Using a haiku form, here's my poem:
Author Colleen Chesebro offers another #Poetry challenge and invites us to use the #ekphrastic style. This is my first attempt to write an ekphrastic poem, and I'm not sure I've captured its intent. Perhaps you'd like to join me in this effort, and if so, click on Colleen's name and you'll be taken to her website.
Using a haiku form, here's my poem:
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By Gwen M. Plano For much of our lives, circumstances define who we are: a wife or husband, a mother or father, a teacher or businessman or nurse or doctor. We give little thought to who we might be separate from our roles and titles. There is work to do, children to care for, meals to fix, a home to support. In our retirement years, however, we are gifted time. And, it is from this vantage point that we begin to see a little differently - the shadows and the miracles of life. As we do, we have a greater sense of who we are. When author John W. Howell and I began work on The CONTRACT between heaven and earth, we brought with us our realizations about life and our imaginings about eternity. Both of us are retired, and we have the time to search for explanations to the mysteries we encountered. Nevertheless, sometimes we wrote blindly until the answers came. Last week, the book went live on Amazon. A number of writers and bloggers have welcomed us to their websites, where they are graciously introducing The CONTRACT to their readers. I cannot begin to explain the profound gratitude I feel, for by their kindness, they recognize our efforts, and they acknowledge the journey. Thank you one and all. by Gwen M Plano
By Gwen Plano Each week poet Ronovan Hester sponsors a Haiku prompt challenge, and folks (like me) try to follow his lead. This week the two words are fragile and heartbeat. If you have interest in this poetic form, please click on his name and you'll be guided to his website where you'll find detailed instructions.
My poem is entitled, Fragile Grace. by Gwen Plano Each week poet Ronovan Hester sponsors a Haiku prompt challenge, and folks (like me) try to follow his lead. This week the two words are body and art. If you have interest in this poetic form, please click on his name and you'll be guided to his website where you'll find detailed instructions.
We imagine our memories to be lodged in our mind, and then a simple touch brings us back in time - to another touch, loving or unkind. Hidden, it awaits our discovery through The Art of Life - the ups and downs, the laughter and the tears, the joys and the fears. I've attempted to capture this dynamic through the image of a young woman holding life itself. by Gwendolyn M Plano Each week poet Ronovan Hester sponsors a Haiku prompt challenge, and folks (like me) try to follow his lead. This week the two words are sweet and shy. If you have interest in this art form, please click on his name and you'll be guided to his website where you'll find detailed instructions.
In the early morning, deer often congregate outside my office window. When I saw this week's challenge words (sweet and shy), I thought of my four-legged friends. They are the inspiration for this simple haiku poem. by Gwendolyn M Plano Each week author Ronovan Hester hosts a Haiku Poetry Prompt. This week's challenge uses these two words: goddess and worship. Perhaps you'd like to know more about Haiku. If so, just click on Ronovan's name, and you'll be taken to his site and to his explanation of this art form.
My poem focuses on the power of innocence, seen most recently in the March For Our Lives movement. by Gwendolyn M Plano This week, poet Ronovan Hester offers a Haiku Challenge Prompt of Zen and Noise. If you are inspired to try Haiku, just click on Ronovan's name and you'll be led to his site where he explains the rules. Having practiced Zen for a number of years in Japan, this was a particularly interesting challenge.
I don't sit cross-legged anymore, nor do I focus on a koan (a special word or phrase). But, I do enjoy silence. I am drawn to prayer, to sitting quietly with the Divine; I appreciate nature, and to walking into its beauty; and, when I'm with a friend or loved one, there is a special silence that brings me into my heart. My poem is about the latter and is entitled My Zen Retreat. by Gwendolyn M Plano Writer Anne Lamott gave a haunting commencement speech at UC Berkeley a while back. Two sentences, in particular, struck me: “Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you’re going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.” Lamott's quote prompts the question, what is the truth about who we are? Is it possible that we are an accident of nature, a haphazard blend of genes? Are we the mistake of our parents or even their planned prodigy? Are we titles like president or director or even the recluse who lives down the street? Who are we? What is the truth? Why are we alive? For decades, I have researched Near Death Experiences (NDE). I’ve read most of the published books on the topic, studied the testimonies of large numbers of people, and have been blessed to talk with a few of those who have had an NDE. My interest began as an attempt to understand my own experiences of the same, but it soon morphed into an unexpected journey. I was a very young child when I first experienced another realm. I was looking at all the nuns in dark habits surrounding a child in a hospital bed – each nun had her head turned downward in prayer. I heard mumbling, but I have no recall of words. I saw a doctor in white, bending over the child doing something to her chest. I watched curious of the scene before me, and then suddenly I was in the bed, coughing, under a plastic oxygen tent. I remember the doctor’s smile when I opened my eyes, the joy from the nuns when they saw that I was alive. Only later did I learn that I had pneumonia and nearly died. This early experience was followed much later by another. In both, I glimpsed a state of mind that was unencumbered by fear or worry, a state of mind that was rational and loving. So, who are we? What is THE truth? What if our bodies, our brains, our senses are only a limited part of our story? Is there a way for us to know the unlimited part of who we are - short of a NDE? I suspect we glance at another reality whenever beauty or love brings us into wonderment. At such moments, we let go of our human confines and experience something divine. To discover the truth of who we are, I believe we need to taste and enjoy life, as Lamott has suggested – the warmth of a child’s embrace, the tenderness of a friend or stranger, a sunbeam bright through the clouds, a pet’s adoring affection. Within the ordinary lies the extraordinary - we just need to embrace it. If we all honored the “precious life,” would our world be so divided? by Gwendolyn M Plano More than a year ago, my husband and I glimpsed homelessness. We had traveled to a family reunion, and in our absence, a water filtering system under the kitchen sink burst and flooded the house with 35,684 gallons of water. The damage was enormous. Over the months that followed, we lived in eight different hotels, timeshares and condos with only a suitcase of clothes between us. It was an experience that taught us a great deal about construction - and home. For most of us, home is synonymous with comfort. The familiarity of the simple things of life settles our souls and offers rest for our busy lives. It is both the place to which we escape and the place in which we welcome friends and family. It is an extension of who we are, for we create it in our likeness. If we lose our home, we lose part of ourselves. In our case, all that touched the floor was destroyed – all furniture, cabinetry, all piles of papers and books waiting to be read, boxes of photographs and tax returns. Yes, almost everything was destroyed. Numb by what we saw that fateful night when we returned to our house, I pulled paintings and photos from our walls and stacked them in my car. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was bringing home with me. We surround ourselves with stories – family stories, friend stories, dream stories. They live with us and become part of us. Even when we are alone in our home, it is these stories that keep us company. I didn’t know this until we lost our home. Today I share a few of my rescued pieces and their stories, to explain my point. *** This first painting is of the fire that raged through Laguna Beach in the mid 1990s and consumed hundreds of homes. The artist, a gentle man named Jeff Hurlbut who worked at the same college as I, gifted me this painting. We had shared tears over the loss of his son and found common ground in art. I’m ever so glad that one of his masterpieces hangs in my home reminding me of him and his family. Neither of us could have known that one day his painting would have special meaning because of another loss. My daughter painted this second piece. I have several of her paintings hanging in our home, and each carries a special part of her and thus a part of me. I love this one for its passion and its promise. Her years in ballet and her love of art find expression on canvas where life meets possibility. She sees that which some of us might miss, and the stories of times past come alive in the present. This final piece, painted by a Chinese calligrapher visiting the United States, is entitled Compassion. He offered a class on Eastern philosophy and sold his work to cover his travel expenses. When I look at this painting, I think of the artist and his courage – and I'm always reminded of the universal appeal of compassion. *** If you returned to your home and realized you had only minutes to retrieve some of your precious belongings, what would you take with you? Your answer will tell you about home. Maya Angelou said: “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” I discovered that stories bring me home. Do they you? by Gwendolyn M Plano Nothing is quite so delightful as an early morning walk in nature. Since I live in the Ozark Mountains, next to Lake Taneycomo, I am reminded every day of the wonder of life. I am literally surrounded by extraordinary beauty. Just for fun, I took a few photos this morning to share a glimpse of Branson, MO that you might not have seen. Most folks think of this area as a destination site for live theater and country music. Those who know the area, however, are entranced by the mountains and lakes. It is a wonderland for anyone who loves the outdoors. Below are a few photos of my walk today by the Branson Landing - alongside Lake Taneycomo.
This is one of several restaurants that feature the day's catch. It sits in the water and provides a magical view of the lake. The architecture is reminiscent of days long past, when life in the Ozarks was simpler. Water enthusiasts regularly zoom past this iconic restaurant on their ski jets or other watercraft to the envy of all who sit within its confines. On this early morning walk, only the geese and ducks entertained. I leave you with a simple poem I wrote, prompted by today's lakeside walk. by Gwendolyn M Plano One of my favorite songs is Grandma’s Hands by Bill Withers. Recently, I heard Kristy Lee sing it, and I invite you to listen to her rendition. Always, whenever I hear the song, I think of my mom. In my extended family “Grandma” is the guardian of all-things-possible. She’s the one to whom the 40+ grandchildren call to fix a problem. She’s the one the 100+ nieces and nephews look to for a pat on the back or a warm embrace. Grandma’s opinion trumps all others and her prayers evoke miracles it seems. My siblings and I are aware of our mother’s power with our children. When Grandma says something, she is politely listened to – we may not be. If Grandma says this or that needs to be done, this or that is done – no questions asked. Somehow the younger among us have decided that Grandma is the queen. And, they are all aware of Grandma’s hands. Gnarled from arthritis and time, Grandma keeps them hidden as best she can. When I was a child, her fingers deftly made quilts and dresses; churned butter or turned the crank for homemade ice cream. She tended one garden after another, and when she could, she escaped the noise of yelling kids and painted peaceful scenes in oil on canvas. At ninety years old, my mom’s hands, Grandma’s hands, have retired from such things. They now turn pages more slowly, struggle to pick up coins or button a blouse; but, for their limitations, these beautiful hands still reach out to hold or embrace…the newest baby, the child crying, the teenager needing encouragement, the mom or dad who needs advice. Time may have taken its toll, but love just gets refined. Blessings to all on this Mother’s Day…. by Gwendolyn M Plano Several years ago, my husband and I had a four-hour layover in Phoenix and decided to spend it in a local museum. It was Larry’s first venture into the world of artisans and their masterpieces, and we discovered a lot that day. While he is drawn to photographs that are paintings; I am drawn to paintings that are dreams. He sees perfection in landscapes, detailed and proportionate; I see possibilities in impressionistic themes. Is there a right or wrong to how we see? Is one better than another? O’Keefe and Chagall fascinate me. I stand before their creations and am brought into a world seen but not seen. John Singer Sargent has structured his stories, giving my husband peace. And though I am in awe of his paintings, I am left searching for his dream. We are different each of us - writers, painters, craftsmen of all trades. We see through different lenses and thus have different dreams. My masterpiece may not be yours, your masterpiece may not be mine. While I travel through art to the world I’ve yet to meet, you may seek something entirely differently. What captivates you about a poem, a book, a painting, or a piece of pottery? What stirs your imagination and makes your heart beat? A few words that paint a world, a whimsical clay mug, an intriguing mystery? As for Larry and me, we respect our differences and enjoy where we meet – in paintings and writings and all artful creations that straddle the photograph and the dream. by Gwendolyn M Plano The RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB is sponsoring a Spring BOOK & BLOCK PARTY throughout the month of April, and I am participating from beautiful Branson, MO. Visitors who leave a comment have a chance of winning a signed copy of my book (2) or a $5 Amazon gift card (2) - a total of 4 gifts. Have fun traveling to all the sites! WRITING IS A VISUAL PROCESS Writing is a visual process. The characters, the setting, the time of day, even the conflict is something we craft in the scenes we display. A recent trip to Tuscany, Italy brought this fact home to me. This beautiful country of contrasts, where time is a marriage of yesterday and tomorrow, opened my eyes to how I see. I was taking a photograph of ancient steps leading up to a medieval church, when my sister said, “I’m following you and taking photos of whatever you photograph, because you see differently than me, and I like what you see.” Interesting comment, right? I’m not a photographer, but I am drawn to the intersections of life, and less to the obvious passing me by. I notice the play of light, the shadows that linger, and I am fascinated by the reaches of buildings and sky. A pigeon in the side of a fortress wall will hold my attention, as does a dog bowl on a cobbled street, where visitors like me meet. Images of the intersection of life draw me into story, which is my world it seems. Do you find your stories taking form through something you see? A short walk in Tuscany and one travels through centuries - to a time of the Etruscans, to a time before Christianity. The land is riddled with relics of war that the invaders and armies ignored. Walled fortresses have now been transformed, into a home for wine shops and cafés, boutiques and other market places. Walls, once dividing and threatening, are now pulsing with life. Contrasts…a writer’s dream. Dante, Petrarch, Machiavelli, Botticelli, Leonardo Da Vince and Michelangelo all walked the Tuscany streets. Now they dwell in galleries, churches, and libraries, but they are often seen on the streets. What do you focus on? Do you notice the cardinals in the trees, the solitary fisherman standing on the edge of the stream, the old man in his garden pulling weeds, or the child high in the tree? What is it you see? Do you find stories awaiting you when you pause to see - the intersections of life surrounding you, surrounding me? by Gwendolyn M Plano I’ve been in Italy this past week, with my husband, and my sister and her husband. It’s been a pilgrimage of sorts, one that has slowed our pace and opened our hearts. Through the vestiges of time, we’ve traveled – from Rome to Assisi to Tuscany, where we are staying. Surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, stone homes and cobbled streets, there has been plenty of time to wander and to dream. A few days ago, we visited a local winemaker and not only experienced incredible wine, we were brought to the edge of tears by this man’s realized dream. I had complimented the winemaker by acknowledging how proud he must be to have achieved what he had achieved. His response was this: “Proud?” “No, I don’t feel proud; I feel happy.” I asked him to explain and he said, “I work sometimes 15 hours a day, but I am happy because I have created something that others enjoy.” What an amazing statement! He had started with nothing but a dream, over time he bought a vineyard, and now produces some of the best wine in Tuscany. And his reward, that which makes him happy, is that others enjoy what he has created. In a country where the architecture spans centuries; and where frescos, sculptures, and paintings leave us breathless; and where even the sun can have halos around it, it is the Italian people who have inspired me with their graciousness and selflessness. Mille Grazie... Gwendolyn M Plano Bright lights and droves of shoppers, crowded subways and busy cabs, packed restaurants and street corner musicians … it’s Christmas in New York City and excitement itself is restless. I’m with my sons, daughter and grandchildren this week. With travels in and around the City, I’ve revisited iconic buildings and shoreline fixtures. And over the days of walking, I’ve considered the “before this” and “after that” of life, as I used to live in this general area for about 25 years. A quarter of a century covers a broad span of living; but, what I’ve realized is that time collapses with the passing of years, and precious moments emerge in splendor. The births of each of the children, the growing years and their Christmases – are part of the present through the hugs and kisses of their children. This afternoon I’m taking the older two grandkids to the Metropolitan Museum of Art – a favorite spot at the edge of Central Park. One of my sons and his bride will meet us there to walk its hallowed halls and to share awe and laughter. I wish you and your loved ones a time to remember… the joys of life and its wonder. by Gwendolyn M Plano Last week we joined friends for a local performance of It’s a Wonderful Life. I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched this film or seen the play, but this year one particular line struck me. Clarence the angel says, “Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole...” It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it? I suspect all of us have experienced the hole that Clarence refers to. In looking back across the months, to the friends and family members who are no longer with us, it can indeed seem awful. Collectively, we’ve felt this absence through the leave-taking of several public figures, three of whom I write of today. Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) helped us remember, that which we want to forget. In his efforts, he taught us that in remembering, we grow in our humanity. The tenuous balance between good and evil tipped towards greatness through his efforts. We are better because of him. Gwen Ifill (1955-2016) spoke her truth unflinchingly. Her love of justice and her unquestionable grace put the spotlight on the shadows of life and helped us do the same. Like Wiesel, we are better because of her. Leonard Cohen (1934-2016) reached into the closed areas of our soul and sang a Hallelujah that evoked our tears. His songs gave voice to that which swarms our hearts and colors our dreams. Like Wiesel and Ifill, we are better because of him. There are days when we might wonder why we are here, or if there is anything we can offer. At times like this, think about these three individuals. One lived through the worst of human history and simply asked us to remember; another embraced her role as journalist and shared the importance of speaking our truth; and a third dared to let his heart sing and invited us to do the same. Their gifts are our own. We all can remember, we all can speak our truth, and we all can let our hearts sing. During this time of miracles, when angels dance across the stages of our schools and theatres, when reindeers fly across the heavens, and Santa comes down the chimney, during this season of hope when the supernatural becomes the natural, I embrace the wonder of you. For I know that someday all too soon, a hole will appear where you once held me - by simply being beautiful you. by Gwendolyn M Plano Two years ago, my husband and I traveled to Ireland, the country of my ancestors. Though brief, the visit was memorable, and one day in particular, unforgettable.
We took a bus tour to the ruins of Glendalough, a 6th century village tucked within the Wicklow mountains. As the tour group meandered between one structure and the next, I decided to walk alone through the ancient graveyard. Rather than Halloween’s witches and goblins, there was just a quiet breeze and extraordinary beauty. Caught in my own tearful reverie, I did not notice the gentleman standing behind me, until he began to speak. I’ve been watching you, as you’ve walked among the graves. Startled, I turned and was met with soft eyes of gray. You love it here, don’t you? Where are you from? The United States, wiping away the tears from my face. I thought so. I live just down the road and visit every day. Together we stood before the field of tombstones and trees, this nameless gentleman and me, admiring the history at our feet, but otherwise not saying anything - until I took my leave. by Gwendolyn M Plano During these crazy days before the election, it is easy to despair of even the possibility of a future blessed. Violence of words and deeds dominates what we hear and what we see. Our trust has been broken by bank corruptions and lies that stretch across the political landscape. Sometimes we might feel that we stand at the edge of a precipice, not knowing if we will fall or fly. We forget that there are reasons to hope, because those reasons are lost in the battleground that has become our lives. Today I want to introduce you to an organization that offers an alternative and fills my heart: The Tree Sisters. What if we could re-direct our thoughts to the whispers of possibility that surround us? Could we, maybe, rediscover a reason to hope again? I invite you to watch this video... by Gwendolyn M Plano My favorite time of the day is just before sunrise. The silence is full with possibility, and as the light begins to emerge, there is magic. I took this photo early today from the deck. Is there any wonder why I love the Ozarks?
A verse from F.Scott Fitzgerald comes to mind: It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living. A reposting of Nonnie Jules' blog Thursday was not a good day for me. I was feeling all sorts of blue, and that’s never me. I mean, in some parts of town, I’m called “Sunshine” because I always have a smile on my face for someone. I woke up not feeling all that grand and if my memory serves me correctly, I went to bed feeling the same. I was tired, mentally and physically and my heart was racing a little…which is always my queue to get up, turn off the lamp and walk away from my office. I turned in at a decent hour Wednesday night (for me, that is), which was probably before 3 am. I slept a little late the next morning, but still woke up with a horrible headache and a mood that wasn’t so pretty. As I went about my work day, I could feel that certain irritability growing inside me, which I’m pretty familiar with by now, and my intolerance for little annoyances, even in my work, was steadily growing. (I think my family could feel that storm brewing, because they were gone a lot longer than usual yesterday…the poor things). Later that night, my daughter called and said that they were on the way home. I was excited for their arrival, because I really hadn’t seen them much that day and I don’t like when our days are that busy. When she got home, she walked in with a package in her arms. She kissed me on the cheek, laid the package on the table and said “Lucky you, Mom, the package is for you,” as she headed up the stairs. For me? Since I get books to be reviewed by the dozens every day, I just assumed that it was a really big book inside the package, as I wasn’t expecting anything else. When I opened the box, I pulled out a beautiful coverlet, which I would later find out, after pulling envelopes from the box, that it was a “prayer shawl.” First, I opened the smallest envelope and inside was a beautiful card, hand designed and signed by the artist. I was just as excited for the card and this message from the artist as I was for the real gift! And then, I read the little pamphlet inside, explaining the “prayer shawl” and its purpose. I won’t post the entire thing, but will share the part of it, that moved me most (I am re-typing it exactly as is written on the pamphlet): “SHAWLS…MADE FOR CENTURIES UNIVERSAL AND EMBRACING, SYMBOLIC OF AN INCLUSIVE, UNCONDITIONALLY LOVING GOD. They wrap, enfold, comfort, cover, give solace, mother, hug, shelter and beautify. Those who have received these shawls have been uplifted and affirmed, as if given wings to fly above their troubles…” ~ Janet Bristow “This prayerful ministry reaches out to those in need of solace and comfort… Many blessings are prayed into every shawl. The maker begins with prayers and blessings for the recipient. The intentions are continued throughout the creation of the shawl. Upon completion, a final blessing is offered before it is sent on to the recipient. The recipient may continue the kindness by creating a shawl and passing it on to someone they know that is in need of comfort and blessings. Thus, the ministry has a ripple effect, from giver to receiver, the unconditional embrace and sheltering of a nurturing and loving God. The shawls must always be given away unconditionally and never sold. They are created in prayer for the recipient, that they may be embraced by the prayers and blessings contained in each stitch.” Now, I wouldn’t refer to me as a highly religious person. Hold on a minute, though, don’t confuse what I’m saying, because I do have my religion, but I would say that I am more of a spiritual person and the two are clearly defined differently. So, after reading over all the material that was enclosed with my gifts, I slowly and carefully unfolded the beautiful shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders. I cannot tell you what happened in that moment, but I felt a warmth come over me like never before. I was instantly “calmed.” I stood in my dining room, trying to make sense of what was happening to me, but my mind was still, and my heart no longer racing. I felt so safe, I felt so loved and just thankful. All of the stress of my day disappeared instantly! I picked up the card and read the inside because I hadn’t done that yet, as I was so moved by the sentiment of the drawing of the card. It was from someone very special to me, someone who may not even know that she is such a calming force in my life and she makes me want to be a better person, and from her calm strength, I am searching for my own calm strength. When the initial shock of the feeling that I was getting from the “prayer shawl” had moved on, and my feet felt that they could now do what they were made to do, I gathered all of my gifts and walked in the direction of my office. I sat down, shawl still draped about my shoulders, closed my eyes, laid my head back and prayed…thankful for the gift which was sent to give me peace and solace. After I finished praying, I got up, draped the shawl over my desk chair…and started to walk out the door of my office. I stopped, turned around and looked at the shawl, draped neatly over the back of my chair, and said to myself “I don’t want to leave it here. I want to take it to bed with me tonight so that I can feel its warmth and security as I sleep.” So, I turned around and gently lifted it up from the chair and headed to my bedroom. I got into bed without kneeling to pray last night, as I wanted to, for whatever strange reason, pray, while lying on my back, looking upwards, with my “prayer shawl” safely covering me. And I did. I closed my eyes and slept like a newborn baby last night. When I woke up this morning, that headache of mine was present again, but yet, I felt extra safe and secure, still wrapped in my shawl.... ....to read more, go to WATCH NONNIE WRITE! by Gwendolyn M Plano Decades ago I lived in Japan, and during those important five years, I studied the ancient art of Chanoyu (Tea Ceremony). This beautiful ritual involves the preparation and serving of a cup of tea. Each step of the process is designed to draw a person deeper into silence. Words are sparse, and movement is predefined. There is a give and take to Tea; while one prepares the cup, another accepts it. Together, host and guest, kneel and listen—to the steam rising from the kettle, to the bamboo whisk against the tea bowl, to the song of birds outside. Friend or foe, together they remain in the silence. When participating in this ceremony, the world of financial worries and health crises, of marital problems and political turmoil, fades—until time itself stands still. Tea Ceremony brings one into the unseen present. In December our house was flooded with 35,000 gallons of water, spewed by a broken water filter. When I searched through the weeping mounds that once was a home, I discovered a few of my Tea utensils—a thin bamboo tea scoop and a fan. They are worth nothing of course, but at that moment they represented beauty to me. During times of distress, we may forget what is important, consumed as we might be by terror or grief. But, as I have discovered, we can be rescued by a keepsake, a sunset or a sunrise, a kind gesture or a warm embrace. A heart-holding moment can return us to ourselves—and to the world we have not been able to see. When I found the Tea utensils, I wiped them dry along with my tears, and then I sat in silence. Numb though I was, these simple tools are what brought me back to an experience of peace. I did not realize the attachment I had to household belongings, until they were no more. But, as the weeks have passed, things have become increasingly unimportant to me. The perfect couch is after all, just a couch. The comfortable easy chair, just a chair. With this realization, I’ve begun to see that more than belongings were taken from me. I had grown comfortable with the way things used to be, and living with dis-comfort has helped me see: the homeless, the lonely, the hungry, those who are disenfranchised—like you and me. As walls and floors are slowly restored, I’m grateful for the contractor and his teams, but more than anything else, I am grateful for the restoration occurring deep inside of me. I’ve learned that gifts sometimes arrive in unwanted packages, but their preciousness awaits our readiness to receive. I wonder, will I grow comfortable once again? If I do, I suspect another gift will arrive to awaken me, for storms carry the much needed rain. by Gwendolyn M Plano There are reasons we create through words, music, or some other art form. Perhaps we express the beauty we see or the mysteries we struggle to understand. Maybe our focus is the loves we have lost or found. Through one medium or another, we reach out to our known and unknown friends, to share a bit of who we are. Author Shannon L Alder wrote, “Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones.” And I wonder, isn’t this what we strive to do? My dear aunt (my mom’s identical twin) went to her heavenly home two weeks ago. A second mother to me and to so many others, she seemed to know when we each needed help. Through letters and phone calls, she offered comfort and support. And, at her funeral, a final gift – a treatise that she entitled, “The Gospel According to Luella.” It begins very simply: “My dear ones, you may not know it, but I pray for you all each day. I do not pray that you be wealthy or acclaimed, or in positions of great power. Rather that you be aware of the abiding presence and love of our dear Lord. He is there to walk the narrow path with us.” Her gospel continues with awe-inspiring descriptions of peace that she experienced while walking the narrow path, raising her eight children. These images have carved her name on our grieving hearts -- hearts already crowded with blessed memories. When I began drafting Letting Go into Perfect Love, I was unaware of the writers in my family. I only knew that I had a story I needed to share. As the chapters unfolded though, aunts and uncles, and cousins and siblings emerged with their adventures and manuscripts. And I realized -- we all carry a story that needs to be shared. Last fall, I stumbled upon the Rave Reviews Book Club through Twitter; its membership is dominantly writers. From Fantasy to Mystery, Fiction to Nonfiction, the authors talk about their masterpieces and tweet about their work and that of others. Though the Club has many notable attributes, I was and am especially drawn to its underlying principles of respect, kindness and reciprocity. As I have gotten involved with the Club, I’ve discovered a family of like-minded artists. A few days ago I was informed that the Club will interview me on their Rave Waves – a Blog Talk Radio program. If you have interest, please listen in on July 16 at 11:00 CT. I don’t know what to expect, but I know I’ll be talking with a friend, someone who like me strives to carve his name on hearts. |
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