Anyone Know a Good Housekeeping Service?

I should be taken out back and shot by the Housewife Firing Squad.

The Visitor

I pushed through the frozen grass
Of Mongolia's ancient steppe.
I'd had to leave my horse behind,
But couldn't pause in my trek.
The wall of wind pushed me back
For every step ahead.
I imagined it was guarding the land
From my foreign tread.
Darkness gathered like a warrior,
Threatening my intrusion.
"Excuse me," I said, and went ahead,
Despite my growing confusion.
The wind resisted and darkness grew,
I heard hooves and saw black eyes.
Before his arrow could find me, I cried
"I worship Eternal Blue Sky!"
His arrow lowered and his eyebrow raised,
And he gave me a yellow grin.
Yet once I blinked, he was gone,
Stars shining where he'd been.
I trudged forward once again,
And almost at once saw a light
Shining from a Mongol tent
In the black November night.
The family, though they knew me not,
Welcomed me inside,
Gave me food and a place by the fire.
No comfort was denied.
The hour grew late, and little ones dozed,
While the rest of us drank mare's milk.
And sweetly, one girl began to sing
In a voice dark and soft as silk.
Though I didn't know her native tongue,
I could hardly tell.
The strength of passion in her voice
Was one that I knew well.
Once her song was finished,
And trying not to weep,
I shared a poem, one of my favorites,
About woods dark and deep.
In this way we passed the night
With songs and spoken word.
We didn't share a language,
But nothing was unheard.

The Dispersal of Sara

She fell. Or had she jumped? She couldn't say anymore. But here was the still air, a hurricane against her body. And there was the ground-- oh! Here was the ground.

Her soul jumped from her body, a surprised scattering of particles that flew in all directions like a puff of flour when a bag has been dropped on the floor. Minuscule bits of consciousness, of memories, of knowing, of being-- everything that was her erupted in an invisible powdery haze around her. Fragments of herness drifted in all directions, or settled around her body like falling ash.

"I have brown eyes" bumped into "I love Gone With the Wind" and together collected the memory of her mother's hands pushing the hotly ticking iron around the flowered buttons on her favorite green dress. The summery whisper of aspen leaves fluttering in the wind flew into the heart of a seagull, who suddenly turned inland where unknown trees were calling him. The taste of melted gouda on grilled sourdough sunk into the earth and disappeared, along with her powerful yearning to be loved by Mike Dutton in return.

Molecules of soul-- epiphanies ("God loves me") and dislikes (mushrooms, dirty fingernails, anything starring Mel Gibson) were buffeted about in unseen randomness. Some found a new home, such as the daisy which discovered it had no desire to keep living, and slowly turned away from the sun. Polarized spirit bits were repelled by or attracted to others. There were surprises-- for some reason, "I love apples and peanut butter" immediately glommed onto the memory of her art teacher slicing off the tip of his finger with the paper cutter. Others were more obvious. Lying on a blanket, watching the meteor showers with her first boyfriend, attracted the taste of cabernet sauvignon. "I love the Eagles" and "I love Ozzy Osbourne" were, naturally, repulsed by each other.

In this way, some of her lived, some of her died. Some was reborn, and some is still out there. She herself was Ghengis Khan and Eleanor Roosevelt, Leonardo da Vinci and Nikolai Tesla. She was seagulls and daisies and aspen trees and wind. She was Matthew and Sin Yoo and Mildred and Charlotte. She was Sara. And so are you.

Children on the Playground

Shooting stars
zipping around a plastic and metal
solar system
blue and green and yellow
flushed with fiery exuberance.
Satellites roam sedately
silent observers
blinking shy lonely lights.
A meteorite slams to earth
in a shower of rock and tears
and the shooting stars disperse
zooming to new destinations.

Savoring the Sweet

I have not been paying enough attention to my children lately. Even when I think I'm trying, I step back and realize I'm still doing what I think they want and not just asking them what they want. So Nai has been acting out more and more lately, and I've been getting more and more upset with her-- because don't I take her to all these fun places and let her do fun things all day and eat lots of sugary treats? I end up feeling like I'm bending over backwards trying to please her, and she's just ungrateful. But meanwhile she just wants to be heard, to be the center of my attention for awhile, for her opinions to not be secondary to mine all the time.

I have an incredibly difficult time being in the moment. My mind is always pulling me away to an inner world. So even when I'm trying to interact with my kids, I end up with my eyes glazed over, in some distant land, until I notice that Giorgi is screaming "Mom! Mom! MOM!" trying to get my attention.

I exist in some weird combination of dreamy half-life and then snapping to it and trying to catch up-- running all over the place, trying to get stuff done, trying to be supermom and in the meantime being a not very good mom at all.

Anyway, so small steps. Yesterday I made it my goal to be present, in the moment, with my girls all day. Doing whatever they wanted to do. So my morning started when Nai woke up and wanted to cuddle on the couch. So I held her for half an hour, just the two of us talking a little, and looking out the window at people starting their day, but most of all just enjoying a quiet moment together.

After that I asked Nai what she wanted to do, which was go to the beach. So I skipped the gym and loaded up the girls and a picnic and we went to the beach. And while we were there, instead of pulling out my notebook while the girls were playing, I played with them. Occasionally I'd feel the pull of that inner somewhere-else, but a smile from Nai or the feel of the hot sand under my feet or the salty ocean scent was enough to keep me anchored in this world, enjoying my family.

Nai then saw the blackberry bushes lining the beach and wanted to pick some. We ate a lot, and brought a lot home.

When we got home, the girls took a much-needed bath, and naps, and then Nai wanted to help me make a pie with the blackberries we brought home.

What a way to savor being in the moment with my girls.

Grandad's Poem

I haven't been getting much of my own writing done, (although I am working on a short story, at least), but I've been typing up my Grandad's letters to Grammy during WWII. Among his letters to her was a little notebook with this poem he wrote to her, which is so sweet and pretty. If I have nothing new of mine to share right now, I might as well share something of his!

I think of you day after day
As time goes marching on its way
To join the ranks of yesteryears
Away from our blood, sweat and tears;
And as the moments swiftly pass
Like ripples on a sea of grass
They seem to whisper "Hurry, lest
Time pass you by, and in your quest
For happiness you'll wander far
And see it not, right where you are."
Do you recall a setting sun,
And stars appearing one by one,
A crimson sky, a crimson sea
Fading into eternity?
And when the moon rose into place
He hid his funny, whining face
Behind a cloud, and peeking through,
Caught me as I was kissing you.
And as we watched the stars grew bright
Lending themselves to the summer night.
Do you recall a Winter's day
Up in the mountains, far away
From daily cares and work and strife--
We laughed and sang and found that life
Was not in vain? And as the snow
Fell gently on the trees below,
We travelled fast, and faster still
The ski tracks pointing down the hill.
And then at night, a cozy chair,
A fireplace, and you were there
To help me search with eager gaze
For fancied pictures in the blaze.
And as the dying embers glowed
Upon the hearth, their passing showed
A way to happiness in view.
I was content alone with you!

--Harvey Gooding

Green Little Tree

She climbs you like a frail tree
Your branches snap under her weight
Her pink claws tear your bark like paper
She sways at the top
Breathless with victory
You bow and bend and break
Your height never meant to be summited

Web

I don't know why
the spider has caught no flies--
How her web sparkles in the morning light!
She glows like an angel
in the center of her sticky halo.
If I were a fly
I'd be honored to die.

Visitation

Hear
Footsteps in the hall
See
The patch of drifting light
Feel
A gentle touch on my arm
Think
Is it you?
Think
Of cats making noises
Headlights on the wall
Breezes from the window
Know
It doesn't matter
I want it to be you.
And so it is.

Living Extremely is not Necessarily Living Happily-- Yes, I'm Talking to You.

I am not one for extremes.
Take the weather here lately, for example. Once the thermometer reaches ninety, I don't know how people can think straight let alone lead functioning lives. I'm living in a certain zombie-like limbo, waiting for the temperature to lower so I can return to my former life of productivity. The strange world I occupy now is landscaped with growing piles of dirty laundry and kiddie pools. My backyard is littered with various little keep 'em happy toys. It looks like a dollar store exploded in my yard.
Meanwhile, I don't care for extreme cold either. This is why I love where I live, people! You midwesterners can keep your below-zero temps, thanks. Still, I don't like monotony-- I would go bonkers if it was eternally sunny and warm. I love the changing of the seasons and the distinct feeling and flavor that each season brings. I just like my seasons within reason.
I'm not randomly bitching about the weather (although I certainly feel entitled to-- it's 6:30 in the morning and my clothes are already sticking to my body). I'm giving an example of the many ways I don't like extremes. I have been thinking that it's as valid to gain your life happiness through small, temperate means as through extremes.
I know not everyone can be as fortunate as me to be happy with the small things. I have always been blessed with a sense of exhileration over trifles other people probably wouldn't even notice. I get tremendous satisfaction from cooking something really delicious. I drive my husband crazy with all my happy little observations--"That cloud looks like a pink dragon!" "Oh my god, don't these flowers smell amazing?"-- I think he's really grateful to have children who bear the brunt of my enthusiastic inanities. I am in heaven if I have a couch, a good book, a glass of wine, and jazz playing. Ooh, and it should be raining outside. And a cat on my lap. There. Perfect.
Yet while I love my life almost wholeheartedly almost all the time, I know that many people would consider it "not living." It's a dark cloud on my horizon, and while I try not to care too much what people think, it's always been a problem of mine. As long as you're achieving real happiness, does it matter how you get there? Whether you're hiking in the woods, weeding in the garden, flying around the world, swimming with dolphins, cooking dinner for your family, drinking wine at a Tuscan villa, or dancing with a stranger... it's the contentment with your life that I consider important. How you get there is up to you.
I think about my life so far, and if I were lying on my deathbed what regrets I would have. Would I wish my life had been full of more excitement and adventure? I truly don't think so. I may not go sky diving or have a French lover, but the hours of playing the piano, watching sunsets with my husband, laughing with my children, reading good books, and talking with my friends, to me, adds up to a life full of deep, meaningful happiness.

Grey Gardens Dollhouse

It's funny how surviving long, ridiculously hot summer days are surprisingly similar to surviving long, ridiculously cold winter days when you have young children. Brief forays into the extreme outdoors necessitate an hour of preparation (Summer: layers of sunblock, hats, sunglasses. Winter: layers of pants, scarves, hats, mittens...) and the rest of the day is spent trying to keep rather miserable children happy.
Yesterday Nai and I spent most of the afternoon furnishing her outdoor dollhouse. Being frugal can be quite fun sometimes. In the past I would have gone out and bought Nai some doll furniture... but watching our pennies forced me to be creative and spend quality time with my children. So now Nai's creepy happy-meal toys have rather modern furnishings using a combination of dixie cups, tupperware, CD's, baby blankets, and various other found objects. Between the dolls' vacant expressions and the dirt and spiders ever present in the dollhouse it's all a bit Grey Gardens, but that suits Nai's goth-girl personality just fine.

Fun with haikus

Haikus are so fun and attainable. I love anything that takes only a few minutes to complete. Why spend years toiling away on a book that may never be finished, when you can compose a haiku so easily and actually feel like you accomplished something? Here's one I came up with as I was letting the dog out just now.

Fuzzy bumblebee
The black sheep in a field of
buzzy honeybees

Perky Girl

she crazy as a lunch nut
likes to crunch her girl gut
got to stuff her strut strut
wigglin' her perky butt
swingin' the down haircut
she don't like her mouth shut
gotta tell me what the what
but
she love my funky grungy mutt

A Piece of Peace

I wish I could carry this feeling with me always. Nai's expression shows the complete contentment of being in the moment. Wouldn't it be perfect if we could bottle up that feeling of incandescent peace in the rare moments we feel it? Then in the all-too-frequent times of frustration or grief, we could pull out our bottle of joy, uncork it, and bask in the yellow glow of being alive and actually appreciating it.

Introduction to Classical Music

I was very young when Dad first introduced classical music to me. Little as I was, it was evident early on this was not a type of music to be taken lightly. During the day, the music accompanying our daily routines would be Billie Holiday or Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald. The only time the sacred classical records emerged was in the solemn peacefulness of night. After dinner was eaten and dishes were washed and put away, the four of us-- Mom, Dad, my sister Mel and I-- would congregate in the den.

The den was reserved for a few special uses, and there were really only three items in the room. The couch, a gold velour number you'd only find in the 70's, was long and comfortable and fit all four of us; the computer, an Atari (the latest thing) which was affectionately named Hermione; and The Stereo. Addicted to all things electronic, Dad made sure The Stereo had all the latest gadgets: cassette deck, open-reel, turntable, and eight track player.

Mom, Mel and I would get comfortable on the couch while Dad chose a record. Once the record was on the turntable, he pulled the nubbly brown drapes closed, switched the lights off, and lowered the needle to the groove. Littered with dots of red and green lights, The Stereo was the only light in the room. Dad settled on the couch, and Mel or I would curl up in the crook of his arm.

My heart pounded as the record popped and crackled. Would it be Debussy's soft strains? Or a crash of Tchaikovsky? After the initial jump of adrenaline at the start of the music, my heart slowed down. We'd all close our eyes and listen. The imagery behind my eyelids was of the type only classical music can inspire. Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade" varied from abstract pastels swishing softly to a desperate ship on a storm-tossed sea. The "1812 Overture" involved me energetically conducting the London Philharmonic. Other pieces had already been colored by different experiences. Once I had opened my eyes during "Reverie" and watched the green bars on the receiver measuring the sound, rising and falling with the music. Afterwards that was all I could see when I closed my eyes. "Night on Bald Mountain" was changed forever when I saw Disney's "Fantasia", and spooky images of ghosts and demons danced behind my eyelids.

The majority of these pieces have since been experienced in different ways-- in movies, operas, at work or in the car-- and so have lost their delicious unbiased imagery but not their beauty. However, certain pieces have the same sudden effect. Whenever I hear Debussy's "Reverie", I am immediately in the den with the brown shag carpet, curled up next to Dad, the green lights dancing on The Stereo.

Nai of Birch Bay

Here is my latest silly little children's story. It started out as a story I told to Nai by the campfire in Birch Bay (hence the setting) with several additions of hers thrown in (most significantly, the name of the fairy!). Now if only I could get Eli to do some illustrations...

Nai of Birch Bay

In the mysterious land of Stonydawn, there is a silver forest perched at the edge of the ocean. This beautiful place is called Birch Bay. It is a magical place, where the salty wind rustles the birch trees and sets their silver leaves flashing. The redwinged blackbirds and seagulls sing their wild songs to the sun. But most of all, it’s magical because a fairy called Nai lives there.

Nai lives in the stump of an ancient fir tree. It is soft and sweet-smelling, and has lots of crevices for reading or sleeping or having tea. When she wakes in the morning, she climbs to the top of her stump and throws her tiny voice to the wind, adding her song to the morning songs of the birds. Then she flies to the beach below and dances, leaping from rock to rock and pirouetting on the smooth tips of driftwood branches. She takes care of these woods, and the woods take care of her. They are glad to have each other, because it wasn’t very long ago that they didn’t.

One morning, in this not-too-distant past, Nai stretched up on her stump and gave her morning song to the sea breeze. Only this breeze wasn’t just any breeze. This was the Northwest-But-A-Little-More-West-Than-Actual-Northwest wind, and he was the messenger for a sea dragon. Northwest-But-A-Little-More-West-Than-Actual-Northwest (or NBALMWTAN, as he preferred to be called) had been taking Nai’s morning songs to his master. The dragon, Stalon, loved music. He used to have a little songfish who made music for him, but she swam away to live in warmer waters. Since then, Stalon had lived in a songless world. The dragon had to have the fairy who sang. He sent NBALMWTAN to bring Nai to him.

It happened so fast. Nai was singing her morning song, when—WHOOSH! Her little body was swept up by the wind and plunged into the chilly ocean waters. Farther and farther, deeper and deeper, colder and colder, darker and darker. When at last they arrived at the sea dragon’s cave, NBALMWTAN put her down and whisked away again. The fairy stared at the dragon. The dragon stared at the fairy. Finally, Nai put her hands on her hips and gave him a particularly pixieish scowl.
“What’s the big idea?” She asked.
“Well… I want you to be the fairy of my sea cave. I want you to sing for me.” The dragon replied.
“But I’m the fairy of Birch Bay. I sing for the birds and the trees, not for dragons.”
“I DON’T CARE!!!” Stalon roared. He wasn’t used to not getting his way. “You will be my fairy and sing for me!”

Nai certainly didn’t like getting yelled at like that. She crossed her arms and put her nose up in the air. She twirled around and plopped down with her back to the dragon. And she did not sing. Hours passed. Days passed. Weeks passed. The dragon wanted his songs, and the fairy would not give them to him.

Back at Birch Bay, the woods were suffering without their fairy. The birds forgot how to sing without Nai’s morning songs to guide them. Gradually, the birdsong stopped. The trees felt empty and sad. They started to droop, and their silver leaves turned brown. The flowers wilted, and the frogs stopped jumping because there was no fairy to leap with them. The birds and trees whispered to each other—what happened? Where did Nai go? Didn’t she like them anymore?

Eventually the whispers reached a little redwinged blackbird. She was a young bird, and her parents had tried to protect her from the news of the fairy’s disappearance. When she realized Nai was gone, she remembered a strange occurrence. Several weeks ago, she’d just been awoken by Nai’s beautiful song when it suddenly stopped. She peeped through the marsh grasses just in time to see the little fairy disappear into the sea. There was a strange wind that day. It smelled like burnt seaweed, and it ruffled her feathers the wrong way.

Now she knew that something was very wrong, but she didn’t know what to do. She was just a little redwinged blackbird. How could she ever find a tiny fairy in the vast, unknown ocean? All she could do was tell her parents what she’d seen. Maybe they would know what to do. Before she could find them, though, she felt her feathers ruffling the wrong way in the breeze. She smelled blackened seaweed. The little redwinged blackbird knew she didn’t have time to think—she just jumped on the back of the wind and followed him under the sea.

It was cold—much colder than she’d ever been before. And it was dark. Slowly, her little red-flashed wings grew dimmer. The blue ocean water was washing them away. She had just the faintest shimmer of red on her shoulders by the time she reached the bottom of the ocean. When she finally got to the dragon’s cave, the red was gone completely. She wasn’t a little redwinged blackbird anymore. She was just a little blackbird.

The dragon was sitting in front of the dark mouth of his cave. He hadn’t noticed the just-a-little-blackbird yet. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Nai for eight weeks. He was sure she’d change her mind and start singing for him, but the longer he waited, the longer she sat. She’d tried to escape, but Stalon was too fast for her. Every time she started flying away, his clawed hand reached out and snatched her back. So there they sat. Eventually the dragon saw the just-a-little-blackbird creeping quietly toward the fairy.

“What do you want?” He growled.
Nai looked up and saw the bird. She burst into hopeful light, illuminating the darkness around her. The golden glow gave just-a-little-blackbird the courage she needed to approach the dragon.
“I want our fairy back.” She chirped bravely.
“Not a chance. I want her here, to sing me to sleep. I can’t go to sleep without a lullaby.” Stalon sniffed. He looked quite sad.
“Lullabies? But I can’t even sing bedtime songs. I’m a morning fairy.” Nai stared at the dragon.
He stared back at her. “You can’t?”
“No.”
“Not even ‘Twinkle Twinkle’?...”
“Nope.”
There was a long silence, and then just-a-little-blackbird spoke up.
“I sing night songs. If I teach you a lullaby you can sing to yourself, will you let our fairy go?”
“That’s the problem,” Stalon said. “I can’t sing. See?” He opened his mouth and wheezed, sending sparks drifting and smoke curling through the water.
“Do that again!” The bird exclaimed.
The dragon cooperated, sending a long, wheezing whistle through the ocean.
“That’s perfect!” The just-a-little-blackbird clapped her wings excitedly. “You sound just like I did when I was learning to chirp!”

Over the next few days, she taught the dragon to sing the redwinged blackbird lullaby. It was a little mushy and garbled, and he had to sort of whistle through his nose, but altogether he was very pleased with the result. Stalon sang it to himself, sleepily, one last time before they flew away. “Goodbye…” he murmured. “Goodbye! Goodbye!” they called back to him, but he didn’t hear them because he was already snoring.

Nai and just-a-little-blackbird flew back through the water. It was much harder to push through the water without the help of NBALMWTAN. It was still very dark, and very cold, and sometimes just-a-little-blackbird didn’t think she could make it. But Nai was always there to give her a little push, and they would keep going. Gradually, something strange was happening. The little blackbird’s wings were getting bluer and bluer, like they were picking up the color of the ocean. By the time they broke through the surface and flew through the air to Birch Bay, her wings were a vibrant, shimmering blue.

Nai and her friend Bluewing were almost always together after that. They had tea parties in the fairy’s stump, and danced together on the beach. Nai would awaken Bluewing with her songs in the morning, and Bluewing would sing the fairy to sleep at night. And every once in awhile, a big green scaly nose would emerge from the water and join the bird’s lullaby with a long, whistly wheeze.

Out With the Old... etc, etc.

So far since I've started this blog (which I haven't told anyone about, and therefore can post whatever I want without fear of embarrassment) I've only posted random poems and one angry/sad rant about losing my mom. I guess now that I've run out of my semi-decent older material, it's time to start posting new stuff. Or I could post my old even crappier poems... but no one wants that.

I just finished a rather silly little children's story that I need to tweak a little, and then I'll probably post it here. I'll also make some copies and think about sending them out to publishers before I decide it's all too much bother and throw them in the recycling bin, where many such projects have gone before...

I pretty much started this to have a place to post some of my poems and short stories... but also to explore what makes life worth living. Most of the time I live my life discovering many things that make it all worthwhile, but sometimes things look pretty bleak and I need to reassess the point of it all.

So... here's to the life worth living! Cheers.

Substitute

I hear my name softly called
lizlizlizlizliz
It is your voice that whispers
It is the wind in the firs.

I feel the touch of your fingers
at the nape of my neck.
They trail down... down... and stop.
Your caresses are only raindrops.

Wind pushes the hair back from my face
Rain pelts my mouth with a kiss
I close my eyes and accept with grace
The substitute for your love is this.

2.09.09

At McDonald's
Nai plays
I read
Deepak Chopra
and try to believe
when Mom dies
she will exist
again.

Moonrise

Diana's moon is rising
over the house tonight,
her glowing silk surprising
the darkness with her light.
My children dream in their sleep,
nestled in her clouds.
I lie and count my sheep,
sleep lost among her shrouds.

Waiting

I've been waiting for you--
Bare legs braced against splintered posts
Muscles knotted with tension
Fingers pressed whitely on the worn railing
Eyes straining into the shadows
Skin textured like sandpaper with the cold.
I've been waiting for you--
While stars spread like fireworks into the mist
While raindrops shattered on my forehead
While curious eyes fixed on my rigid silhouette
While the moon burst between the clouds
And taunted me with silver rays.
I've been waiting for you
For so long.
Many lifetimes.

Goodbye

The silhouette--
a heron, blue.
The sun has set.
I think of you.
Rain rips apart
a spider's web.
She'll reweave, and
be destroyed again.
Sweet cedar scent
drawn out by the wet
uplifting and fresh
can't help me forget
your so-sad eyes
the shake of your head
the soft "good-bye"
you barely said.

Wednesday Morning

Wednesday morning.
Tinkerbell watches Curious George.
Cheerios crunch under pajama'd feet.
I inhale coffee fumes-- no time to drink it.

Fall Walk

11.19.08

We wade through a sea
of brown crunchy leaves.
Every swooshing step sounds
like a wave on the shore.

A tiny silver toy jet
draws a perfect white line
across the blue chalkboard sky.

The cat is striped with grassy shadows.
He crouches and pretends
that he is the tiger
and we are antelope.

Groundhog Day

I don't deal with Mom's cancer
by standing outside
inhaling a clove cigarette.
I need the smoky softness
to blur the clarity of the night.
The moon is so close.
I could surprise him--
kiss his astonished mouth.
The rushing whoosh of the freeway
is soothing,
hushed by distance.
Snowdrops break through
the frozen midnight soil.
Their little lives mean nothing.

2.03.09

2.03.09

The frost lays quietly, whitely,
in the early morning hours.
A blade of grass melts on my tongue
like a sugary confection.
The unstoppable sunrise
yellows houses cars trees flowers
Spreading over the world
like a beautiful infection.

For Mom's Fight, That Others May Win

Right now, I am wearing her diamond earrings. I'm drinking from her favorite coffee cup. And I am overcome with sadness, because I shouldn't be doing these things... she should."She" is Mom, Diana Williamson, and she died last month at 59 from cancer.I was going to throw a huge 60th birthday party bash for my folks, but now Mom is dead and Dad doesn't even want to think about his birthday. For the last 42 years, he shared his birthday with her.Mom had been retired two weeks when she went in to the doctor to see about the swelling in her uterus. She and Dad had worked hard, and now it was time to live a little-- travel, indulge her many hobbies, dote on her grandchildren. Instead, she received a terrible diagnosis and died a year and a half later.God, I hate cancer.Cancer robbed my daughters of their grandmothers, both gone much too young. Cancer took away Dad's true love and life partner. Cancer killed my mom, the best woman I have ever known.Mom loved life. She woke up every day determined to make that day the best ever. Even at the end of her life, when she couldn't get out of bed and was attached to machines, she started each morning by looking out the window and saying "What a beautiful day." Every night she said to Dad "What a perfect day." She was the happiest, nicest person I've ever known. She gave herself so completely to so many people, those of us left behind haven't figured out how to fill the holes she's left in so many lives. I know we can't. No one could do it but Mom. She had the biggest, brightest smile and the most contagious laugh.She loved life. And she wanted everyone to have a chance to live it to the fullest, which is why she was so active in the Relay for Life. It's because of her I got involved, raising as much money as we could for the American Cancer Society. Even though her death is so recent and raw, if our positions were switched I know she would be here, writing a letter to raise money to help fight cancer.So even though this is a pretty rough, ranting letter, and even though I've been crying trying to get through it... fighting cancer is more important to me than ever before. So please, if you have a little spare cash, buy a luminaria or two. They are $5 each, and you can dedicate it to Mom or someone else you love who has been touched by cancer. Make checks out to the American Cancer Society, and mail them to me. I won't get to see Mom at the Relay for Life this year, but maybe I can see a big block of luminarias for her, with her beautiful smile shining up at me.

Thank you,
Liz

Blue

Blue

light and shade
across the field
shadows played
where bluebells pealed
blue on jade
their petals wheeled
blew blue glade
my spirit healed