Thank You Note

Thank you. . .

for repairing a heart, you had no part in breaking.

Thank you. . .

for being kind out of want, not obligation.

Thank you. . .

for the small gestures, which in turn were so very large.

Thank you. . .

for truly listening, even to the words unspoken.

Thank you. . .

for allowing me to be my flawed self, without judgement.

Thank you. . .

for providing the smile, I thought lost.

Thank you. . .

for asking if I was ok, and the patient understanding. . . knowing I wasn’t.

Thank. . . you. . .

Are You Okay?

A simple question. Three words. An answer requiring no great depth.

Just an equally worded brief reply.

“Yes, I am.” Or the reverse. . .“No, I’m not.” My question was met with immediate disdain. The implication of my overwhelming gall, be it daring intrusiveness, to ask just such.

And my thought. . . it was more daring to NOT.

“Are you okay?” I repeated this time a little softer. After a few withheld quiet breaths. . .

I rephrased. . . “Will you be okay?”

The moments of stillness languished as I waited for the answer I would not be receiving. . . on this day or any of the days following.

“Why do you ask?” he inquired.

“I am surrounded by family. By noise. By distraction. You are alone. I worry for you,” was my simple honest reply.

“Alone is how I like to be. Alone is what I’m used to. Alone is by choice.”

This is the exact moment our differing paths had come to light. Alone, to me, is sadness. Alone, to me, is avoidance. Alone, to me, is safety from feeling, from sharing, from hurting.

It was then. . . I knew.

I had but one choice. . . to grant his wish.

Alone you shall be.

Van Gogh Effect

Some dark. Some light. Some heavy. Some fluid. All strokes of color and paint leading to a masterpiece.

This was. . . 2020.

Up close. . . each stroke not decipherable as the steps, movements, and unveilings of what is right. . . what is wrong. . . and where there is needed improvement.

This was. . . 2020.

The slowing down. The quiet contemplation. The long hours of needed reflection.

This was. . . 2020.

Our world. Our environment. Our communication. Our connections. Our health. All part of the portrait. . . the painting. . . the masterpiece.

This was. . . 2020.

And now. . . as one enters a new year with new hope and a great appreciation for a fresh clean canvas. . . the diligence, perseverance, and resiliency of a past year’s masterpiece is there for the viewing.

That was. . . 2020.

Audacity to Hope

Wishing for more. Knowing it’s possible. A spirit renewed.

May tomorrow bring. . .

. . . the excitement. . . for what is to come.

. . . the resounding joy. . . of a new beginning.

. . . the appreciation. . . for old acquaintances, not forgotten.

. . . the celebration. . . of a much needed fresh start.

. . . the exhale. . . following a year that felt so much longer.

The hope. . . for better.

2021. . .

May it be great. . . fingers crossed.

Pie For Breakfast

Thursday. November 26th. Red. Orange. Gold. Table is set. Awaiting. . .

a Grateful Gluttonous Gathering.

Welcome to America. Welcome to the All About “US”. . . U-S- of -A. The place where we gorge our overweight selves on vast amounts of food whilst reciting all that we are “thankful” for. The place where a second helping of selfish consumerism is served the next morning. . .

Black Friday Shopping commences promptly at 0′ Dark Thirty.

As the Over-Indulged once again overly indulge in a holiday’s traditions. . . over-eat, over-spend, over-look. This holiday which has long lost its meaning, history, and significance.

Why are we celebrating a culture’s impending demise?

The kindness of strangers. The sharing of a year’s harvest. A table of Trusting Indigenous Families with New World Explorers. Explorers where taking instead of giving was the the end goal.

The beginning of. . . What’s Yours Is Mine.

This “new” nation was formed on these values. Not much is changing. . . sadly.

Selfishness reigns supreme.

Asked not to travel. . . airports are full.

Asked to wear a mask. . . angered political debate ensues.

Asked to take a life’s pause in attempts to regain control of skyrocketing Covid-numbers. . . nope, not us, infringes on our freedoms as Americans.

Freedoms. . . Really?

Did we extend the same to those here first? Do we extend it to them. . . now?

Happy Thanksgiving. . .

Gifts of Thank “Full” Ness

I am thank-“full” for. . .

a community of support. . . a small circle of friends

the many successes. . . the equal amount of failures

socially bridging extroverts. . . quiet, caring introverts

lessons taught. . . lessons learned

welcomed introductions. . . needed goodbyes

valuing precious time. . . losing track of the minutes

predictable patterns. . .unforeseen surprises

crowded tables. . . intimate gatherings

the fresh start of a new day. . .

the end of a day “full”-filled

Anyone But. . . Him

He that. . .

divides rather than unites.

He that. . .

values money and the illusion of power over family and building relationships.

He that. . .

places blame instead of accepting obvious fault.

He that. . .

incites blind followers rather than inspiring a new generation of scholars.

He that. . .

dictates without a plan instead of leading with a goal.

May the next four years provide the. . .

hope, unity, values, healing, connections, and inspiration

for ourselves, our nation, and the next generation.

We need it.

Be That Girl

Be that girl. . .

Who smiles at others. . . knowing the reward is simply a smile returned.

Be that girl. . .

Who strives for better. . . helping others along the way.

Be that girl. . .

Who never stops learning. . . be it through books, people, or experiences.

Be that girl. . .

Who is confident. . . knowing who she is and appreciating her unique self.

Be that girl. . .

Who is vulnerable. . . admitting feelings are a blessing, not a weakness.

Be that girl. . .

Who knows how to express herself. . . speaking up for defenseless others, herself, and her beliefs.

Be that girl. . .

Who makes a life better. . . just for being in it.

The world needs more of THAT.

All the Firsts

The Unknowns. The Never Befores. The Uncharted Paths. Nervousness. Anxious Anticipation. Excitement.

The foreign territory of firsts.

When one comes to terms with the embracing a new set of unfamiliar circumstances. The path yet traveled with an abundance of choices. Living in the moment because there is no other option.

Why are the firsts so impactful?

Is it the discomfort of admitting the ever present naiveté? Is it the fear of a the new? Is it the possibility of failure?

Or could it be. . .

The thrill of fully diving into a new experience head first? The full admittance one does not have all the answers, but knowing lessons are in wait? The composition of a life’s course seizing each new adventure with a passion unlike any other?

And why?

There must always be a first step to move forward. To proceed. To progress. So whether it is with cautious forethought, tentative resolve, or a determined zest. . .

a beginning is. . . just that, a beginning.

No Seconds Needed. . .

A statement continues to run its course through my thoughts, many a sleepless night, and those silent lulls a day offers providing unwanted thinking time. . .

Believe them the first time.

It’s a simple statement but it delivers a powerful gut-punch. The kind that takes the air right out of one’s body because it is. . . so. . .very. . . true.

Why does one return to the very point of no-return?

If it wasn’t right the first time. . . what makes it different now? Does time change a person? Does it make one cognizant of past poor decisions? Does it remind one of those who once held a special place?

And to this I say. . . Believe them the first time.

Time is only that. . . Years. . . Hours. . . Minutes. . . Seconds. . . The person. The problems. The pieces missing previously. . . still reign right under the surface.

Until they don’t. . . until the dreaded resurface.

This is the part two. The revisit. The second unneeded reminder. . . The refresher course of sorts. . .

The Familiar Soft Whisper Delivered. . . Believe them the first time.