, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful.
"I tried to leave you once," he said. "I coudn't stay away. Please, you must find me. I'm here, just waiting for you."
Once more I woke up.
Those eyes have haunted me ever since - both sleeping and awake. I cant seem to get them out of my mind. I search in the face of strangers once more as I did when I was a kid, looking for the blue eyes that are waiting for me - always reaching for me.
The first time he came to visit me was in a dream when I was only around 7. I had met a boy at school I developed a crush on. For a long time that boy wouldn't pay any attention to me. Finally one day he smiled at me. We started to talk, and eventually, Travis decided he liked me back. The day he admitted to it, I was floating on cloud 9. I was a homely child - it was the first time a boy I had liked actually felt the same way back.
That night I went to sleep, peaceful and happy. The dream that followed haunted me for many years.
I was standing with a flag in my hand. It was a black and white racing checkered flag. Far off, in the distance, stood two people. One was Travis, the boy I liked. The other was a complete stranger. Somewhere in the distance, a shot rang out and the two of them suddenly bolted. They were close for a while, Travis gaining at one point, the stranger at another. As I watched, they made a great arc across the ground, and came running at the white line I found myself standing over. Travis sped up and looked like he was about to win when the stranger suddenly picked up speed and beat Travis by a foot fall.
The stranger walked calmly up to me as though he had not just run a challenging race. His black hair was long and some of it was hanging around his eyes. Still, through the midnight color framing his face, I could see his stunning blue eyes. He reached in, looked me in the face, and opened his mouth to say something. That was when I woke up sitting straight up in bed. It was too late, though. I couldn't see Travis in the same light after that. I started to look into the faces of strangers for the blue eyes that haunted me.
For months I had that dream every time I fell asleep. He never got to say anything because I always woke up. Eventually the dream stopped comming all the time, and started to only come whenever I started to date someone new. Those blue eyes would always come back to haunt me after the first date. It was the new guy in my life and him, always in a race, and he was always the winner.
The dream finally stopped comming all together when I hit about 18. That was 6 years ago now, and for a while I actually tried to have the dream. I tried to think about it as I fell asleep. The dream wouldn't come.
Until 2 nights ago.
It wasn't the same dream, but it was close.
At the end of the dream, the man I had fallen in love with was sitting in a chair, getting ready to leave. His blue eyesstared straight ahead, his black hair framing his face. He had a 2 day growth on his face, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful.
"I tried to leave you once," he said. "I coudn't stay away. Please, you must find me. I'm here, just waiting for you."
Once more I woke up.
Those eyes have haunted me ever since - both sleeping and awake. I cant seem to get them out of my mind. I search in the face of strangers once more as I did when I was a kid, looking for the blue eyes that are waiting for me - always reaching for me.
Perhaps I'm too much of a romantic - and perhaps not.
Part of me wonders if the man from my dream actually exists. I've heard people express themselves by saying "He was the man of my dreams," but in all reality, how many were of true dreams rather than an idea they had in mind? I venture to guess not many.
Part of me wonders if the man from my dream actually exists. I've heard people express themselves by saying "He was the man of my dreams," but in all reality, how many were of true dreams rather than an idea they had in mind? I venture to guess not many.Monday, May 10, 2010
Soaring Hopes
I have a fear of commitment.
That sounds like quite an odd statement for someone who has been married, but keep in mind I've been married twice and divorced twice.
(Photo taken in 2002
on Catalina Island)
I've finally committed to something; several things in fact.
I committed myself to taking care of my cat. That should be obvious by my other posts.
I'm committed to taking care of myself. Odd statement, yes - but it's not something I've always been committed to.
I'm committed to my job and my boss. Where would I be without them? I certainly wouldn't be able to take care of myself!
But I'm also committed to you, my readers. I'm writing EVERY DAY because I know you're there, you're listening and you're reading. I'm committed to sharing with you for as long as I have stories to share.
I stumbled across some blogger by the name of Pioneer Woman earlier this morning. While it seems the rest of the world had already discovered this amazing person, aparently I'm a little late to the game.
It all started when I discovered a comment on my latest blog signed "PW". Try as I might, I couldn't come up with anyone I knew who had the innitials of PW. My friend Vicki asked if there was a possibility that it was this infamous blogger, one of the most successful bloggers of our time. Since I didn't know the person at all, I decided that there was no way it could have been them. Whomever left the comment with the innitials PW was someone I had known well enough to tell a shortened version of my Kidnap story to - and there aren't many of those. Still, I had stumbled onto an amazing blog and spent hours reading various things.
Pioneer Woman blogs about daily life, her kids, and living out in the country. They heard cattle, have many horses, and the King of the Ranch is a bassett hound named Charlie. Pioneer Woman blogs about recipes, home schooling, trips and vacations, photography and Home and Garden. She has give-aways, sponsors and contests. But she also has a wonderful love story that completely swept me away for hours on end. I'm still not done reading it. She has the "Happy Ending" we all search for and deserve.
This remarkable woman has boosted my hopes about as much as seeing how many of you are DAILY readers of my blogs these days. My hopes are soaring high, knowing that each time I tell a story, there's someone, somewhere out there who wants to be an audience. Maybe I don't have as many people reading my stories as the Pioneer Woman does, but with hope and continued commitment, we can get there.
Thanks, to everyone, for your comments and support.
That sounds like quite an odd statement for someone who has been married, but keep in mind I've been married twice and divorced twice.
(Photo taken in 2002
on Catalina Island)
I've finally committed to something; several things in fact.
I committed myself to taking care of my cat. That should be obvious by my other posts.
I'm committed to taking care of myself. Odd statement, yes - but it's not something I've always been committed to.
I'm committed to my job and my boss. Where would I be without them? I certainly wouldn't be able to take care of myself!
But I'm also committed to you, my readers. I'm writing EVERY DAY because I know you're there, you're listening and you're reading. I'm committed to sharing with you for as long as I have stories to share.
I stumbled across some blogger by the name of Pioneer Woman earlier this morning. While it seems the rest of the world had already discovered this amazing person, aparently I'm a little late to the game.
It all started when I discovered a comment on my latest blog signed "PW". Try as I might, I couldn't come up with anyone I knew who had the innitials of PW. My friend Vicki asked if there was a possibility that it was this infamous blogger, one of the most successful bloggers of our time. Since I didn't know the person at all, I decided that there was no way it could have been them. Whomever left the comment with the innitials PW was someone I had known well enough to tell a shortened version of my Kidnap story to - and there aren't many of those. Still, I had stumbled onto an amazing blog and spent hours reading various things.
Pioneer Woman blogs about daily life, her kids, and living out in the country. They heard cattle, have many horses, and the King of the Ranch is a bassett hound named Charlie. Pioneer Woman blogs about recipes, home schooling, trips and vacations, photography and Home and Garden. She has give-aways, sponsors and contests. But she also has a wonderful love story that completely swept me away for hours on end. I'm still not done reading it. She has the "Happy Ending" we all search for and deserve.This remarkable woman has boosted my hopes about as much as seeing how many of you are DAILY readers of my blogs these days. My hopes are soaring high, knowing that each time I tell a story, there's someone, somewhere out there who wants to be an audience. Maybe I don't have as many people reading my stories as the Pioneer Woman does, but with hope and continued commitment, we can get there.
Thanks, to everyone, for your comments and support.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Oliver's Twisted Tale
The day Oliver was born I was giving my coworker a ride home. Louisa got the call from her boyfriend when we were about half there. Selena, their cat, was having here second batch of kittens. My foot found a little lead somewhere in the depths. I hadn't seen a live birth since I worked at the horse farm and helped in the birthing of a beautiful black foal with white stockings. I couldn't wait to see the brand new kittens.
Selena had four kittens beside her when we walked in. By all
accounts, we thought she was done having them. Then, her stomach ceased and we knew there was another on the way. The four beside her were all black and white kittens, beautiful and innocent. When the fifth kitten was born, I saw that beautiful orange head and knew instantly that this was MY cat, come Hell or high water. There he was, just beautiful. It was love at first sight. We didn't know until later that he was the only boy in the litter.
"Louisa," I asked, "where is the father?"
"That's a long story." I waited patiently, wanting to hear the story, long or not. "Selena had kittens before. We couldn't find homes for any of them, and they were already 9 months old when we took them to the pound. Selena was pregnant again by that time, but she hadn't been outside at all. We think Troublewas the one who got her pregnant. But the father of Trouble is probably some stray outside. We aren't sure. She got out one day and when she got back she was pregnant."
"Her own kitten got her pregnant? These cats are inbred?"
"I'm afraid so," she admitted. "Does that make you change your mind?"
"No," I smiled. "You know you can't take it back when you've already named the pet."
"You already named him?"
"Yeah... Oliver, from the cat in the Disney movie 'Oliver and Company'. What do you think?"
"It's cute! I can call him the Oli-nator!"
By the time I picked up Oliver 5 weeks later, she had also been calling him Olie Olie Oxen Free. I wasn't wild about either nickname. I knew the second he was born that I wanted to call him my Ollie cat, born of a pet and an Alley cat. Ollie could be short for Oliver or Olivia. As with all pets though, he eventually decided on his own nickname.
His nickname turned out to be none other than "Cat", nicknamed for the orange cat in the film "Breakfast at Tiffany's". He also ended up with the nickname "Boo Boo" due to his confusing family history.
Days and weeks went by. He kept us so entertained! I was in a struggling relationship at the time where I didn't feel I was getting the love or affection I needed. Oliver somehow managed to fill that void. I took tons of pictures of him in those first few weeks. I couldn't help it, I had fallen completely in love with this little bundle of joy. He was my pride and joy when I had little else to look forward to.
At six months old, we had him neutered and declawed. The poor little guy had the hardest time with two casts, several stitches and a cone on his head. The first day he came home, he fell asleep on my stomach and didn't move for the rest of the day and all of the night. Occasionally I would have to check on him to make sure he was still breathing.
When Pete and I split up, it was only a couple of weeks after he turned a year old. I bundled my poor little guy up in my fathers truck, and we drove 800 miles from Los Angeles to northern Utah, and with a little protesting in the first few hours, he finally calmed down and slept the rest of the trip. His bed sat on the center console between my father and myself. When he got restless, he would just climb into one of our laps and watch out the window.
Two months later when I decided it was time to go home to California, the bed wouldn't hold him any longer. Driving a stick shift car back down over 800 miles, my lovely little redheaded cat sat only in my lap. Half way down when I was robbed of my uhaul and everything I ever owned, my little Boo Boo was safe and sound in my arms. Even that was pure luck. The hotel wouldn't let cats inside, so I smuggled him in hiding in a duffle bag. I was never so glad at having broken rules before that moment I discovered my uhaul was gone and my Ollie was sitting safe and warm in my arms.
He's been with me through many trials and much turbulence, and yet he's held fast to me. He's managed to move 4 times in a year, survived more than 1,400 miles on the road , and learned just recently how to climb a very thin ladder with no front claws on his feet. He's developed some rather odd habits, including the habit of fuzzing out his tail like a pipe cleaner whenever someone points at him. He doesn't go crazy like some other cat's I've known if you hold him on his back, and in fact he seems to enjoy it. He takes baths, including sometimes I'm not aware of if I don't watch him closely. He would climb into the bath as soon as I got out sometimes and really frighten me half to death. He can't swim!
He's all I have for a reminder of a previous life. Sometimes he's frustrating and I don't know exactly what to do with him, but then there are times when all he has to do is nuzzle me with his little orange and white cheek, and my heart melts.
I've never been much of a cat person. I've had dogs all my youth. I wasn't sure what to do with a cat. I don't know if it's his inbreeding that's made him so unique or the fact that I raised him like I would a dog, but everyone who meets him tells me that he's incredibly unique. I'm still not wild about cats, but my little guy isn't really a cat at all. He's a half breed monkey boy and dog mix. He's part cowardly lion and part brainy scarecrow. He's my pathway home, he's my reminder of where I come from, and he's the reason I keep fighting to make a better life for us.
He needs me... and likewise, I need him.
He's my much needed source of unconditional love.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
LA Weather Report
As with all things in life, there are drawbacks and positives to warm and cold weather. I prefer to see things in a positive light, however.
Yesterday the weather was perfect - sunny and warm, I drove home at 5pm with the top down on my bright red 1995 Honda Del Sol. The slight breeze in my hair, the wind on my face, I felt warm and comfortable in short sleeves. Here it is March, when the rest of the world is huddling close to their fireplaces to keep warm, and I'm driving home with the top down.
On the days like yesterday I know there is no possibility of going to bed early, though I also knew that was exactly what I needed. I had been up far too late the night before, knowing full well that I had to wake up at 6am to go to work. Going on about 3 hours of sleep, having the top down on my drive home was merely a trick to keep myself awake for the hour drive. Even that failed to work in the end. I nearly fell asleep as I pulled into my own street.
I have only one window in my tiny, upstairs apartment. Nothing separates my bed in the loft from the hot roof of the building but about 2 inches of painted white wood and 2 feet of air. When I climb up into the loft, I have to sit on the edge of the bed and roll onto it's soft surface. I have to be careful not to sit bolt upright in the middle of the night for fear of knocking myself unconscious with a support beam across the ceiling. So, on the very warm days such as yesterday was, I could easily gauge the temperature in my bedroom as being up near 100 degrees, while downstairs was much nearer to 78.
This morning the weather report was something else entirely. People here in Southern California are bundled up in sweaters and coats. They are cranking up the heaters in their cars with the remote buttons as they watch the wind tousle the trees from the safety of their warm homes. I've come to the conclusion that Californians are a spoiled people. While they "suffer" at 58 degrees this morning with a slight marine mist blowing in from the clear ocean views surrounding us, the people in a small town between Glasgow and Edinburgh are freezing away, watching the snow as they walk to the grocery store.
It's a crisp, breath taking 37 degrees over there right now. People are huddled up with their families in front of those fireplaces. The girls are learning to braid by practicing on one anothers hair and positioning flowers here and there amongst the strands. The small boy is sitting in his room reading a good book, warm and safe under the covers his mother so carefully flattened over his bed when he left for school this morning. His father, a big man known the town over as John, wanders into his son's room and speaks to him in a lyrical tune of a voice most Americans wouldn't understand. Then, he picks his boy up, tosses him over his shoulder, and carries him down to the dinner table. The boy giggles the entire way. His sister squeals when she sees the sport and begs to join in, beating her Daddy on the arm as any protective big sister would. The children take their father to the ground, giggling and squealing the whole way. He plays with them like a big Labrador retriever as his lovely flaxen haired bride watches on from the kitchen doorway, smiling to herself.
"Now John, you be easy on them," she says from the doorway.
"Now Louise," he scolds "If you'd like to stick up for them, you can't very well do it from there, can you?!" He grins a wide, mischievous smile at her, and she knows that if she doesn't disappear around the doorway, she would be next! Just as she ducks around the side, he jumps to his feet and begins chasing her through the house, threatening to tickle her until she pees her pants. She squeals louder than her children and heads straight for the stairs, swinging wildly behind her as she goes, hoping to make contact with his head or chest as he snarls.
I remember with fondness, those days I would play on the floor with my own father as my Mom would scold him from the kitchen for playing too rough with us. Dad didn't do it very often, but sometimes he would chase Mom round and round from the kitchen to the living room. Finally they would end up in a balled pile on top of the couch. They would kiss and my brother and I would both "Eww" ourselves out of the room.
What I wouldn't give to have that waiting for me when I went home tonight. I hate being tickled, but I would gladly give up the freedom of NOT being tickled in order to have the man I love being the one chasing me in the first place. He'd catch me half way up the stairs, we would fall in a heap, and he would make me laugh until I hurt. Finally, he would gently kiss me. He'd look deep into my eyes, and me into his, and I would know that I finally had my happy ending. Then - the cat would bite me on the toe as he so often does, wanting to play along.
116 days.
Yesterday the weather was perfect - sunny and warm, I drove home at 5pm with the top down on my bright red 1995 Honda Del Sol. The slight breeze in my hair, the wind on my face, I felt warm and comfortable in short sleeves. Here it is March, when the rest of the world is huddling close to their fireplaces to keep warm, and I'm driving home with the top down.
On the days like yesterday I know there is no possibility of going to bed early, though I also knew that was exactly what I needed. I had been up far too late the night before, knowing full well that I had to wake up at 6am to go to work. Going on about 3 hours of sleep, having the top down on my drive home was merely a trick to keep myself awake for the hour drive. Even that failed to work in the end. I nearly fell asleep as I pulled into my own street.
I have only one window in my tiny, upstairs apartment. Nothing separates my bed in the loft from the hot roof of the building but about 2 inches of painted white wood and 2 feet of air. When I climb up into the loft, I have to sit on the edge of the bed and roll onto it's soft surface. I have to be careful not to sit bolt upright in the middle of the night for fear of knocking myself unconscious with a support beam across the ceiling. So, on the very warm days such as yesterday was, I could easily gauge the temperature in my bedroom as being up near 100 degrees, while downstairs was much nearer to 78.
This morning the weather report was something else entirely. People here in Southern California are bundled up in sweaters and coats. They are cranking up the heaters in their cars with the remote buttons as they watch the wind tousle the trees from the safety of their warm homes. I've come to the conclusion that Californians are a spoiled people. While they "suffer" at 58 degrees this morning with a slight marine mist blowing in from the clear ocean views surrounding us, the people in a small town between Glasgow and Edinburgh are freezing away, watching the snow as they walk to the grocery store.
It's a crisp, breath taking 37 degrees over there right now. People are huddled up with their families in front of those fireplaces. The girls are learning to braid by practicing on one anothers hair and positioning flowers here and there amongst the strands. The small boy is sitting in his room reading a good book, warm and safe under the covers his mother so carefully flattened over his bed when he left for school this morning. His father, a big man known the town over as John, wanders into his son's room and speaks to him in a lyrical tune of a voice most Americans wouldn't understand. Then, he picks his boy up, tosses him over his shoulder, and carries him down to the dinner table. The boy giggles the entire way. His sister squeals when she sees the sport and begs to join in, beating her Daddy on the arm as any protective big sister would. The children take their father to the ground, giggling and squealing the whole way. He plays with them like a big Labrador retriever as his lovely flaxen haired bride watches on from the kitchen doorway, smiling to herself.
"Now John, you be easy on them," she says from the doorway.
"Now Louise," he scolds "If you'd like to stick up for them, you can't very well do it from there, can you?!" He grins a wide, mischievous smile at her, and she knows that if she doesn't disappear around the doorway, she would be next! Just as she ducks around the side, he jumps to his feet and begins chasing her through the house, threatening to tickle her until she pees her pants. She squeals louder than her children and heads straight for the stairs, swinging wildly behind her as she goes, hoping to make contact with his head or chest as he snarls.
I remember with fondness, those days I would play on the floor with my own father as my Mom would scold him from the kitchen for playing too rough with us. Dad didn't do it very often, but sometimes he would chase Mom round and round from the kitchen to the living room. Finally they would end up in a balled pile on top of the couch. They would kiss and my brother and I would both "Eww" ourselves out of the room.
What I wouldn't give to have that waiting for me when I went home tonight. I hate being tickled, but I would gladly give up the freedom of NOT being tickled in order to have the man I love being the one chasing me in the first place. He'd catch me half way up the stairs, we would fall in a heap, and he would make me laugh until I hurt. Finally, he would gently kiss me. He'd look deep into my eyes, and me into his, and I would know that I finally had my happy ending. Then - the cat would bite me on the toe as he so often does, wanting to play along.
116 days.
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This blog has been removed. If you're interested in reading the original first hand account of the kidnapping, please check out th...
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The day Oliver was born I was giving my coworker a ride home. Louisa got the call from her boyfriend when we were about half there. Selena,... -
I wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide. I wanted to cry myself to sleep, but sleep had already eluded me for the last 7 hours I...