life

“Bozos on the Bus”

Posted on by cdjcollings

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.

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

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!

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

Mother and Father

Posted on by cdjcollings

There are times when life defies understanding, the information we want, that we think we should have while experiencing a moment. Understanding may come later, unexpectedly, inconveniently. We may have settled with our current knowing so this revelation can also be obtrusive. But it is undeniable. We recognize a solved mystery revealed, but now we also have long ago adapted ourselves to make up for unanswered questions. We are fine now. But this understanding comes just the same.

Along with this, I think of my parents today. They were so very down to earth, no nonsense. I wanted a little more fluff, like I saw with my friend’s families. But Mother and Dad would have none of that. They were completely aware and not without aspirations but theirs were completely customized to fit their lives and not a carbon copy of anyone else. Eventually Mother and Dad moved our family into a big, stone house on 1/4 acre in a wonderful town. It was the envy of many, including the “fluffy” people. That’s the way that they were, patient and determined in reaching their aspirations.

Mother was highly admired for her leadership, her strength, her drive, her vision. She was unique. She envied no one. She set her sites on a thing and off she went in that direction., fashionably dressed, striking and confident, beautiful. People wanted to know her.

My Father was a quiet giant. He was strong in his beliefs and resolve. When he spoke you listened, you remembered because he wasted no words. He was quite handsome and he adored my Mother. Both strong individuals, my parents, but quite different in their approach in maintaining their strengths.

Looking back now, what has come to mind today, the understanding, is my parents approach to teaching discipline, responsibility, character and integrity; not with so many words, but by the way in which we were left to decide how to behave. They laid down the law and gave us the freedom to follow through. And having garnered our admiration and respect for them, my brothers, my sisters, and I seemed most times to come to the right decision that kept us in line and taught the tough lessons.

My parents were not averse to using the strap. I could tell a couple of stories about that, maybe later. (Spare the rod and spoil the child.). But I realize how intelligent they were. The simple way that they had with teaching and with most everything. They often told me just to look and listen. Don’t ask so many questions. Now this was completely in opposition to what we were taught in school. I often felt that I needed to ask more questions; how I might not be as smart as the ones in class who were constantly asking questions. But as it turns out, my parents were so right in their approach. Most of my questions were answered and in the most significant way. Those answers came during the course of a lesson if I just paid attention. And because of allowing myself the time to receive the answers, they were so much more valuable as the process involved only me. I received the information in the way for my mind to comprehend (we all have our unique way) instead of having to try to understand someone else’s interpretation or significant take on a subject. It was mine and will continue to be mine, foundational, solid, but open to further clarity and substance. I am not purporting that questions should not be asked in class at school, but only if one is inclined to ask, after listening. And at that point in time, more often than not, you may not have questions. I hope this makes sense.

And as always, with love,

Char

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

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 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 1957 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 had brought to my life.   How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along!  It is a story of love and an 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 ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available through my publisher, Booklocker:  

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

also

Barnes & Noble

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

and

Amazon.com

Kindle only. Type in “charon diane”

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

“The mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

Posted on by cdjcollings

Sometime in the 1970s, there was a tv commercial by The United Negro College Fund which ended with this line. It was a commercial promoting the significance of education. Not sure if I’ve used the correct article; it could have declared “A” mind, etc. None the less the message remains the same.

What/who do we rely upon to inform us? Have we actually given thought to this question? I will guess many people have never. We are provided unsolicited information, answers to questions never asked. We live in a fast-paced environment leaving little space and time for our minds to ponder, to reach the place from where questions arise. We need not put in the effort, ultimately accepting data bombarding our senses. What is wrong here? Everything goes along smoothly so what could be wrong with this?

Well, in the presence of overwhelming information and distractions, we may have completely lost connection with what could be our own thoughts. But would we notice this phenomenon at all?

Observing trending ideologies, I am amazed with how easily they take root and grow; how readily accepted, that questions asked by a person who pauses to think before accepting information seems to be an irritant to others who accept without question whatever is presented. People can even become violent in their beliefs which I contend are not actually their own. The worst of this is that most likely, they won’t realize this. In so many areas of their lives, they haven’t had to actually think things through, so they don’t know that they have this natural ability. They don’t know the valuable resource within themselves. And the thinking person is a fright, a danger to their stability and safety. They put up defenses. They will argue a point, not realizing the genesis of which is not of themselves. They are not accustomed to being present with themselves.

We are feeling, experiencing how detrimental this has become for our society.

Ha! I actually had a client, a young woman, who once remarked that she doesn’t like to think!

Take time. Put in the work. Go within. Ask questions!

Love to all!

Char

John

Posted on by cdjcollings
A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.
Brazilian Toucan

 

My big brother John was an enigmatic sort.  He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me.  He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so  I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum. 

His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things.  My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.

The events of one particular day best reveal his character.  He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10.  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 silver puddle.  There was no trace left behind.  John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one.  Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it.  John beamed triumphant.  I was speechless.

Butterfly

Be Love, be generous, glorious you!

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

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

While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift.  A childhood memory suddenly emerged.   It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me.  I began to write.  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 1950’s 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 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 ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available through my publisher, Booklocker.   –   http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

and:

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

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

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

Some People

Posted on by cdjcollings

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 and pieces.

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

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 colossal waste of precious time!  Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?

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

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

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

It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950’s 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 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 ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available through my publisher, Booklocker.   –   http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

and:

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

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

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

Who Are You?

Posted on by cdjcollings

photo by Alexey Kijatov

We may think we know ourselves, but unless and until we determine and identify the various aspects of our personality, I wonder how can we truly know.

I may not be describing this as well as I might, but this is how it seems to me.

We should have an awareness of what is important to us, what we keep within us; such as:.

What we believe.

What we will not tolerate.

We we must always do in every situation.

What we will never allow ourselves to do in any situation, and so on.

And what are the things that we expect of other people who enter our lives, etc. etc..

Each person brings a pre-determined standard along with every encounter, otherwise we are vulnerable to any well-phrased opinion, especially by someone we admire.

Speaking of this, you may give credibility to someone, an eloquent speaker with a well spring of knowledge, very convincing, charismatic and engaging. But what if something that is said comes against a standard that you have for yourself…a standard that you actually have, but have not determined or recognized as such?

Maybe you paid to be in the audience of this person. You are enjoying what you are hearing. Then suddenly, the person says something that is a little irritating, just “a little bit” (channelling De Niro’s character from the movie Goodfellas, haha!). The person has captured your attention and has your trust and respect. But still, you find what has just been uttered to be slightly irritating. It doesn’t fit. Their narrative should resonate with you; you expected it to have. You are annoyed with yourself because of this intrusive and inconvenient feeling. You want it to go away. You wait to hear something that overrides this initial response within you, bringing the speaker back in line with what you expect to hear. You invested in this moment after all. Are you the only one who feels this way? It may seem to be only with you.

In a very real way it is only you. It is personal.

Whether you have actually given thought to this or not, you have a guidance system. And it may come as a surprise to find how unconsciousness you can be of it, and how it works with and for you.

I would like to suggest that you take a moment to identify what makes you who you are by getting to know your silent guidance system. What are your morals and standards for yourself, and for others? It may take a while because who can name every thing, and you have not thought In this way before, not like this? But it can be very enlightening. And the irritation that you felt with the person of many opinions, well, you will probably come to realize has something to do with your internal guidance system.

Discovering yourself by naming the things that make you who you are can be a lot of fun and a little surprising! But what is even more significant, is realizing there is a system at work all of the time. Trust that it is sorting things out for you. And, while identifying your guidance system, you may find that some things could be changed, in order to be your authentic self! If you are clearly and honestly identifying what guides you, you may want to actually make a change or two. With determined and thorough examination, you may have found by identifying all that is guiding you, that changes can be made! Each of us, we are evolving all of the time. So taking this look of what is guiding us can be thought of as maintenance; making sure that we are aligned with ourselves in the present time.

It is a hell of a thing! Residing within you may be a standard that has the ability to, and may have taken you in directions that you didn’t intend to go, and what a revelation this could be for you, more over how empowering that you control this! You have always been in control.

Well, now with this new-found consciousness of the control that you have always had, I think now as I write this, that there is also, and no less significant, the opportunity to forgive yourself for decisions you may have made, unconsciously!

Taking inventory of your guidance system and realizing the control you actually have in the creation of the life you live may be time very well spent.

Wow. Wee!!!

“Thoughts create things!” (this is a quote from in the movie, The Secret)

Get to know your guidance system. You may need an update!

Get to know yourself!

Have fun!

Love to all!

Char

Like Mercury

Posted on by cdjcollings

An edited re-posting, for a time such as this.

Love to all,

Char

A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.
Brazilian Toucan

Monday, December 21, 2015

John was an enigmatic sort of person.  He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me.  He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so  I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum. 

His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things.  My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.

The events of one particular day best reveal his character.  He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10.  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 silver puddle.  There was no trace left behind.  John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one.  Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it.  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 and pieces.

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

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 colossal waste of precious time!  Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?

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

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

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

While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift.  A childhood memory suddenly emerged.   It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me.  I began to write.  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 1950’s 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 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 ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available through my publisher, Booklocker.   –   http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

and:

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

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

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

Posted on by cdjcollings

This is an old post, from one of our worst years in recent memory, 2020.

While editing something else here, I was inspired to read this post again. How nice to be able to say that I have experienced the humanity in people more and more everyday. I hope that you are able to say the same.

Love prevails and heals, especially so when all else fails.

Char

What If?

Friends forever!

Hard to tell what the truth is.  We’re in the midst of something that we cannot navigate if we are to listen to what is being said.  There is just so much: half-truths, fabrications, even lies; information withheld because there is no complete certainty of what is actually within our midst.  Everyone has an opinion; yet no one knows for sure.

And we do like being sure.

We need to know for sure.

Well, too bad because this one has got us by the “you-know-whats”.  While no one wants to leave their well-being to a crap shoot, we do our due diligence health wise and hope it suffices.

As there is no definitive, there is no clearly effective shield from this scourge.  No one finds themselves more able to insulate themselves than the person in back of the line.

Anger and divisiveness does not make us safer.

Sanitize everything, keep your distance…

So what now?

I must say that I’ve been made aware of a change.  As unnerving as it is, I think the uncertainty makes people more considerate of each other, somehow.  I notice kindness, more tolerance, even a tepid sense of humor in instances where people might previously  have chosen to avoid each other.  It is a little startling, pleasantly so.  And I’ll take it!

Is this virus the thing that provokes us to be more of a human being toward next person?

It is a tough lesson but this microscopic bit of hope within the extenuating circumstances of the corona virus could have a more profound and unexpected impact toward improving the situation in which we all find ourselves; to change our way with each other like nothing else, if, you believe in the power of such sentiments as consideration, or kindness, compassion, love?  I  do.  Is that a stretch?

But let’s face it.  Fear makes friends like nothing else can.  Or as Shakespeare said, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.”

Now the trick is to get to this place without such terrible provocation.

The effort is so very well worth making.  And it requires so little of us.

Sending loving kindness and good health to everyone, everywhere!

♥

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

Years had gone by without a single thought of the time in 1957 when I spent the summer with my grandparents on their farm in Virginia.  Then, in the midst of a prolonged illness, among all of the things my mind was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted in.  Totally unprovoked and effortlessly revealing, I felt the need to write everything that I could remember, just as it presented itself to me.

And as I wrote, I became more and more immersed within the warmth and comfort of that time with my grandparents, so precious and dear to me now, as I realize after all, how much meaning it brought to my life.

This glimpse into their world was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family, for my heritage.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                                   

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

* A little of how it goes:

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 ~~~~~~

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available at my publisher’s website:

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

Also available at Barnes and Noble:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-diane/1022157163?ean=2940014433099

and at Amazon:

        https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2