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.


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 Diane

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!




Thinking of Paris

302 autumn
Sunday, November 15, 2015
A Loss of Heart

When people do horrific things they are often described as having lost their minds.
It may be more accurate to suggest that they had lost their hearts.
The mind is where acts of horror originate and grow.
If led by the heart, it would be impossible to violate or cause harm in any way at all.

The misguided souls who committed this atrocity must know this now that they have met their Maker.  The rest of us can only continue to love and respect each other.  What else can we do?

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!

** 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,


Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

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!



Hello world!

Well finally, after 5 years 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 created a story, a book!

It all started with an unexpected visit to my home.   It was 2010.  I was living alone in the big house.  The youngest member of my family of 12, recently reduced to a shadow of itself by its three most significant members, In order of their passing, my maternal aunt, my father and my mother.  My visitor was the only remaining relative of my parents’ generation, a generation that thought it only polite and necessary to “come calling” on extended family.   During his visits I can recall the conversations and the world that formed around them, with the quietly polite familiarity that Simon shared with my parents.   But today he’d come to visit with me. I was thrust into connecting with him as one adult to another.

It was forced and odd as we two sat in Mother’s living room.   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 summit 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