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 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. 

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. 

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. ​

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.
  

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?

​    
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.

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​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? 

​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. 

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?
 

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.

     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... ​