“Be still and know that I am God.”
“Be still and know that I am God.”
Well there’s no partying for me tonight, unless you count Jimmy and me shaking our shoulders to Dick Clark’s New Years Rockin’ Eve.
I have succumbed to the winter crud. I don’t know if it is the flu, pneumonia, some foreign undiscovered disease or the common cold, but it has snapped the ‘party’ right out of me.
It is winter and `tis the season so… Que sera sera. I [or we] have to stay positive and find something to look forward to.
So here is a little something out of Getting Me Back for the home-bound whether by choice or circumstance. (The rest of you pArTy oN!)
Winter in Texas
The first frost arrived this week
Spit forth from the infinite stars like a sneeze leaving sprinkles of sugary ice on the landscape.
The remaining blades and leafs gave way and withered at daybreak leaving nothing but the scattered evergreens to give us hope…
No blooms worthy of expectancy.
However there is hardly anything more beautiful than a berry laden Juniper dotted with Cardinals; the Christmas tree with all of her ornaments pales in comparison.
Oh Christmas, we have that to look forward to – with the Santa Claus fable, the forgotten Jesus and colorful lights draped over bare limbs and the cherished red-nosed reindeer standing pretentiously on brown turf.
And New Year’s Eve – ah, the kissing; corks and fireworks detonate in unison to commemorate the failed promises yet to come. We gorge on black-eyed peas and cabbage, not earnestly expecting anything more than flatulence.
Let us not forget Valentine’s Day – the heart shaped holiday; a cardboard cutout of romantic blossoms; proven love with sentimental cards and candy and flowers…
V-day — a cruel occasion for the lonely and broken hearted who would today be happy with
that so-so dinner date and obligatory sex.
The days are so short – yet so long.
Alas, a reason to utilize the fireplace – don’t forget to plant your potatoes.
Gaudy clumps of snow, bulky and shaped as if they had been intended for hail, tumble down like chopped feathers. The pansies are happy, their pastel petals rise and smirk beneath the thin white blanket of ice mocking the frost bitten flowers beside them.
Next week’s forecast is warm and dry. We will take it, we have no choice.
We will ride the weather-coaster, counting the birthdays of dead leaders and full moons and scattered days of sunny and seventy-five while we wait for the ides of March to come marching in.
My how time flies when you’re getting old.
Six years ago I shared A Pilgrim’s Prayer here.
Hmm, I didn’t realize this blog was that old.
I have shared this bit of prose in one form or another for … Oh crap I forget, decades maybe?
Occasionally I vary the wording but the sentiment is always the same, and well, it is that time of year so here we go again…
BTW Thanksgiving & John Wayne (A Pilgrim’s Prayer) is also in Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)
Once upon a time a long, a long time ago (before Black Friday) Thanksgiving was a celebration of harvest and a time to give thanks. Hence the name thanksgiving.
I don’t think the early pilgrims had a Super Walmart, a Sears or a Best Buy yet somehow they managed. Can you imagine having to grow your own food and prepare it without the help of google? When did they have time? Where did they get their Stove Top stuffing and who plucked the turkeys? How did those crazy pilgrims do it?
I didn’t really know any of those pilgrims but I did see a John Wayne movie once. John knew a pilgrim when he saw one. He seemed to know a lot of pilgrims but that was a long time ago too.
I propose we are all pilgrims, each one of us on a journey of sorts. Our own personal pilgrimage…
Aren’t we are all looking for something? Be it a quest for self-confirmation, truth, a cure, enrichment, comfort, a friend, a lover, a job, a meal or a place to lay our weary head at the end of another day.
I believe life is a journey, or at least it should be. It would be terrible to think we were just flailing through this experience; killing time on this giant floating gumball while waiting for the next Black Friday specials.
I believe we all have one destination though we travel different roads and I trust that we have choices.
Hopefully we will choose well. On the occasion we do take a wrong turn [and we will from time to time] I pray we have enough sense and humility to stop and seek direction… to reassess our route and to be considerate in our voyage.
So here’s wishing all of you pilgrims a Happy, Happy Thanksgiving from the Hill house and may we all, whatever road we’re on, take time to look ahead, pause and bow our head in thanks.
My personal prayer:
I pray our good seeds of hope, humility, toil and courage produce abundantly; that love and kindness grow wild like the weeds of early spring – fruitful and undeterred. And may our harvest be rich with wisdom and discernment.
Thank you Father, The Creator of all things, for this day and all it holds. Thank you for the days past and Father forgive me for my wrong turns. Thank you for the day to come and guide me to make better choices. Thank you for all the pilgrims in my life – for those who’ve gone ahead and the ones that come behind and for those who read this prayer. And Thank You Father for the beacon that lights my way.
In Jesus name, Amen.
Being devilish does not always come easy because I am by nature a peace loving individual. Seriously! I really am.
But avenging evil …
That sh*t is second nature.
I think the settling of scores is what made writing Savannah Dawn so much fun; that and the fact that Savannah Dawn is an odd ball who seems to have one foot grounded here on earth and the other in some unseen realm and I can relate to that. Either way I take full responsibility, the devil did not make me do it.
Here is a little snippet leading up to that dish best served cold. Have a read while I polish my horns.
We saw Mama’s fella, Mr. Cartwright at the Piggly Wiggly the other day and I stared right at him. Under usual circumstances, we ain’t allowed to look at him much less speak but I looked him straight in the eyes. I nearly peed my pants when I saw they were the same gold-flecked eyeballs that made me have nightmares after Papa died. I called him an adulterating son of Satan and Mama grabbed me by the nape of my neck. Before he could put his jaw back in place she made a quick apology and dragged me to the car, saying the same sixteen words over and over, “I cannot believe you Savannah Dawn! I have never been so embarrassed in all my life!”
That wasn’t true. Mama had been plenty embarrassed before. Maybe if the whole town knew the truth about Grandma, how she laid out on the bathroom floor in a stinking mess… maybe my remark wouldn’t have been so humiliating.
Maybe if she knew what Mr. Cartwright had done she would be madder at him than she was at me – so I told her.
In the Storm (#NPM )
Firstly, my condolences to all those affected by Saturday’s hellish tornadoes. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Many of my fondest early memories [as well as imaginative ideas] were born in Houston county among the pine trees and red dirt, particularly a tiny community called Weches.
Some of you may know a few of my characters have roots in Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi – that is not happenstance. Those just happen to be a few of my favorite states.
Again, my heart goes out to those suffering loss and I hope you’ll forgive me for choosing this poem for today.
Confession: My afflictions are bitter-sweet.
I reach for you…
With every crack of thunder
I hear you laugh…
Your smile is every bolt of lightning.
The drops of rain, you touching me,
with unsalted tears…
No more pain; no more regret.
I raise my arms,
as a child beckoning to be held
and it pours.
My grief is washed away by
stinging pellets of a spring rain
Leaving behind a clean slate
with only memories of the most mundane,
most cherished moments of my life.
Credits: I created the heading image (Inside the Storm) from a compilation of images I found at Pixabay. (Thank you Pixabay contributors).
The poem, In the Storm was taken from this twisted book of poems. And… guess what?
For a limited time my partnering experiment with Smashwords lets the reader decide what they will pay. Yep! You decide.
I will file this under Tusdays Tell All as well as the Poetry category because “Notso Fearless” has taken a big step in finding her voice and telling her truth.
You told me once you sold your soul – in hopes that you would fly, you said angels wings were fairy tales and scripture? Lullabies.
The only trip we ever took was with a needle in our arm. I remember once – you shit yourself – after we had left the farm.
The farm that you grew up on where once you dreamed of fame – where mine was the only cherry picked – where once you knew my name.
In hindsight getting high was low – and I was as low as I could go. But not you, oh no.
When I finally kicked the habit you had no use for me. Turned out we had nothing in common, except the lunacy.
A million times I’d heard you sing and once I heard you cry. And once, just once, before they laid you to rest I thought I saw you fly.
Once by “Not so Fearless”
Illustrations from Pixabay
It is hard to believe Door Number Four was published over six years ago. Wow! That means I am six years older and [probably] none the wiser.
Four years ago this month Door Number Four was published in audio. Another wow! I could have earned a Bachelors degree in that 48 months or sailed around the world a few times.
I can’t accurately account for the years that have passed but I can tell you when I think of Door Number Four (or IIII) I am still proud of this quirky, surreal, sci-fi love story. It still intrigues me. And secretly I would love to see it in film.
I was digging in my archives for another project when I happened upon this narration sample of Door Number Four narrated by Christopher Lane.
I confess I still giggle a little when I listen to it.
Another truth, sometimes when I meander through the woods picking berries, soul-searching or conversing with the wild animals, I wonder what really became of Donald S. Crowley. And sometimes…
Sometimes I think I hear Tetra seductively calling to him. “Donald, come.”
As if your shoulder brushing
against my breast in a crowded room
meant anything to me…
As if your smile would thaw my frosty heart…
As if your constant assurance could overcome my cynicism…
As if the invisible boulevard would never rise up and beckon.
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The street lamp glows in the bleached mist only three floors below us.
I blow streams of smoke into the black night and hum to the drone of the unseen road.
Be steel my bleating heart!
Be quiet! Be silent, hard steel.
As if wearing your tee shirt made us lovers.