Each person has history, much of which can seem to be unremarkable. Each day a new day but for the most part, very similar to the day before. But then suddenly, colliding with the synchronicities of someone else’s life, there is a meeting of souls. It is unprovoked, unexpected and out of sync with the rest of one’s current situation. But it is stunningly impactful and intense, taking the place of whatever either person imagined to encounter. Everything is the odd thing, but there seems to be familiarity, and things and experiences that are common to both. What is this? What does one do with this strange collision of souls? Well, there is only one way when it concerns love. Either one is all-in or one is not. There is no half way to have this experience.

But is it possible that this “connection” though is more simply be “the art” of a manipulator, a man who, on first encounter recognizes something in the other person and uses the gift of gab and charm as weapons to reflect the feelings of this other so that it passes as connection? Could he be someone who has learned how to turn every experience with another soul into food for sustenance for his ego? Things are rarely so perfect. Hmmm.

Ego distorts and self-directs all actions in love relationships. It consumes all of the energy from them. And the person behind the ego can never experience the love potential with another human being. Actions are not authentic but all trickery and strategy, which after so many years is well-honed for implementation on most of the people encountered, poor love-sick souls with no understanding of what it is to truly love someone. The circumstances of this meeting were unexpected and not result of an active search.

I had a very good friend who used to refer to people as “bozos on the bus”, which is the title of a 1971 comedy album by Firesign Theatre. When I complained about some senseless act that someone might have done, in response he would say, “Ah, we’re all just bozos on the bus.”; using this reference for everyone because it allows us to forgive our foibles and not to expect so much of each other.

Forgiveness, it is extremely powerful and one of the very best things that we can do for other people and for ourselves. So I forgive when I need to because after all, we are all “bozos on the bus”.

Truth is Beauty is Love is God

May this new year bring love and light to everyone,

Char

Dedicated to “M”.

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

A few years ago, I was grappling with a health condition which defied understanding of several medical professionals. After extensive online research, I myself would come to discover what was keeping me ill. The process was draining and exhausting. One day, at my desk wondering where else to look for answers, I folded my arms and rested my head. I seemed to be falling asleep as a memory from my childhood, of a summer that I visited with my grandparents at their farm in Virginia drifted into my mind. It was a very clear recollection of what happened so long ago so I started to write everything that was coming to me.

Here is an excerpt of what turned out to be a 50-page novelette.

This is the 4th chapter where I tell of the night my grandfather picked up my mother and me from the train station in Fredericksburg, Va.

4

My grandfather’s forest green Buick was quite the automobile with plush seats that reminded me of our living room couch. It was round like cars were then, with huge chrome grill adorning the front of it. The doors closed with an impressive sound, firm and solid, and inside there was a slight scent of musk from having been parked for long periods of time, I imagined, in reserve for special occasions. Buffed to a high sheen and with the occasional scent possessed by new cars, we made our way through the dark night under a sky as I had never seen it; so filled with stars with practically no space at all between them. “We don’t get to see so many stars back home do we? Isn’t it beautiful?” she said. I turned to the rear window. The entire sky seemed to defy the passage of the vehicle as did the farmhouses, trees, and roadside mailboxes. I began to feel very small and insignificant as I turned back around and closer to my mother.

From the highway the tires ground onto a narrow dirt road. As we rumbled along the air became moist, cool; filled with the many unfamiliar scents of the countryside. The startling awareness of skunk was somewhat softened by the sweet surprise of wild honeysuckle that my mother said grew wildly along the length of a fence. The Buick’s headlamps captured husks growing low on towering cornstalks. The crop had grown out over the sides of the road threatening to swallow the car as well, but only the sound, reduced to a soft rumble was forfeited, as it flumped up and over the bumps in the road and in and out of the ditches. With yellow cones of light showing the way, the night was teeming with fluttering ethereal life forms darting in and out, and the relentless sound of a million crickets. 

Through the darkness we walked along a small path toward the light of the farmhouse to find my Grandmother waiting by the kitchen door. Her smiling eyes were mere crescents above cheeks like apples and her braid was coiled and pinned back. She was shorter than she seemed from the stories my mother had told about her. I remember never having been as completely hugged as I was that day within her full bosom, smelling of the coconut cake that was at the center of the table in the old country kitchen. I felt known and loved in the most reassuring way. And I thought that she must have heard many stories about me as well, and that eventually I would discover somewhere in this house without mantels, the baby-in-pink with-teddy picture that other seldom visited relatives all seemed to possess. After a glass of lemonade and a piece of the coconut cake, I was shuttled off to bed as the elders lingered over a pitcher of tea. I remember that the smokehouse hickory seemed to be everywhere, even in the sheets with the little red roses that I slept on that night.

Available through my publisher, Booklocker. 

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

and:

Barnes & Noble

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

You are amazing!  Create something beautiful today!

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