Tag Archives: living

Gardening

Without encountering manure and decay, we wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate a beautiful garden. We could plant seeds without preparing the soil. We could randomly drop them onto the ground without creating tiny holes and covering them up. We could forget to water them and pray for rain. We could wish that the sun wouldn’t bake them before they take root.

We could hope the seedlings that do sprout will survive without fertilizer. We could, because of convenience, make a pathway through them and believe that, despite our trampling, they will live. We could think that we will enjoy a great harvest if we just let them be. We could let our rakes, shovels and spades collect rust in the shed because gardens don’t really need muscle. We could let the weeds grow so tall and become so invasive that they begin to choke our plants.

Or we could get on our knees. We could get dirty. We could till the ground. We could carefully place them one by one in furrows and pat the soil on top of them. We could drag the watering can over again and again–no matter how cumbersome–and soak them.

We could plant them in a location where they will get just the right amount of sun. We could create a compost heap, be patient, try to ignore the smell and shovel black gold over them so they could thrive. We could go out of our way to take the longer path and walk around them. 

 

We could hope for a brilliant harvest but not expect perfection without any damage from pests or fungus. We could put our backs into it and use the tools we have to assist our baby shoots. We could repeatedly grab, pull and tug at those invasive weeds that threaten to overwhelm our plants. We could do all of these things if our garden is meaningful to us.

If we have even a speck of faith that the sun will come up each day, that falling waters quench thirst, that dirt–while making us feel unclean–can be washed off, our gardens will appear beautiful to us. We will see the loveliness and color as others see it.

 

And when we are too tired to plant, nurture, dig, pull, water, we will remember that all gardeners have periods when they get stuck on their knees in the mud or fall face down.  We could lay there for a while. Get a little strength back. Then we could try to stand or we could reach out for strong hands to pull us up.

We could begin to plant again–until we figure it out how it all works and how many seasons it takes to get it right. Eventually, we will harvest blossoms of success.


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.

The “c” Word

So many people use it every day. It’s one of the most hated words (probably THE most despised word). Yet, we hear it over and over again.

It’s not until it’s used to describe what’s happening to OUR friends, OUR grandparents, OUR selves, OUR moms, OUR brothers, OUR sisters, OUR children, OUR dads, OUR aunts, OUR uncles, OUR loved ones that the word slams us face down onto the asphalt and tries to drag us backwards. But to positive test results, we say, “sCrew you!”

Those of us who either receive The Call or hear about The Call (later when our loved ones tell us about it) encounter the initial effects of “c.” During those moments, “c” seems to have us pinned. We cry. We rant. We get pissed off. We crumple.

Then, we maneuver out of its grip. We stand up. Put on the gloves. Step into the centers of the rings. We don’t wait for the first punches. We throw them. We fight, hard. We love, fiercely. We feel, deeply. We live with awareness. Thankfully, there’s no “c” in H-O-P-E. Just a whole lot of positive energy and prayers.

(Dad got The Call today)

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 Rossow

The Unknown

Dear Friends,

Today is it. The unknown stretches out like a blank canvas awaiting an artist’s brush. Our waiting will  probably entail more waiting . . . for test results.

Even though this anticipation has been lurking in the shadows for the last month, we had a great time celebrating life, independence, and personal freedom yesterday.

Positive thoughts and prayers are appreciated as we move closer to knowledge and, hopefully,a  negative biopsy for dad.

Here’s to great U.S. doctors, amazing medical technology, and all of the things and people we take for granted (sometimes)! May we be reminded of wonderful people in our lives and strive to tell them daily, through our words and actions, how much they mean to us.

Love,
Pamela

Dad

You were the one to catch me when I fell. You kissed my scraped knees and told me it would be okay. While I have long outgrown the nickname “Sweet Pea,” you show me I am still your girl and always will be. We’ve been through some tough times together. You made my couch your bed for nights after I was left alone. You have carried my children in your arms by never walking away, only towards them. You nearly left us once only to survive and come out of it stronger. In the upcoming months, we may have a challenge to overcome again but we will do it together. I will be there for you just as your presence has meant more than the world to me.   Thank-you for showing me, by your actions, how a man should love his children. How a dad’s character is worth more than any expensive gift or worldly possession. I haven’t needed anything but your love. Happy Father’s day, dad. I love you.

Dear Daughter

Years ago, you made your entrance as my tiny princess sitting Indian style.  I prayed I would have a baby girl to love.  I was granted my wish.  It nearly killed me I could not hold you immediately upon seeing your little face but your dad held you near to me so I could gaze upon you (making sure you were swaddled and safe).  As soon as the doctors allowed me to cradle you, into my arms you went.  I can’t believe how fast the years have passed since that first meeting.  I loved you before you were born and knew that I was given a gift straight from heaven.  While it is difficult not being with you to celebrate your birthday (today), please know I am thinking about and loving you right where you are. When we are together, I am astounded that I must glance upwards to look into your eyes.  I see a tall, hard-working, intelligent, young woman who has dreams and goes after them.  You will achieve your goals because you are tenacious (even when life is rough).  You are beautiful inside and out and I am proud to call you my daughter.  No one could ever replace you!  I love you up to heaven and back.  Happy birthday, honey!

Love,

Mom

30%

30% chance and
must spin wheel
of fortune goes
round slowing
stopping praying
there’s no c’s, n’s
or r’s _ _ _ _ _ _
no a’s or e’s too
just a bonus round
and solved puzzle

©Pamela Rossow

Ashes of Soldiers

 
 
ASHES of soldiers!
As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,
Lo! the war resumes—again to my sense your shapes,
And again the advance of armies.Noiseless as mists and vapors,
From their graves in the trenches ascending,
From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,
From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,
In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they
come,
And silently gather round me.Now sound no note, O trumpeters!
Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,
With sabres drawn and glist’ning, and carbines by their thighs—(ah, my brave
horsemen!
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,
With all the perils, were yours!)Nor you drummers—neither at reveille, at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the camp—nor even the muffled beat for a burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.But aside from these, and the marts of wealth, and the crowded promenade,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;
Draw close, but speak not.

Phantoms of countless lost!
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.

Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet are the musical voices sounding!
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.

Dearest comrades! all is over and long gone;
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from foetor arising.

Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!

Perfume all! make all wholesome!
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,
O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.

Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew,
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.

 ~Walt Whitman

Wet on Wet

 

past future present
jumbled sketches
like watercolors
blurred by rain
pelting the paper

life’s brushstrokes of
blue red yellow blended
muddied translucent
then dots of pure
pigment spotted

muted highlights that
create textured
perspective and scale
not without value
and positive space

 © Pamela Rossow

Monday Memories

Nearly all my best, childhood memories include my family. Sun soaked, water logged days spent swimming in Non and Pop’s pool with my bro, mom, and dad, inhaling the Intercoastal with its pungent, sulphur smell that smacked my sinuses, stalking the brown water, dockside, hoping to see a silver eel streak by.

Memories that also involve the Atlantic Ocean which was just a short walk across A1A from their condo, the mysterious body of water that housed millions of varieties of life.  Whose beaches I lay upon under moonlight, motionless, transfixed, watching as the dark, shadowy sea turtles came ashore to dig nests and lay their eggs. The buoyant salty waves that lapped at my soul. Tides which pulled life’s negativity, ugliness, harshness out to sea till they became little specks on the horizon.  

Just some of the magical powers of memory–like a small town revival with its hallelujahs and deception entangled under one tent.  Fortunately for me (and something most kids take for granted), Ionly experienced the Messiahs during childhood–the joys and carefree days which blurred into years that formed me like wet sand in the hands of a master sculptor. 

My being, my core, my inner child is grainy, sun streaked, and dampened by salt spray. My remembrances which I keep dusted and lovingly displayed in my heart are happy and messy. They leave sandy footprints behind as they traipse through the years to find me where I am now. They slip into my dreams and cover me in beach sunflowers. They resurrect my beloved Nonnie and Pop-Pop whose wrinkled hands stroke my sun bleached hair, whose dark, Italian eyes speak love, whose lips utter “mangia” and “I love you.”

My memories are my buried treasure, coin upon golden coin, hidden from the surface, yet, shallow enough to dive for whenever life becomes overwhelming or hateful or unforgiving. They are my secret to survival. They are. . .and I am.

 

 

 

RED

 

drums pounds
thrums chest
palpitates passion
life’s downbeat
and syncopates
impulsive
       fibrillation        

© Pamela 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
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                            

    

                      

                                                         

                                                                

                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                                                       

                                                                

            

                                                         

                               

NPD

 

 

 

 

 

Then-
(you, “The Universe,” thought) 

That-
my intellect-
cerebrated
you

my lips-
explored
you

my heart-
thrummed
you 

my arms-
catered
you

my hands-
stroked
you

my legs-
received
you

my breath-
inhaled
you

Now-
(you, “The Universe,” know better)

And-
(she will know too)

~Pamela Rossow

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

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.

Hidden Treasure

I’m a “quotes” person.  I love quotes from people who have climbed rungs of the highest ladders, who have tripped and fallen face down in grime, who have cleansed themselves by splashing about in rain puddles, who have soared on the wings of ecstasy, who have teetered on rocky precipices, who have cradled a little person close to them and inhaled that baby’s sweetness, who have scratched art into existence, who have loved, hated, accomplished, failed, thrown in the towel, swam with rip tides until they broke free. . .who have LIVED. 

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?

The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within, not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.”
~Stephen King (Different Seasons)

Pitch

staccato notes swirl
round two hiding
between bar lines
attempting a grand
staff she a trembling
treble he a bold bass
together no rests just
a half note plus a half note
trying to make a whole

© Pamela Rossow

To Be

the forest spoke to

her hushed voices

murmuring of frigid

cascades and still

blue-green pools

the forest spoke to

her beckoning voices

enticing her to repose

upon fragrant blankets

of pine needles

the forest spoke to

her enchanting voices

entreating her to peel

away papery bark

and just be

© Pamela Rossow

Son, I love You

I gave birth, years ago, to a baby boy.  A child who, when I was pregnant with him, had his nights and days mixed up (especially during my last trimester) and one of the only ways he was lulled to sleep was by my movements, specifically vacuuming (yes, I had very clean floors). Who, when I was pregnant, caused me to crave espresso, Jelly Bellies for breakfast and tangerines late at night.  Who told me, with little kicks, that sleeping on my left side was unacceptable.  I must sleep on my back ever so slightly shifted to the right (I was and still am a side sleeper).  So much time has passed since those first years of sweetness (and sleeplessness) yet, if I allow myself to be swept along with my muses, I sometimes end up with snippets of my past carefully cut out with blunt edge scissors (like the way my children used to create their handmade paper valentines or snowflakes).  My past, filled with children, innocence, laughing, crying, healing, loving, draws me in and permits me little glances backwards, a déjà vu of sorts.  A tiny window framed by whitewashed memory, no glass, which I may peer through and view this other world (just for moments at a time). I am amazed, perplexed, astounded when I think about the day I met my son and held him in my arms.  I feel as if I have bitten into a lemon, halved and dipped in sugar, when I acknowledge how many circles those minute hands have traveled since the early days.  My life was altered that morning.  In the birthing experience, there was an imperceptible shift in my core, my soul, my breath.  Life was not ever to appear static again.  There was no grabbing the clock’s hands and halting them.  The button was hit and life began to fast forward.

Dear Son,

When you were born, I loved like I had not loved.  I experienced life in a new, beautiful way that was hidden from me prior.  You changed my life in such a manner that I questioned whether I had ever known love before.  You were, and are, my son.  I am grateful to call you this today.  Happy birthday my man-boy!

With much love,

Mom

Percolator

 

 

 

 

I percolate

bubbling

up over

out for

you.

~Pamela Rossow

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 leave a link to your Friday Moment in the comment section!!! xo

Monday Memory

Everyone has a memorable picture that brings a smile to their face.   Monday Memory occurs the last Monday of each month and allows us to share that favorite photo and story.   If you choose to participate this month, please remember to drop your link in the comments section of each Memory you visit, so that we may come and visit your site.  This idea was hijacked from my friend, Mary!

My story is cute, funny, and brief.  My dad has always been the treasured “Granpy.”  Part of his obtaining  this status involved many introductory rites (such as the event pictured below).   My parents have been actively engaged with my children since I gave birth.  They have helped out and loved watching their grandchildren grow.  Dad came over to stay with my children while I went to the store and when I came home that is what I found.  Biker Granpy tattooed with Crayola washable markers!  While this was the first (and only) time Granpy was “decorated,”  I could not stop laughing!  Soon after this picture, I almost lost my dad to a heart attack (thank God I didn’t).  I’m not sure what we’d do without him.  He’s irreplaceable!  When I see this picture, I remember good times!  My children were also known to “style” dad’s hair (wonder where they got that from?) gel and hairspray included!  Lucky Granpy!  My kids are grown now and those fun days of young childhood are gone. . .time the ever selfish bandit continues to hoard precious hours, seconds, minutes.  I, however, was so grateful to snatch some of those passed moments from time’s clutches and enjoy them today! Love you dad!  xo

 


Portfolio

she was liquid convertible
bought then sold “securities”
a word not recognized in
her metaphysical vocabulary

terms tossed about like
paper airplanes aimed here
there nose diving into sharp
dips and crumpled equities

result of losses maybe wobbles
in her investor’s confidence or
possibly sheer panic either way
equilibrium shoved off kilter

she was left to question her
worth she realized she was an
asset her price immeasurable
by Wall Street’s standards

he was hit hard when he traded
stock privatized that plummeted
her market value though
rose to astronomical heights

~Pamela 

Love Letter Fest

Friends, welcome to my Valentine’s Event. A “Dear ?” love letter which you have written (whether sweet, sarcastic, or saucy) and will post your links below in the comment section so we all can have grieve, giggle, or gasp!  I will admit. When this idea jumped into my brain, I wasn’t daunted.  HOWEVER, as I sit here about to type my own letter, I’m overwhelmed, a tad bit intimidated, and wondering what on earth I was thinking when I started this.  Those of you who know me well are aware of my stubborn perseverance.  Hence, onward.  Enjoy and happy Valentine’s Day.  Not the commercialized hype but the everyday love we hold in our hearts.


Dear _______,

Many of you have directly or indirectly shaped me into the woman I am today.  I wouldn’t be Pamela without you.  Some of you have taken my heart down spiraling staircases into dank, dark basements where I suffered pain, wrenching hurt, abandonment.

A couple of you have led me through enchanted forests where rainbows arched overhead, the grass was soft, the castle walls had crumbled, and we loved as first loves.

Still others have taught me the foundation of love, how love isn’t based on emotions, how it demands action, requires being able to mouth or write two words (I’m sorry), and mean them.  That anger doesn’t necessarily reflect lack of love, although, at times, it may indicate lack of “like” (or sheer frustration).

Another has shown me that no matter how much I get angry, or question, or cry, or vent, He will remain faithful and, even more amazing, love me despite me.

All of the individuals who do not hesitate to pick up the phone to let me know they care, reach out with a card or letter, laugh with me, scream with me, or who hold me when I cry across the miles in a tight, virtual embrace.

Then there are the up close and personals who cling to me, climb me as if I am a tree, and hold on with little arms tightly clasped around my neck.  There are older ones who reach out when I least expect them to, grab my hands, sit close to me on the sofa, or hug me unexpectedly in passing.

There are those of you who have touched me so deeply that even though we are separated by this seemingly vast expanse of the other world you continue to move me, fill me, motivate me, cheer me on, and you are alive to me in my dreams, my memory, my soul.

There might be a person out there on this planet who could, through honest eyes, stir up flames in me once more.  Who, through sincerity, persistence, humor, character, empathy, gentleness, and time, has the capability to evoke in me passions which have yet to be completely drawn out.  He may exist. . .

In the meantime, I love and am so loved.  For all you, hole fillers, and you, hole makers, I thank-you.  It’s been real, raw, and, at times, raucous.  Even though, some days I harbor a few, wee regrets, I wouldn’t change any of it.  I have learned and will continue to learn.  My heart’s love journey (I hope) has, like my parent’s wedding song, “only just begun.”

All my love,

Pamela 

Mother to Son~L. Hughes

One of my favorite poets:

Langston Hughes’
Mother to Son


 

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor —
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now —
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Goals

 

 

Need to be
kicked in
thrown in
slammed in
dunked in
hit in
long as they
make it
in.

Pamela A. Rossow

Shared at the Thursday Poets Rally (Week 38).

I was nominated for the Perfect Poet Award. I honor it, thank Jingle, and nominate Danroberson for this week.

This Friday Moment(s)

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. Photos – no words – capturing  moments from my week. Simple, special extraordinary moments ( I know, I know.  I’m a rebel.  Couldn’t pick just one this week!  Too many beautiful children in my life!)

 

 

Moments I want to pause, savor, remember.

This moment is a ritual I found on life inspired by the Wee Man adopted from SouleMama and shared by Sarah – Jane.

Check out their blogs…. They are very interesting and inspirational to read, and if you are moved too, please leave a link to your Moments in the comment box below :-)

Monday Memory

A Monday Memory inspired by Mary .  Share your memory in the comment section below!

A day in the rain when my children were little. Bittersweet memories I will never forget and hold deep within the recesses of my heart.

Mirror Mirror

Well, it’s Monday and sad to say no humorous blurbs to post (at least not yet).  Too much time apart from my niece and nephew and my big kids. . . grown ups just don’t bring it like the children do!!!! So, this is more of a reflection blog.  My best friend and I were talking till late last night about many things (sorry mom and dad for hogging the phone).  We ended up able to rant, laugh, cry, and get serious all in one conversation (isn’t that what best friends are about? you can completely be yourself and you’re not nuts)? Towards the end of the conversation, something struck me that was pretty profound.   We started our adult, married lives back when (before we met) in completely different places, yet, through the years, traveled similar roads to where we each are now. Today, we are in comparable spaces in many aspects. Each of us wanting to be loved, to keep our families intact despite extenuating circumstances, to be secretly rescued without having to compromise values like honesty, communication, and self-awareness (although, we know our knights most likely won’t be individuals in gleaming armor who guide their horses over hurdles, deftly climb turrets, and profess poems of endearment).

Despite the similarities, we are often in opposite mind sets (and places, she’s married, I’m divorced).  During these times of differences, we realize that we are mirrors to one other.  Depending on who is gazing into the mirror and who is being gazed upon by the reflection, we end up like yin and yang (for lack of a better metaphor).  Our life experiences, dreams, hopes, darkness, failures, defeats, injustices, joys, sweetness bring us to these places where we can look at each other and see (cataract free) from the viewpoint of the other.  This constant viewing of life through the lens of friendship (and the other’s situation) helps us to more clearly define who we want to become as individuals.  To be strong women.  To have hope.  To be self-aware.  To not be so jaded that our hearts become hardened to truth and love.  To know that our journeys are really just beginning (even though we often feel like we’re smack in the midst of them).  To know that we are granted this gift of one another and, through each other, we can support ourselves, our intellects, our emotions.  To recognize that we are part of a larger, global community.  To know that we can make differences in our own lives, each other’s lives, and touch other people as well.  This friendship, micro extending macro, can impact other people for the better.  We’re learning what must be learned and, at some point, we will become teachers of positive change.  Wow, I can end this here on a sociological note (since we both share the same degrees too), it’s late, and I’m not sure I’m presenting this observation too clearly.  Good night friends (or good day)!

P.S. youtube’s copyright issues are more than annoying. . .nearly every good video is being pulled b/c of infringement!  Grrr!


Monsoon

winds reversed
affected by seasons
I’m blown along
the all too familiar
precipitation and
pounding deluges
punctuated by
scorching desert
dryness
sea breezes?
hell no yes to
intense turbulence
drought once
more I’m seared
parched and thirsty

© Pamela A. Rossow

Butterweed

she stood a child amidst
waving grasses a cupped
butterweed flower in her
hands slowly she closed
her eyes letting the
azure mist of the skies
drench her soul gently
she began to pluck each
petal a flaxen butterfly
fluttering to the ground
descending in a graceful
dance he loves me he
loves me not he loves
me he loves me. . .
she paused eyes
closed

Pamela A. Rossow

WARNING! Artwork in Progress!!!

This is one of those raw, emotional posts that is cathartic in nature and also contemplative. Last week, I had a conversation with one of my heroines. This particular heroine was forced into the scorching, hellish furnace and made it out (thank-God). She more than survived. She is passionately living her life, is gentle with herself and her past choices, and is a living model of strength (for me and others). The talk, much needed, ended with me stating that I felt “like a mess.” She emphatically said, “No! You are not a mess! You are a work in progress!” 

Of course, her statement triggered a metaphor. I realized I am not a mess (or just messy). I am ARTwork in progress. Art, according to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, means a “skill acquired by experience, study, or observation.” Work (same dictionary) is an “activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something.” Artwork, therefore, involves working at life (using our God-given faculties). In the process, we become art pieces. Messy, at first, as we flex our cores, our selves. Eventually, though, because we have acquired the skills necessary, not merely to survive but to succeed, we experience break throughs and can love our beings (even when our easels are splattered with paint and our canvases look like disasters).

Fears and insecurities can crumble and become the concrete mix we need to build strong “me’s” and “we’s” (if we allow ourselves to be vulnerable). It doesn’t mean we are going to always feel unfaltering or resolute or certain. It does stand to reason we are not going to accept fears or failures without some WWF action (and the days we are unable to get in the ring, we call our life-lines who will splash some water on our faces and bandage our cuts).

So, life, this week I can say, “bring it” (and mean it). I am not afraid (at the moment). When I do feel guarded or hesitant (life will guarantee this), I will try and remember my truth. Although I am still a  “mess” (at times), I will recognize that life can instigate the messiness. But I am a piece of art in the making. Life, step off. Because when the product is finished, I will be more formidable, loving, and self-compassionate (beautiful, too).

Catch and Release 101

Catch and Release 101

  • grab hook and twist it free
  • be careful not to tear hook
  • do it quickly
  • the longer it takes, the more trauma caused
  • if it takes too long, snip leader and let it swim free
  • practicing catch and release will allow fish to live happier, longer lives
  • remember, catching and releasing is a privilege

How to Survive a Bombing

Bombs get dropped daily.  Some affect small surface areas, some impact large areas, some hit very near cores.

How to survive a bombing:

  1. Remain calm (easier said than done)
  2. Take cover under a sturdy object (like a neutral expression)
  3. Be prepared to evacuate (if the situation escalates)
  4. Remember there are still people who could want to do you harm (there are also people who don’t intentionally want to do you harm but harm you anyway)
  5. Stay away from anything that could implode on you (impossible when emotions are involved)
  6. Deal with the aftermath (whether you want to or not)

Remember that bombings often occur when you are least prepared and don’t expect them.  No matter what preparations you made beforehand, they will present with the element of surprise.  Don’t blame yourself.  There was nothing you could do to prevent them. Pick up the bloodied pieces and stitch yourself back together.  You will survive.

3 Things:

1.  Love needs fuel and oxiders.  Fuel provides heat.  Oxidizers supply oxygen.  If both elements are present daily,  3, 2, 1. . .

2.  to·mor·row   n.

  • The day following today.
  • The future.

(don’t wait for the defibrillator)

3.  Life= a two way mirror.  Reflects self and covert behavior.

Euphotic Zone

full frontal no sidelong
peep or half obscured
glance that strains my
eyes want you close
centered no mirrored
reflection or portrait on
the wall just a clear
view bold strong
blue my eyes
riveted won’t turn
away futile to resist
you finger my
soul call me I will
come and never
leave your salty embrace

         ©  Pamela A. Rossow