A Gift

We tend to forget many of the experiences that we’ve had, and easily so as some are truly forgettable, others regrettable, and others simply because we must get on with living.  Some events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.

There was a time when I was struggling with a perplexing issue which seemed to defy resolution.  I was bound on all sides with thinking about it, absent of any hope of getting past it when suddenly a forgotten memory emerged.  Shapes, colors, and details became part of the air around me, dancing in concert with each other to form a story that I would tell in a little book that I would write.

It had to do with an extraordinary experience of my childhood which took place in pre-civil-rights era Virginia.   As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning the summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life.   How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along   It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                            Here is an excerpt from my novelette:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

Advertisements

About

cropped-100_0256.jpg

The unencumbered heart expresses freely, clear and true, and in harmony with intent, brings clarity to long-forgotten encounters.  It may take the better part of a lifetime to understand that all experience is to provide understanding.  We may put aside difficult, complex experiences or encounters that seem to fit nowhere with the idea we have of ourselves.   But they are ours still to understand, and when we do, we get to put them where they belong in their place in our lives.   When they reemerge, not threatening nor menacing as they once may have seemed, they come as a lost friend, a most unexpected and powerful affirmation for our lives.

 

What’s the Matter?

Might it be associated with the fact that people are feeling inadequate due to the relentless exposure to other people everywhere?  It’s not natural.  We are not physically capable of having that level of exposure.  It can only happen electronically.

For heaven’s sake, wasn’t it enough being concerned with how you compare to the next person in the room, at a party, on the beach?  Now we have people anywhere in the world to consider!

Recently, I took a day reacting only to people I could actually see in my physical proximity.  I checked in to voice mail a couple of times throughout the day, but the joy was in deciding when that would happen.  What a break!

Have a beautiful day!

Angel on the Highway

It was 1979 and I had a job at a computer firm processing payroll checks. My husband  was at home with our two children as I worked the third shift three nights of the week.

The car I was driving, our second, was a sturdy old Plymouth Valiant, model year 1964. It ran well and had been very reliable for trips to the creek with the children and the dog, or to town to visit a museum, for grocery shopping, and whatever else a mom and two little ones might be bound for in the course of a day.  We never had to worry about spills or mud on the seats so the children loved it.

One night on my way home from work, at approximately 1:30 am it started to rain. By the time I reached the highway it was torrential.  Suddenly my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge and visibility was absolutely null.  I panicked because I remembered that the road was close to a ravine with only a very short rail along the side of it.   I steered the car toward the gravel strip beside the paved road and very slowly drove until I thought that all of the car’s wheels were off of the road and onto the strip. It was pitch black as I got out of my car to see if it was safely positioned.  A chill ran up my spine.  My car was just inches away from the rail.

I got back into the car and rolled down my window to try to flag someone but the traffic was moving so fast that I didn’t feel at all safe doing that so I rolled up the window.   The passenger in a large truck looked straight at me laughed devilishly as it sped by.  I remember feeling absolutely helpless and desperate.

Then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and instead of the terrible darkness I saw two yellow headlights approaching from behind.   I remember thinking that the lights seemed to have an uncharacteristically soft yellow glow.  I felt so relieved as a gentlemen, wearing a brown tweed overcoat and a hat was approaching my car. He tipped his hat as he asked, “Hello, Miss. May I help you with something?” His antiquated gesture and graceful manner were both startling and disarming. Men don’t tip or wear fedora hats these days.  His skin was flawlessly smooth and pale and his eyes were the color of blue crystal.  I was stunned.  I told him that my windshield wipers were not working and that I couldn’t see to drive.  He smiled and said, “I’ll see if I can be of assistance.”  He went straight to work removing the windshield wiper blades and switching them from one side of the window to the other, and turning them so that the worn ends were at the bottom of the windshield.  Then he told me to, “Try them now.”  They worked perfectly well to clear the rain from the windshield so that I had visibility once again.  I was astonished with simplicity of his solution to my problem.  The stranger said that he was glad that he could help me and that I should take good care going home in such weather.   He smiled again as he tipped his hat good-bye.  I thanked him profusely and watched him as he walked to his car, got in and drove away.  As his car disappeared into the darkness from which it came, I was thinking that the round and sturdy looking vehicle was a match with his manner and style of dress, as if from the era of 1950s.

Once my friend was out of sight, I became acutely aware of the intimidating highway traffic swishing by my car.  And I realized that while the kind stranger was with me, how it had seemed as if we were completely alone on the highway, and that for entire time I hadn’t seen nor had I heard any traffic passing at all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

Our lives are a compilation of events that we dismiss for the most part.  I didn’t know that somewhere deep in my heart was a time that I spent with my grandparents.  One day it was there, this sterling moment in my life effortlessly revealing itself to me onto the pages of my little book of 50 pages.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in pre-civil-rights era Virginia.  As I wrote I felt warm and comforting support for a time so dear to me.   Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life.  It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                                        Truth is beauty is Love

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

“When Bad Things Happen”

Picture1212151018_1*

*******
You are constantly given proof,
You are always invited to believe,
You are eternally being supported in that,

                                                     You Are Amazing

Connect with Love
                                            everything else

is

distraction

What a difference a day makes!

In becoming the person you were meant to be in this life, bad things will happen to you. What else will coax you from your carefully maintained comfort zone of limiting possibilities?
So what’s really happening when baaaaad things happen?
Upon reflection, I would have to admit that five years ago I was pretty high on myself.  I felt sure of and satisfied with my life and rather proud of my accomplishments; creative, active, big thinking problem solver, go to person, answer lady, whatever it takes (so said my ex) big time doer, never sick, etc., there was always something going on, something that I needed to do. I always wore the most intriguing outfits and was fairly certain that I was personally responsible for a few trends. “You’re where you should be all the time and when you’re not you’re with…..”
Well, then I became ill.
For the next two months I lived in my office scouring the internet and printing out pages of reports and findings on suspecting causes.
Doctor after doctor and no one could tell me why or give a cause for “my condition” other than anxiety. So of course I was prescribed medication. Once on impulse I thanked a doctor for his insight because I could feel his growing frustration and impatience with me, and because I so needed at least a feeling of something constructive to come of this latest consultation.  He seemed pleased with himself and very condescendingly sent me on my way, sure of his victory over my presentation.  Just Imagine, feeling the worst you’ve ever felt and the only action available to you was to alleviate the stress in the person you rely upon to help you.  It was clear to me that I would have to find my way to the answers through my own efforts.

What you need is always there for you

On a day that I shall never forget, with one particular specialist, I answered yes to a question all doctors ask during consultation. Until then each time I’d answered no. The question was, “Do you have a headache?”
Driving home from yet another perplexed doctor, I wondered, after 3 months into my investigation of my illness, and so many visits to doctors and emergency rooms what was different this time? Why had I answered yes? I started going backward with all of the details of that day. Everything was unremarkable except for how, uncharacteristically, I had closed the windows of my car leaving only the sunroof open because it was chilly from the night before when it rained. No air, all windows open is my usual. Was there anything else about the car? Yes there was. The engine has recently been replaced. Slowly coming forward to conscientiousness, an ethereal suggestion hinted, “Could carbon monoxide be involved?”

Once at home I immediately I called my general practitioner’s office. I spoke to the nurse and told her I needed the doctor to know about my suspicions regarding my car and carbon monoxide. She called back minutes later to ask if I meant to say carbon dioxide. Really?  I started to cry. I had never been so completely frustrated or felt so entirely lost, alone, and desperate. I fell to the floor and prayed, “Please help me. Down here no one seems to know anything!” Then, an instruction was given to me, a concise, authoritative, directive,  “Take the carbon monoxide detector from the wall and place it in the car.” I was stunned for a moment. Then I followed through placing the meter in the driver’s seat, I closed the windows, started the engine, got out of the car, and closed the door. After 10 minutes waiting on my porch, I returned to the car to get the meter reading which registered a very high level of carbon monoxide. I was being poisoned by my car’s exhaust fumes!

Stress slipped away and I felt a warm comforting Presence all around me. I didn’t want to stray from it so I continued to lie there enjoying the most amazing sense of security and love and acceptance. I could have been taken away on a breeze. My prayer was answered and I felt safe for the first time in months.

Recovery from this kind injury takes a long time and patient, consistent self-care. What a challenge it is for a previously impatient me!

I am different now.  I can’t do-it-all these days but with Grace I’ve learned, in exchange, that when I allow others to do for me I get to experience the beautiful gift of connection existing between us all. I was surprised to find that people seem to gravitate to the opportunity to experience that connection, to express the Love! Amazing!

For a take-charge personality the biggest challenge has been a simple one; to allow others. Though it continues to be my first response, I just don’t get a charge out of reacting in that take-charge way anymore. My good fortune has been that I’ve established some incredible bonds as well as rid myself of a couple of fair-weather-friends (after so many years, who knew, though they have always been rather difficult.) Because of my illness I know some of what’s been missing. And each day I discover more, i.e. my love of writing!

So could it be that the bad things that happen are just an invitation to experience your life from a different perspective, to see what becomes of you? And perhaps it’s all part of the grand design anyway, in revealing the wonder of you, your self, your most precious and amazing gift!
Wow!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

We tend to forget many of the experiences that we’ve had, and easily so as some are truly forgettable, others regrettable, and still others simply because we must get on with our lives.  Some events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.

For months I’d been struggling with a perplexing issue which seemed to defy resolution.  I was bound on all sides with thinking about it, when suddenly a forgotten memory emerged.  Shapes, colors, and details became part of the air around me, dancing in concert with each other to form a story that I would tell in a little book that I would write.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in pre-civil-rights era Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning the summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life.   How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along   It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                            Here is an excerpt from my novelette:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until suppertime. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Like Mercury

A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.
A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.

Monday, December 21, 2015

My brother John was an enigmatic sort of person.  He was 4 1/2 years my senior and next in line with me so at times we’d play, if he had nothing else to do that is.  He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant.  I looked forward to the times when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum.

His bedroom was collection of unusual, mysterious objects.  With the general feeling that he’d over looked the placing of a skull and crossbones, I imagined it there above the door of his bedroom.

There was, among his collection of things, a bottle of mercury.  How he came upon the substance is quite another story I am sure.  As with most other matters concerning my brother, I never knew the answer to that question.

In my mind, his character is brilliantly revealed with the event of one particular day.  He might have been 16 years old then and I, 11 or 12.  We were alone in his bedroom.  His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle.  It was filled to only 1/4 capacity.  John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand.  The weight was extraordinary.  Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor.  It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls.  Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another.  When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one large silver puddle.  There was no trace of reside left behind. It seemed like magic to me.  John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard like a dustpan pushing the silver ball onto it with the first piece.  Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle.  John beamed triumphant.  I was speechless.

Butterfly

Some People

They would that you never realize your brilliance.

They would that you never live a day knowing your truth, your strength, your creativity.

They would break you into bits, conviscatible little pieces.

They would absorb these parts of you to become one with them…mercuracle.

A great gust would take away what’s left of you…perhaps as far as a desert!

Your bones could bleach there under the heat of the sun.

With the stolen pieces they attempt to realize how you are but they can’t.  They can only express a gross misinterpretation of your intention.

And in failing they feel contempt and loathing for ever having taken notice of you.

***

What a collossal waste of precious time!

Will they ever come to realize the beauty and magic residing within themselves?

No matter…be Love, be generous, glorious you.  Inspire!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell.  I wrote this one.

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

From sheer overload we tend to forget many of the compilation of events that make our lives. Some of these events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.

In the midst of struggling with my life’s complexities, I was presented with the most amazing gift.  A long forgotten memory suddenly emerged and I began to write. Effortlessly, with every detail that I could recall I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.

It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950s on a farm in Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life.  And how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along   It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

Here is an excerpt.

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until suppertime. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                       ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Christmas

Picture1212151049_1

John Wanamaker Department Store (now Macy’s)

Christmas Light Show, Christmastime 2014

************************************************

Friday, December 24, 2016

Christmas

Christmastime! After so many Christmases, I am amazed at how eager I am still, preparing for the “most wonderful time of the year”, the songs and carols, sparking lights and colors, the fragrance of Christmas!

I remember when I was a child, my mother and aunt would take me to center city Philadelphia for a visit with Santa Claus.  Dressed in my maroon coat and leggings, Mother, Aunt Ginny and I would trot along from Suburban Train Station through City Hall courtyard to Wanamaker’s department store at Market and 15th Streets . A massive and glorious great Spruce tree adorned the City taking its place on the brass star inlay that marked the very center of Philadelphia. And always, at the very end of the courtyard promenade we came upon the chestnut vendor at his post just inside the shelter of the pass-through. The air was thick with roasting chestnuts which I tried my best to find appealing because of how Nat King Cole sung so fondly of them in his famous Christmas song, failing every time though to hold my breath long enough to pass the area of the ubiquitous pungent aroma. But every year, the vendor was in the same place and at some point in my childhood, I came to enjoy the roasting chestnuts because it was among the many things that happened only at Christmastime.

Back then it seemed that all Christmases were guaranteed to be cold ones. My woolen coat and leggings were an unwelcome but necessary burden against the cold which once inside the department store, became far too warm and cumbersome.  There were two ways a girl could wear her leggings; either under her dress or over with the dress tucked inside. This way assured easier access when necessary, but missing the more ladylike and full display of the Christmas dress. So, with properly planned bathroom visits and Aunt Ginny‘s assistance, I wore my leggings underneath my dress, just as Mother preferred. And with hat, gloves, and my purse and Christmas list tucked inside slung across my chest, the three of us sallied on toward Santa Claus.

Either before or after visiting Santa, we’d join the crowd for the John Wanamaker Christmas Light Show.  Back then, there was an additional part to the show.  A water display “danced along” with the  organ music accompaniment played live with every show. Changing lights colored the sparkling water as it swayed back and forth in front of the Christmas tree of lights.  John Facenda, Philadelphia’s premiere news anchor, gifted his distinctive baritone to the narration of the story of Clara in the Land of Sweets, Toyland, and Frosty the Snowman.  The light show was a wonderful gift for children and adults alike and remains today as one of the treasured events of Christmas in Philadelphia.

As the years passed and I grew to see beyond my own wishes and expectations, I realized that something else was happening at Christmastime; that there was a feeling the season brings which captures the heart and mind, having the most profound effect upon people. They were happier, willing to forget their differences, going out of their way and often out of character to smile and express compassion toward one another.

I may have been 7 years old or some where about the first time that I presented gifts to my family.  They consisted of a crayon drawing or something I was able to craft from the odds and ends of Mother’s sewing box, button bracelets and such.   I remember clearly a feeling that seemed to take hold as I became totally immersed in making a present for each family member.  It is a memory as crystalline as Christmas itself and a wonderful reminder of how lucky I am for the people who I have to love and with whom to share in the great joy of giving.

May we remember the Gift of Jesus Christ, His Unconditional Love for every one of us, His amazing sacrifice this Christmas and everyday.

Merry Christmas everyone!

‘sLove!

Char

*************************************************************

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

Our lives are a compilation of events that we dismiss for the most part.  I didn’t know that somewhere deep in my heart was this time that I spent with my grandparents.  One day it was there, this sterling moment in my life effortlessly revealing itself to me onto the pages of my little book of 50 pages.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in pre-civil-rights era Virginia.   As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time so dear to me.   Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it brought to my life.  It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

Angel on the Highway

 

It was 1979 and I had a job at a computer firm processing payroll checks. My husband  was at home with our two children while I worked the third shift three nights of the week.

The car I was driving, our second, was a sturdy old Plymouth Valiant, model year 1964. It ran well and had been very reliable for trips to the creek with the kids and the dog, or to town to visit a museum, for grocery shopping, and whatever else a mom and two kids were bound for in the course of a day.  We never had to worry about spills or mud on the seats so the children loved it.

One night on my way home from work, at approximately 1:30 am it started to rain.  By the time I reached the highway it was pouring torrents.  Suddenly my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge and visibility was absolutely null.  I panicked because I remembered that the road was close to a ravine with only a very short rail along the side of it.   I steered the car toward the gravel strip beside the paved road and very slowly drove until I thought that I had all of the car’s wheels off of the road and onto the strip. It was pitch black as I got out of my car to see if it was safely positioned.  A chill ran up my spine.  My car was just inches away from the rail.

I got back into the car and rolled down my window to try to flag someone but the traffic was moving so fast that I didn’t feel at all safe doing that so I rolled up the window.   The passenger in a large truck looked straight at me laughed devilishly as it sped by.  I remember feeling absolutely helpless and desperate.

Then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and instead of the terrible darkness I saw two yellow headlights approaching from behind.   I remember thinking that the lights seemed to have an uncharacteristically soft yellow glow.  I felt so relieved as a gentlemen, wearing a brown tweed overcoat and a hat was approaching my car.  He tipped his hat as he asked, “Hello miss can I help you with something?”  His antiquated gesture and graceful manner were both startling and disarming.  Men don’t tip or wear fedora hats these days.  His skin was flawlessly smooth and pale and his eyes were the color of blue crystal.  I was stunned.  I told him that my windshield wipers were not working and that I couldn’t see to drive.  He smiled and said, “I’ll see if I can be of assistance.”  He went straight to work removing the windshield wiper blades and switching them from one side of the window to the other, and turning them so that the worn ends were at the bottom of the windshield.   Then he told me to, “Try them now.”  They worked perfectly well to clear the rain from the windshield so that I had visibility once again.  I was astonished with simplicity of his solution to my problem.  The stranger said that he was glad that he could help me and that I should take good care going home in such weather.   He smiled again as he tipped his hat good-bye.  I thanked him profusely and watched him as he walked to his car, got in and drove away.  As his car disappeared into the darkness from which it came, I was thinking that the round and sturdy looking vehicle was a match with his manner and style of dress, as if from the era of 1950s.

Once my friend was out of sight, I became acutely aware of the intimidating highway traffic swishing by my car.  And I realized that while the kind stranger was with me, how it had seemed as if we were completely alone on the highway, and that for entire time I hadn’t seen nor had I heard any traffic passing at all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

Our lives are a compilation of events that we dismiss for the most part.  I didn’t know that somewhere deep in my heart was this time that I spent with my grandparents.  One day it was there, this sterling moment in my life effortlessly revealing itself to me onto the pages of my little book of 50 pages.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in pre-civil-rights era Virginia.   As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time so dear to me.   Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it brought to my life.  It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                                        Truth is beauty is Love
You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

When Bad Things Happen

*******
You are constantly given proof,
You are always invited to believe,
You are eternally being supported in that,
                       You Are Amazing!

Connect with Love
                                                                                                                                      everything else is distraction

What a difference a day makes!

In becoming the person you were meant to be in this life, bad things will happen to you. What else will coax you from your carefully maintained comfort zone of limiting possibilities?
So what’s really happening when baaaaad things happen?
Upon reflection, I would have to admit that five years ago I was pretty high on myself.  I felt sure of and satisfied with my life and rather proud of my accomplishments; creative, active, big thinking problem solver, go to person, answer lady, whatever it takes (so said my Ex) big time doer, never sick, etc., there was always something going on, something that I needed to do. I always wore the most intriguing outfits and was fairly certain that I was personally responsible for a few trends. “You’re where you should be all the time and when you’re not you’re with…..”
Well, then I became ill.
For the next two months I lived in my office scouring the internet and printing out pages of reports and findings on suspecting causes.
Doctor after doctor and no one could tell me why or give a cause for “my condition” other than anxiety. So of course I was prescribed medication. Once on impulse I thanked a doctor for his insight because I could feel his growing frustration and impatience with me, and because I so needed at least a feeling of something constructive to come of this latest consultation.  He seemed pleased with himself and very condescendingly sent me on my way, sure of his victory over my presentation.  Just Imagine, feeling the worst you’ve ever felt and the only action available to you was to alleviate the stress in the person you rely upon to help you.  It was clear to me that I would have to find my way to the answers through my own efforts.

What you need is always there for you

On a day that I shall never forget, with one particular specialist, I answered yes to a question all doctors ask during consultation. Until then each time I’d answered, “No.”  The question was, “Do you have a headache?”
Driving home from yet another perplexed doctor, I wondered, after 3 months into my investigation of my illness, and so many visits to doctors and emergency rooms what was different this time? Why had I answered yes? I started going backward with all of the details of that day. Everything was unremarkable except for how uncharacteristically, I had closed the windows of my car leaving only the sunroof open because it was chilly from the night before when it rained. No air, all windows open is my usual. Was there anything else about the car? Yes there was. The engine had recently been replaced. Just then an ethereal suggestion coming slowly into consciousness hinted, “Could carbon monoxide be involved?”

Once at home I immediately I called my general practitioner’s office. I spoke to the nurse and told her I needed to the doctor to know about my suspicions regarding carbon monoxide. She called back minutes later to ask if I meant to say carbon dioxide. Really?  I started to cry. I had never been so completely frustrated or felt so entirely lost, alone, and desperate. I fell to the floor and prayed, “Please help me. Down here no one seems to know anything!” Then an instruction was given to me, a concise, authoritative, directive,  “Take the carbon monoxide detector from the wall and place it in the car.” I was stunned for a moment. Then I followed through placing the meter in the driver’s seat, I closed the windows, started the engine, got out of the car, and closed the door. After 10 minutes waiting on my porch, I returned to the car to get the meter reading which registered a very high level of carbon monoxide. I was being poisoned by my car’s exhaust fumes!
Stress slipped away and I felt a warm comforting Presence all around me. I didn’t want to stray from it so I continued to lie there enjoying the most amazing sense of security and love and acceptance. I could have been taken away on a breeze. My prayer was answered and I felt safe for the first time in months.

Recovery from this kind injury takes a long time and patient, consistent self-care. What a challenge it is for a previously impatient me!

I am different now.  I can’t do-it-all these days but with Grace I’ve learned, in exchange, that when I allow others to do for me I get to experience the beautiful gift of connection existing between us all. People seem to gravitate to the opportunity to experience that connection, to express the Love! Amazing!
For a take-charge personality the biggest challenge has been a simple one; to allow others. Though it continues to be my first response, I just don’t get a charge out of reacting in that way anymore. My good fortune has been that I’ve established some incredible bonds as well as rid myself of a couple of fair-weather-friends (after so many years, who knew, though they have always been rather difficult.) Because of my illness I know some of what’s been missing. And each day I discover more, i.e. my love of writing!

So could it be that the bad things that happen are just an invitation to experience your life from a different perspective, to see what becomes of you? And perhaps it’s all part of the grand design anyway, in revealing the wonder of you, your self, your most precious and amazing gift!
Wow!

** During this most difficult time of my life, a long-forgotten memory emerged.  Following my inspiration I started writing what I could remember.  As recollections unfolded the title was changed several times but it was clear in the end that this was my story.

With much love and gratitude,

Char

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

This is a 50-page novelette about the most extraordinary experience of my childhood which took place in pre-civil-rights era Virginia.  It was written with love and deep appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

Be good, be you be well!

Love,

Char

Hello world!

Well finally, after 5 years of dealing with my “condition” I feel both the strength and motivation, enough so that I can invest the time marketing my book, my novelette, Two Little Girls.

I hear that this is when the real work begins.  After all, the words came pouring out of me and in less than two weeks I had written a book!

It all started in 2010 with an unexpected visit to my home.  I was living alone in the  old family house.  The youngest member of my family of 12, recently reduced by the passing of its three most elder members; my maternal aunt, my father and then my mother.  Visiting today was the only remaining relative of my parents’ generation, a generation that thought it polite and necessary to “come calling” on extended family.

I remember that whenever he came to call, he brought something special with the bond that existed between them.  A world seemed to form around the three of them built upon their recollections and bursts of laughter that would not be contained.  They were almost childlike, one out-doing the other with what they remembered of the past.  I enjoyed seeing them this way.  I can think of nothing to provoke such abandonment of parental restraint as Simon’s visits.  But today he’d come to visit with me.  I was thrust into connecting with him as one adult to another.

It was odd as we two sat in Mother’s living room as I cannot remember anything  passing between us beyond a smile and, in those days, what was considered acceptable, brief admonishment for what could be expected from a child for simply being one.    It wasn’t long before he told me the news that my grandparent’s farm had been sold to a developer.  The house, the barn, the smokehouse, everything was gone.

I couldn’t move.  I never thought that it would be destroyed; perhaps renovated beyond recognition but not that it wouldn’t be there in some form for me to visit whenever I chose to do so.

Instantly it seemed the earth around me fell away and I was standing on a small bit looking out with no point of reference.  In an attempt to hold on to what I remember, a story evolved to include all that remained with me of my grandparents farm in Virginia.

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html