Always remember

There are times we are compelled to ride waves of emotion as they appear—whether we want to or not. Tonight is one of those times. I am as ready as I ever will be. I trust my doctor, the medical staff and my own body’s capability of healing. Yet there are these thoughts and feelings that accompany this process that I can’t just brush away. Actually, I am surprised by them since they seemed to have quietly surfaced when I wasn’t paying attention.

I have had some exciting moments in my life like learning how to ride my bike with no hands or making my first meal from scratch and having everything turn out not burned tasty or holding my nephew and niece as babies or making Dean’s list or co-authoring a book or meeting the Dalai Lama.

However, none have compared to the births of my two beautiful children. I can still remember what it felt like to have them kick inside my belly, the late night tangerine raids as cravings hit, looking at their little faces for the first time, the  nights cradling a sick baby and all of the precious time spent watching them emerge into the incredible people they are. I wouldn’t change a thing.

This is the end of an era of sorts. While I knew that 2 was the perfect number of children for me and I am no longer as young as I sometimes feel, there’s something about knowing that this is it—it’s done, over, kaput. Along with the knowing are twinges and hauntings that serve as flashbacks and we wonder, “Has that much time really passed?” “Are we really about halfway done with our lives?” “Can our kids really be teens?”

So we look to the future. I will still have the capacity to give birth—just in a different way. My muses still gaze at me from a close distance, swirling words and ideas and metaphors into my heart and carrying me along on their whimsical flight. I will feel the contractions once more and know the fiery love and intense passion that birthing brings, and I will remember, always remember.

Pledge My Playoff Beard–Please!

This is me with a beard and standing next to Bob. Sexy–I know. Why a beard–you ask? Well, for those of you non-NHL informed people, it’s the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Everyone grows a beard during playoffs–at least the cool people do. Why should you care? Because I’m sporting facial hair is to help raise money for children who need assistance AKA the Florida Panthers Foundation. Plus, I HATE the “c” word. In order for me to stay in the running, I need at least one daily vote. So please click this link and vote for me for free *shameless plus*! Come on, my favorite #9 is blowing me out of the water!  Of course, the whole point is to raise money for to fight pediatric cancer by pledging. You can donate $10 (or more) by clicking the link as well. Thanks in advance.

http://www.beardathon.com/panthers/pamelarossow/profile.aspx

My beard even made the news–thanks NBC Miami!

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(a poem by E. E. Cummings for you both, I love you)

 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

Friday Moment

this moment} – A Friday ritual. Photos – no words – capturing moments from the week. Simple, special, extraordinary moments. Moments you want to pause, savour and remember. “This Moment” is a ritual found on  Life inspired by the Wee Man which I then kidnapped from Almost there by Sarah-Jane and snagged from Alejandro.

Summer

Summer exhales long and slow.  Breath perfumed with jasmine and honeysuckle breezes over me.  She orchestrates the jaunting chorus of ice-cream trucks and children’s laughter mingled with the ocean’s sighs.  She grabs my hand and slows my pace to a languid stroll.  I inhale the fragrance of pine needles blanketing concrete.  The loud buzzing of Cicada is welcome white noise.  Summer works deftly overhead mixing humidity and sunshine with generous heaps of azure.  Sprinkling in some electric zigzags and swarthy scowls.  The forecast:  smiling sun with a chance of growling gray. 

© Pamela A. Rossow

To Mom with Love

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”
~Maya Angelou

 

Mom,

You have shown me by your words, love, and life that we only become butterflies when we have spent time patiently waiting to emerge from the chrysallis.  Then our wings must straighten and dry.  They are delicate and can tear easily, yet, strong enough for flight.  I love you more than words.

Love,

Pamela

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                            

    

                      

                                                         

                                                                

                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                                                       

                                                                

            

                                                         

                               

Bradbury’s Brainy Bites

Work is done for the day so time to ponder.  I was thinking about Ray Bradbury tonight.  He’s the author of two of my favorite texts: Fahrenheit 451 and Dandelion Wine.  He has penned so many inspiring words I have trouble choosing only some quotes (a few are taped to the shelf above my desk).  Long story shorter (I can never guarantee short), here’s a few of my faves:

“We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.” ~Bradbury

“He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know who reflected your own light to you? People were more often–he searched for a simile, found one in his work–torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?” ~ Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)

“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.” ~ Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)

“You’ll find out it’s little savors and little things that count more than big ones. A walk on a spring morning is better than an eighty-mile ride in a hopped-up car, you know why? Because it’s full of flavors, full of a lot of things growing. You’ve time to seek and find.”~Bradbury (Dandelion Wine)

“Are you happy?” she [Clarisse] said. “Am I what?” he [Montag] cried. But she was gone- running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.” ~ Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. “ ~ Bradbury

“If we listened to our intellect we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go in business because we’d be cynical: “It’s gonna go wrong.” Or “She’s going to hurt me.” Or,”I’ve had a couple of bad love affairs, so therefore . . .” Well, that’s nonsense. You’re going to miss life. You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.” ~Bradbury

 

“You’re either in love with what you do, or you’re not in love.” ~Bradbury 

 

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” ~Bradbury

Tragedy’s Scream

The sounds of tragedy are everywhere:  howling wind, slamming water, splitting earth, cancer’s mutterings, growling of bloated bellies, clinking of bottles, jabbing of needles, mothers’ crying, and much, much more.  What do we do when these sounds become faint?  Distant?  Far away whispers of an event or series of events that happened to “them,” “him,” or “her?”  Do we keep our masks of indifference on, tuck our legs and heads in and retreat into our shells? Or do we allow sparks of empathy to combust within our minds?  This ignition affecting quick reactions of assistance to “our” global family?  What do we DO when we hear tragedy scream?

 

 

Friday Moment

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. Photos – no words – capturing moments from the week. Simple, special, extraordinary moments. Moments you want to pause, savour and remember. “This Moment” is a ritual found on  Life inspired by the Wee Man which I then kidnapped from Almost there by Sarah-Jane.

Feel free to share your moment below! Cheers!

 

Top O’ the Morn

Top o’ the morn (afternoon) to you! Although I am mostly Italian, the leprechauns visit us nearly every year. We forget to leave something green for them the night before and they punish our negligence by wreaking a wee bit of havoc. TPing our Christmas palms out front, strewing undergarments about, turning chairs upside down, leaving cabinet doors open, and, yes, even green pee in the toilet. A note usually accompanies the madness. This morning, however, was different from other St. Patty Day’s. My coffee pot was MIA along with my favorite mug. The little stinkers! I finally found my necessary items of addiction and was able to percolate a good, strong brew. Whether you are Irish or not, may you enjoy the mischievous teeny ones today and try to avoid their wiles!

 

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

~Irish Blessing