I grew up going to Catholic School with Mass every morning, every Sunday – never did the Saturday evening “pre Sabbath” Mass…then I married a non-Catholic, so figured I was excommunicated, so I went to the Science of Mind church. Was married a second time in the Methodist Church, still went to church on Sundays, and sometimes Wednesday evening – joined some classes, committees. That faded to hit and miss attendance.
After my mastectomy in 2013 I went back to Mass every day for a year or two…even gave the priest palpations by going to Confession for the first time in 41 years…my list of sins was long and scandalous – he gave me three Hail Mary’s as my penance – somehow I was disappointed. Surely he should have made me scrub the Nave floor on my hands and knees.
Now it’s been years…I stopped into St. Frances Cabrini’s morning Mass one time since I’ve moved here…
I wonder where it goes, that urge to go to church. I know that I know that I know God Is and ever shall be, AND that He walks with me wherever I go. Have no interest in debating that… nor convincing anyone else about it…they’ll know in due time.
Just old, i guess… God knows…that’s enough…
The world is a-twitter
With slogans and glitter
‘bout how we must all save the planet.
They’re planning loud marches,
Hanging slogans from arches.
The anger grows huge as they fan it.
But in our fair land lives a different class
Conservators living way out on the grass,
Nurturing the earth with the hooves of their herd.
Bison or buffalo, whichever you choose,
Living their lives with nothing to lose;
Grazing, and ranging, breaking up the curd.
Feet stroking prairie as once was the norm
Tilling the soil, cold weather and warm,
Ultimately saving earth and fine grasses.
Let the protestors prattle,
Decrying flatulence of cattle,
We shall hail the O’Briens with raised glasses!
(bet you thought I’d work in some asses) HA
04/29/2021 my entry into the Wild Idea annual bison poetry contest
Shrieking early on,
then constantly through the day.
He wants out. Me, too.
They have been saying it will snow for days now
But there is that beautiful, exquisite, delicious, enveloping quiet
before the day begins and chores and trips to the library begin.
I sold my garden in August, 2019. I have missed it.
It was a small, suburban garden across a corner of the front lawn. Nothing much; but I had built it up over twenty years to automatically die back in the fall only to triumphantly return with explosions of tulips and poppies and coreopsis, irises, peonies, and fragrant purple Angel Face roses. And daisies. And daylilies. And hollyhocks later in the summer thanks to the gift of seeds from a dear friend’s garden.
Audrey Hepburn is quoted as saying, “He who plants a garden believes in tomorrow.” Were I still living in the little house that sat on the lot with my garden, I would, this morning, be up early with my cup of coffee peering at the dead ground; searching for the tiniest tips of spring bulbs proving yet again that life cycles back. The woman who bought my garden, killed it. Covered it with black plastic and dead looking mulch. Now there is only the house, and it looks plain, and sad; suburban. To each her own, I guess, maybe she is allergic, but I like to think, because I know it will happen, that every year some resistant root will swell and tear through the plastic to make a run at claiming its right to bloom where it was planted. You cannot truly kill a garden, Missy <heh heh heh>.
As for me this morning, I found the tiniest green sprouts in the pots that line my balcony. Poppies! I tossed out the seeds earlier this year after a quick snow. And I am watching for the tulips buried in the potting soil to break through the surface. And then, when it’s warmer, I shall plant new daisies, and delphinium, and cosmos, and a few other perrennials, and a couple herbs in Anne’s honor, maybe even some hollyhocks, all of which will fill their spaces, die back in the fall, and rise again next year. The HOA has not idea I’ve started a new garden without permission.
I believe in the future!
one tiny rainbow
JOY breaking and entering!
better than pancakes
But I brought it out during the day
whenever I needed a smile.
A one inch rainbow
Joy – breaking and entering
My whole day is made.
My mother stopped in to visit just now. Yes, yes…I know she died in 2011, but there is no other way to explain why I suddenly felt the need to polish the top and front of my washing machine…I mean, only Mom did that… probably everyday…and I was just walking by, not in cleaning mode…I just had a thought that it wouldn’t take much time to just do it…and, yes, Ma, I do feel better now it is done. and yes, I know I should polish the stove next…after my shower, okay?
I studied Science of Mind principles for fourteen years of my life. Early on we spent time replacing commonly used words with other similar words..y’know, to change your thinking. For instance, I stopped using the word obey, replacing it with comply. Compliance seemed to imply consent, choice. Obedience implied no choice, and a mean s.o.b. I chose to forget the word obedience. Long time ago…
If you listen to this new age of politicians and their minions, you will hear word swapping daily… We no longer have hunger in our country, we have food insecurity. We no longer strive for equality, we desire equity. We call the legal right to abortion reproductive health care. There are other examples. I am making a list. It is interesting to hear the subtleties of attempts at world wide mind control. It is frightening to see them take hold.
Change your words, change your life…and often you cheapen it.
LORD, HEAR MY PLEA!
I just want a blessed Cheeseburger and fries and a side salad with bleu cheese dressing and a fountain drink with only a little ice, or maybe a Moscow mule, or maybe a hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps brought to my table by someone I’ll be more than happy to tip…and then I’ll consider dessert, yes, I’ll have that… and we friends will sit talking away while the cook cooks it, and we’ll listen and maybe even sing along with the moldy old Motown songs playing the background… and laugh at stupid jokes…Just a burger served to me …maybe sauteed mushrooms, a sour pickle, a red onion slice… Yes, Yes, I have all those ingredients in my fridge here at home…but I don’t wanna cook… wahhhh… I want someone to distract me…and no, I don’t want to go to someone’s house, I want to go OUT…to a RESTAURANT where everybody knows my face, if not my name.
So, I think, McDonalds or Arbys…but noooooo, the lines are 15 cars long…. eeeeerrgggh
and, Lord, I don’t want to go to King Soopers to see that blessed beggar who stands at the stop light wearing his warm down jacket and new boots, and holding a sign saying times are hard, anything would help, flashing me a smile and a peace sign every blasted time he’s there…or his wife, and their baby in its stroller stand out there… I figure they get $20/hour standing out there for 8 hours, they’re making over $40,000 a year…for standing there looking pathetic… gad… guilt pays those who milk it… Get that baby inside someplace warm!
And THEN I pull into my garage and my neighbor lady is just trying to take out her trash, and some jackass who probably doesn’t even live here or pay HOA fees that cover our trash pick up brought the flipping box for his new 51 inch television and plopped it in front of our giant trash bin, blocking our reach…so we pushed that box out of the way, only to find that the bugger had filled our trash bin, which was emptied Friday afternoon, to the top so that there was nowhere for her to put her trash bag except on the ground where surely the wretched squirrels will tear into it and have a feast, strewing what they don’t like on the ground for other critters to sort through…right next to my garage door… mmm hmmm
So, Lord, how is YOUR four hundred fifty thousandth day of pandemic isolation? What’s that? You’re keeping busy? Well, just don’t tell me to get over it and hold my head up and dream big and remember the starving children in China… I don’t wanna just now…
I’ve read the words of the winners of this year’s Poetry Contest,
the words that reaped $3,000 in winnings for first prize.
Yeah, mine would likely never win,
Certainly not nearly as obtuse or just plain weird enough.
I like my poetry as I like my burgers,
grilled, salted, a little cheese, with no gold leaf and truffle oil.