Tag Archives: life

Our Father’s Time

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Finding the world in the smallness of a grain of sand
And holding infinities in the palm of your hand
And Heaven’s realms in the seedlings of this tiny flower
And eternities in the space of a single hour
Gordon Sumner | Send Your Love

I think hard when I scoff at life’s demand
Can I comprehend all that He has planned?
Can you? Do you even dare to ask?
It’s mighty and daunting task
It’s beyond anything that man can understand
Finding the world in the smallness of a grain of sand 

For what’s a hundred years of a life spanned
When on the very edge of time You can stand
We mere mortal like Luna simply wax and wane
With only trite things called words to explain
All the power and glory that is Yours to command
And holding infinities in the palm of Your hand 

As I glimpse the fleeting rainbow after a shower
I’m reminded that He is the Ultimate Plower
For the seasons cater only to One whim
Over galaxies that are but gardens to Him
In the palm of His hand yes the Heavens tower
And Heaven’s realms in the seedlings of this tiny flower

Oh the magnificence of The Father – Our
Time immemorial is but a page for Him to scour
It’s long past when Mother Nature’s blue eyes close
And beyond a phase even Father Time knows
For infinity’s but an instant for Him to devour
And eternities in the space of a single hour

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Feeling some Gordon Sumner (a.k.a. Sting) lyrics  in  modified Glosa form.

dverse
dVerse ~Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight #169

Can You Feel It

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I was reminded of a word I’ve rarely seen in use, but have known for quite time now Duende.

At its most basic definition, duende is used to describe a mythical, sprite like entity that possesses humans and creates the feeling of awe of one’s surroundings in nature.

“Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe it. A flower is beautiful. But this is beautiful the way that a person is beautiful – terrifying with its jagged edges, yet seductive with its crevices that hide so many secrets.”

The author of the above spoke of the Grand Canyon. Suffice it to say that moment was duende in the traditional sense.

Like most such words duende’s meaning has evolved over time and now mostly refers to the mysterious power that a work of art has to deeply move a person.

The phrase “work of art” loosely infers painting and sculpture. I would like to expand that definition to also include the use of words – written, spoken or sung. Have even read a poem or a passage in a novel that gave you pause? Heard a song, lyrical or instrumental, that moved you deeply?

Duende.

To those of you who know, and like I cannot resist, the drum solo of Phil Collins “In the Air” that pull you feel in your core
— when you hear those opening notes?
— that make you stop everything and raise your imaginary drum sticks in anticipation?
— and even if it’s only in your mind, that pull you feel before you let loose…?

That’s Duende darlings, in its modern sense.

When you feel it to your core, when it makes you stop…

Stop to look, stop to hear, stop to touch, and if the work of art is food, stop to smell and taste it.  When it makes time, and you, stop – it’s duende.

So I task you with this today, that which moves you, natural or man-made – go find it. Spend a few moments to feel it to your core and just enjoy it.

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Day 30 – the next to the last day of this challenge – let’s see how my fellow slicers are faring through it….

sol
Slice of Life Writing Challenge Day 30 | Two Writing Teachers

Minus One

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Two children – a boy and a girl are born seven  months apart. Their respective mothers  were good friends and neighbors a few houses apart. The kids grew up through grade school together, racking each other up, ratting each other out in turns, as kids are wont to do. Forced together due to their parents, a friendship that was sometimes rebelled, sometimes rejoiced, slowly forged as times  goes by.  If they were not in each other’s company, the running joke throughout growing up was they were invariably asked “Aren’t you minus one?”

Daughter: Mama, how did Daddy propose?

Mother: I had started dating Robbie Matthews and when it looked like it might be getting serious it pissed your daddy right off.  How dare I start to fall in love with someone else because he was taking too long? So few days before he is set off to war he shows up for dinner. And as we always went back and forth between his mama’s house and ours we thought nothing of it. He says almost nothing to me the whole meal, a dozen people in the house, it was normal – thought nothing of it. When he, your grandfather and your uncles go off as Mama, Sissy and I clean up – again thought nothing of it. A spell later he walks into the kitchen as I’m drying dishes and tosses something shiny at me. While I scramble to catch it he says “Listen you, so you know I’m heading out on Tuesday. I just done asked your daddy, so put this dang ring on ’cause you know I’m minus one without you and if I ain’t coming back to you, I ain’t coming back. I’m not having it.”  He then turns on his heel and starts walking out the door.  

Daughter: Daddy!

Father: Please! She threw a spoon so hard at the back of my head I nearly tripped. The whole time yelling “And you better come back to me ’cause I’m not gonna be minus one either – you hear me you bastard? Come back to me – I’m not having it!”  In front of her own mama nonetheless! So I picked up the spoon and brought it back to her, got down on one knee, put the ring on her finger, got my kiss and walked out.

He heard her.

It took a few decades, but that same boy and girl build, and live, a long life through a war, a marriage, a house, children, a move from rural to city life, more children and then grand children together.  It wasn’t always easy as they tried and survived each vow, comfort – honor – richer –  poorer – sickness – health. Yet other than the years he served the navy, they were rarely more than a week apart from each other.

Then one morning the boy woke up.

And the girl didn’t.

They had known each other since babies. Nine decades in this world together and for the first time in his life he walked on an earth without her in it.

Two mornings later he joined her.

I was within earshot when his youngest daughter rhetorically asked how he could pass in his sleep two days after his wife. I had the answer:

“He was minus one without her. He wasn’t having it.”

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At the next to the last funeral this week, this was the story I told, more or less, before reading the official obituary.

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It’s Friday – it’s Good Friday – let’s see what’s slicing for this holy weekend…

sol
Slice of Life Writing Challenge Day 25 | Two Writing Teachers

Just Enough

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Because I over book myself on occasion and this is one of them, I know if I do not post now it will not happen and that will have to be just enough…

I pray you have just enough sun
        to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the  day  may appear.
I pray you have just enough rain
        to appreciate the  sun  even more.
I pray you have  just enough happiness
        to keep your spirit  alive and everlasting.
I pray you have  just enough pain
        so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear  bigger.
I pray you have  just enough gain
        to satisfy your  wanting.
I pray you have  just enough loss
        to appreciate  all  that  you possess.
I pray you have  just enough hellos
        to get  you  through  the final good-bye.
I pray you have  just enough of everything you need
        so you never know the feeling of having nothing.

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I pray you have more than enough of an enjoyable weekend!

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge Day 18 – Two Writing Teachers

Ewww

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With today being St. Patrick’s Day all seasoned New York evening commuters understand the shenanigans entailed with such. We smile and tolerate the over friendly, over inebriated, but otherwise harmless over-celebrants who cross out paths. Sometimes we may have to cuss out those who are not so friendly drunks. On occasion we may snap a picture of the drooling drunk out cold. We get it. I get it.  But no one deserved to get this…

Rush hour coming home on the subway. It’s a little more crowded than usual, and that is saying something, because it’s Saint Patrick’s Day and remnants of celebrants are loudly finding their way home. I am sharing what is typically considered a four person seat, with another woman and a guy who has chosen to sit akimbo, aka “manspreading” so the seat is only holding three people. The largest space is between the manspreader and I, still it is not a lot a space. Only a child or a someone really slim might be comfortable there.

As I am reading my book and listening to my iPod, I notice a shadow crosses my page. I look up and a man stands there, using hand gestures that he wants to sit. I am already up against the sidebar of the seat nearest the door; there is no place for me to move. I look at the space, I look at the manspreader, I look at this guy who clearly cannot fit in that spot, shrug and go back to my book. A moment later I am suddenly squeezed further into the sidebar, he reeked of alcohol and clearly needed the seat as the man has decided he is going to sit in that space, whether he can actually fit or not. Emphasis is fully on the or not in this case as the manspreader lets out an expletive and readjusts the angle of his spreading by some minuscule amount, but does not get up and neither do I. I do not know how the woman on the other side of the manspeader was faring, but this guy could not possibly have been comfortable so squashed in the space, with his arms overlaying ours, totally invading what little sense of personal space possible in such a setting. Knowing my commute, the odds were that I would be on the train long after he left, so I was all set to stand, well sit, my ground when Manspreader started yelling.

“Oh hell no! You have to get up off of me!” Manspreader exclaimed and pushed the guy’s arm off. I quickly looked at my arm. This guys was sweating so much, that in the less than two minutes in which he sat there, his sweat was dripping unto us.

Ewwwww! 

I had on a jacket so I didn’t feel anything, but I could see it. I pulled a tissue out of my bag and wiped my arm. Yup, there was sweat on the tissue and it was not mine. It was only slightly better than Manspreader who had a clear stain on his shirt sleeve that was going to dry there.

Ewww, gross! 

Okay, it is one thing when on the subway and your arm is raised grabbing a pole and everyone can see the sweat stains through your shirt. It’s not the prettiest thing, but it’s par the oft times odious course of mass transit in summer weather. Still there is an implicit code of keep your sweat to yourself. This guy clearly did not get the memo. Sweaty Guy glanced at Manspreader, his lips pressed together as if to keep from speaking, then he looked at me, his body did a sort of jerk move.  I don’t know why, but I stood.

“Don’t give up your seat to this sweating pig!  Why the hell would you squeeze your ass into a spot you know you can’t fit putting your dripping sweat, directly upon complete strangers?  That’s fucking disgusting!” Manspreader was pissed!  Sweaty guy would not respond and that just ticked Manspreader off more as he continued berating the man.

Now here’s a subway fact: I don’t care how packed as a sardine can a subway car may be, when someone starts yelling the way Manspreader was yelling out Sweaty Guy, it’s a Christmas Miracle how space suddenly opens up around you. I was now standing off to the side, more in front of Manspreader than Sweaty Guy, as the train pulled into a station with a sharp jerk.  I saw the Sweaty Guy’s face and knew.

Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Noooooo! 

Everything in my body said “MOVE!”  I grabbed Manspreader by the front of his shirt, yanking him out of his seat while trying to shove backwards through the understandably upset crowd.

And there he blows!

I suddenly had no trouble making space as Sweaty Guy started tossing a couple of factories’ worth of cookies. While I just barely saved Manspreader; regrettably the poor woman who had sat on the other side of Manspreader wasn’t so lucky. The momentum of my pulling Manspreader up caused the two of them to lean into each other’s directions. By the time registered what was happening, she could not move out of the way fast enough as he slide sideways on the seat into her.  She started screaming and those of us closest were backing away from the both of them. One would have thought a murder scene was commencing the way people reacted, running out of the line of fire.

Those by the door closest to Sweaty Guy started running off the train itself as the doors opened, plowing into those trying to get on. Some brave souls in the further corners of the subway car away from Sweaty Guy  were going to stick it out and stayed where they were. Other passengers entering the car, seeing, and smelling, the mess then immediately exiting added to the chaos. Were it not so foul, especially for Sweaty Guy, all that missing was the accompaniment of “Yakety Sax“.

The subway car had to empty out once it became evident Sweaty Guy had purged from everywhere possible.  I will spare you further details other than to say it was not pretty. Worse we were at a station without transfer points. That means nothing else was coming up that track  until Sweaty Guy was taken care of.  I’m still a good half hour away from home. What to do:

  • Do I go back downtown to transfer to a train on another line, which would likely add another hour?
  • Do I exit the train and take the bus uptown, which would likely add another hour?
  • Do I take a cab?
  • Do I wait it out?

The poor woman who caught Sweaty Guy’s cookies ran out of the station. Manspreader was standing at the door switching between berating Sweaty Guy or general bitching about the situation. Other passengers who were stuck were either debating their options or complaining about Sweaty Guy with each other or on their cell phones. Because that’s what people do when in such a situation.

Yes, it’s St. Paddy’s day and it’s all part and parcel  of being a mass transit commuter. Still, on any day grown people allowing themselves to get that drunk, and thus that sick, to then get on the sometimes slightly less jostling than bumper cars, that is a ride on a NYC subway is a recipe for disaster guaranteed to generate a less than stellar moment in one’s life and be the cause of the following notification email…

MTA - sick

n/b 2 and 3 trains are running with delays, due to a sick passenger at ——. Allow additional travel time.

…which I received while still standing on the platform waiting for Sweaty Guy to be attended.

Throughout this Sweaty Guy is lying on the floor in his own filth, dry heaving and sobbing.

Sobbing.

I actually felt a little sorry for him. But only just a little. As my cousin is wont to say “You brought this on yourself!”

Yeah, I’m done waiting – it’s taxi time.

End scene…

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sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge Day 17 – Two Writing Teachers

Verbal Diarrhea Diaries:I Said Duck!

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If you’ve read my About Raivenne page then you know of my proclivity to drop a salty word or two. If not let me say it in plain language, it’s my blog and every now and then I will fucking cuss if I feel like it.  That being said, if you have followed this blog for a while then you also know, I really don’t curse all that much. At least not here. Everyplace else however is a different story. Suffice it to say my auto-correct, whether on my computer, my tablet or my phone gets quite the work out in changing all the french I speak, which has nothing to do with the lovely language spoken in France.  (Why do we call that -cursing-  speaking french anyway?) Thus when a friend posted the following on Facebook I was highly amused:

duck it

 

My comment and true story:

Oh my autocorrect must have become annoyed at my always correcting its tendency to offer a more feathered suggestion when I am demanding a more carnal one. I swear the one time I was actually texting duck confit, it switched it to the cuss word in revenge.

I probably should make more of an effort to curtail the fowl language – then again, duck it.

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We are officially at the halfway point! Whoo-hooo! Let’s see how others are slicing through this Tuesday and 15th day of the challenge:

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Day 15 – Two Writing Teachers

 

Timing Is Everything – And It Sucks

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It was 7:30 am  when the sun’s warmth, a chirping bird, and yes, my bladder, wake me.  I rise and am actually shining and raring to go.  I told I was going to be productive today.

I promised myself today was indoor chore day.

You know the day. The today is the day I am finally going to <- fill in the boring-time-consuming-put off for too long – have no choice chore – here -> day. Today I have three of them to be done and I promised myself they will  be done today.

wecan

There’s only one sliiiight problem…

The weather was gorgeous today.  A beautiful early spring day here in New York City.The sun is out, the temperatures are wonderful. Of course it is.

yosemite-sam

Yes, I could probably leave this until tomorrow when it’s overcast and not as pretty, but I know me. Dreary days never make me want to do housework. Besides, it really has to be done today because I actually felt like doing it. Goodness only knows when I am going feel like being domestically productive like this again. (I think the last time was around Thanksgiving.) I told myself I could not leave t go to the store, because once I’m out the door that’s it, I’m not coming back to do anything. I even told myself I am not allowed to post today until at least two of those things were completed.

Not started.
Not partially done.
Completed.

The first one, the hardest one, was checked-off by 11:30am. Yes!

I look at my computer. Touch a key to wake it. The blank page awaiting a post stares at me. I almost sat down, but then I remembered it had to be two things. I had only done one.

swearing

And naturally there were the texts and calls with their oh so tempting invitations trying hard to lure from my appointed goals. One friend flat out laughed at me, but I held fast.

You know I mean business!

Alas, it is now after 5pm. The sun is on the other side of my home from when I started this morning. I have only minutes of daylight left.

Now you know when I put my mind to indoor chore day a) it’s serious and now that I sit here at last to post b) I’ve checked three items off the list!

Yeah you read that right. The thirds job was the easiest one. I decided to just buckle down and “git ‘er done.”

I now have the rest of the evening and all day tomorrow free. Go me!

goodjob

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Let’s see how productive my fellow slicers are this 12th day of the challenge!

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Day 12 – Two Writing Teachers

 

Telling Tales

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On the train this morning, I overhear a father reading “Little Red Riding Hood” to his daughter.  I admit I was happy to see a father reading to his child, especially on the train. Regrettably, it is still just enough of a rarity to be noted and appreciated when seen.  I was even impressed to see that it was a classic fairy tale and not something from Disney.  I smiled because it was a beautiful thing to see, but then it hit me.

This is where it starts.

Every little girl grows up with fairy tales. The classics of Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty. Not to mention the several other Disney princesses, added to the classic mix. We females are just shy of programmed from toddlerhood to yearn for romantic bliss before we even know what hell romantic bliss is. This is where little girls first start getting the notions of a handsome prince, on a white horse, who will sweep them off their feet and they will live happily ever after.

Right here.

We feed our children these fairy tales, especially our girl children, that covertly, or not so covertly, start to define roles. And then wonder why romantic expectations are not reality based when they are older. Yes, we have the princesses who have on their big girl panties, but they are still princesses or princess types that perhaps with the the exceptions of Merida of Brave and Elsa from Frozen, nearly all wind up with some prince (or princely substitute Flynn Rider – Tangled, Dimitri – Anastasia), rescuing them from -fill in the blank-  and who is going fall in love with them and to make sure nothing bad happens to her ever again. Because heaven forbid a Disney princess be responsible for her own happiness independent of a man.

How do we empower our young girls with tales of strong girls who are not or will not be princesses and that’s okay? How do we empower our boys with tales of strong girls who are not or will not be princesses and are not a threat to their strengths? There has to be tales out there that show realistic yet loving relationships long after the dragon/evil witch/bad guy is taken care of. Where are those stories?

I’m thinking I need start researching this and stocking up on them in case I ever have a grand-child.  Yes, I will read them fairy tales, but I am definitely throwing in some realistic tales in between.

Editing to Add:

Ask the universe and it will provide – this morning a good friend of mine posted the following link. Talk about serendipity! Now I know where to start my collection.

12 Empowering Children’s Books to Add to Little Girls Bookshelves

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Let’s see what tales are being told this Day 11 of the challenge:

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Day 11 – Two Writing Teachers

Aaarrrgggh!

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aarrgh

I missed posting yesterday. How did it happen? And so early in the challenge to boot? I woke up with the intent to post. I even had a couple of ideas on things to post. Then I was reminded yesterday was International Women’s Day.

Wait… what?  I knew it was Women’s History Month, but how did the day itself totally slip my radar?

Argh!

Now I wanted to write something for the day. I even found a great graphic to open with – so what happened? Oh, that thing called my job *queue echo chamber*. The errands I ran during lunch, that would have been my time to work on the challenge. The much needed snooze I took on the train ride home where I remembered I promised to drop by my sister and check her computer. Only to receive a text from my brother, who did something to his computer and needed my to check it. Yes, I’m the family  tech support – don’t ask.  I know the drill – I will have no peace until the issues are resolved. Just go get it done, Rai.

Aarrgh!

All done with everyone else I walk into my door and see the mounds of  laundry that had been put off for too long and were sorted last night before I went to bed waiting to be washed. This was ridiculous. I had to get at least one dang load done before anything else right? Right.  But wait, why do I have a headache – oh I’m hungry. Why am I hungry? I had a cup of soup for lunch before errands. That was only six-seven hours ago. Really Raivenne?  A. Cup. Of. Soup. Six-Seven. Hours. Ago.

Aarrggh!

My cousin picked a perfect time to call offering dinner. I had actually declined because I knew if I left the house nothing else was getting done.  Bless his heart he brought it to me. Yes! A load of laundry is in the machine, it’s not even 10pm, I will eat and I will get to writing – perfect.

I woke up after 2am.

Are you kidding me! My partially consumed dinner on the table in front of me, wet laundry still in the washing machine waiting to be hung.  Yet what was my first thought – “Dammit I didn’t post!”  Come on say it with me people…

Aarrgghh!

So today I post on how I did not post yesterday. I pick up my pen, turn it into pixels, cross fingers it does not happen again and keep on writing, but as for yesterday…

Wooden stamp with failed word

Aaarrrggghhh!

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Let’s see how others are getting through this Day 9 of the challenge:

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Day 9 – Two Writing Teachers

Being Present Is The Gift

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“Doing what we like is freedom, liking what we do is happiness”  as I hope most have noticed is the tag line of this blog. But it seems like I’ve been so busy chasing the funds to have the former, that there’s rarely any time left over to engage in the latter. And I know I’m not the only one.

We spend so much time getting ready to be happy and not enough actually being happy.

The poor are so busy trying to get money to be rich, because then they will be happy. The working poor, formerly known as the middle class, are so busy trying to keep and obtain more money to be happy.  The rich are so busy trying to to prove themselves worthy of having said money to be happy. Yet how many of them truly are?

Someone once asked the Dalai Lama, what surprised him most about humanity, he answered:

“Man. Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.”

The Dalai Lama is very astute in his statement. In the bombardment of information, society, culture and idealism, I sometimes feel we’re slowly become something so homogeneous by silent consensus that we tend to lose that spirit which makes the individual so special. We mute the individual spirit that dares to pursue anything than what the masses have decreed should make us happy, when the masses themselves continually change the definitions.

Another favorite quote of mine: All are born originals: most die as copies.

Too many of us see ourselves through the eyes of others. And those eyes are most likely only viewing what they have been told to look at. When everyone is looking at the same things is anyone really seeing anything?

Android has a series of commercials out with the closing tag line of be together, not the same.  I think that also works in finding your own sustained happiness.

Life can be this amazing place full of light, happiness and serenity. Or it can be a dark place, full of drama and fear. It’s life, it holds all of these possibilities, but it’s up to you to choose what’s possible for yourself. And you must choose this for yourself everyday, sometimes several times a day.

When it comes down to the basics of life, we must remind ourselves of a few things:

We are alive.
The world does not make us.
We build our own kingdoms of spirit.
We build our own hearts.

Life can be a beautiful thing right here, right now, in the present, we just have to take a moment and keep reminding ourselves that.

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It’s Monday, let’s see how others are slicing it it this Day 7 of the challenge:

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Day 7 – Two Writing Teachers