With Child and With-Child

Dear Mr. Jesus,

“Unfortunately I can’t have any children, but I have raised and had several in my life. That ship has sailed so I just make the best of the little ones in my life now.”

via Not Mine | DEPRESSION: my muse.

You have grasped the solution I still struggle to accept. I don’t struggle often; with-child isn’t a title I will wear. Every now and again, my child slides its hands around my neck and squeezes until a lump forms, and then immediately am alone to recover in gasps, wheezes and tears.

Unlike you, children are a part of my life no longer. The children who were aren’t children anymore.

Your grace and acceptance humble me.

©2013 Sandra Davidson

The Farther Star

It is simple to be a bright star in a dark sky.

The rarer success is to be a bright star in a blue sky, able to withstand the nearer sun and still reach a beholder, should there be any who will lift their attention from the paths at their feet and the surround of distraction.

There then a reward to lay lightly to a touch and reveal your truth: Resourcefulness is the seed set upon the wind, freedom is offering up everything you are to the risks, and tenacity is finding purchase wherever you next set to ground.

©2013 Sandra R. Davidson—photo and text.

A Voice of Resilience

I’ve become fond of a WordPress blogger because he finds profound truth in simple images that evoke a deep resonance. I may not agree with every post; I don’t have to in order to appreciate his writing.

“…long sessions of ruminating is [sic] a virus”
“We are islands by mistake…”

And he finishes with a line of hope, a line of perseverance.

http://depressionmymuse.wordpress.com/2013/03/30/the-wind-carries-my-wailing/

Make Space

Last night I saw a box with negatives and a few photos. I took it with me when I went to bed and used my husband’s light tray to examine the images; many negatives were more than twenty years old. I went through every set and kept none. I tossed and recycled, then shredded the negatives to dump as trash.

It was something my husband didn’t understand, “All of them?” Yes, they were from a time that is no longer part of me. My momentary regret was to be unable to return any to the subjects of the negatives. Too many years ago to know

Hearts and Histories

I suppose this is leading to a toughening of my soul.

The faces and places through which I have been sifting aren’t mine. I’ve perceived a least portion of the meaning below the lines on his face and to the tilt of her chin. Obituaries are the finial polish to our public image, and it damn well better shine or leave it to one line: born; died.

My maternal great grandmother typed

Marbles in My Ear

I made a comment on:

WHAT HAPPENED??? « DEPRESSION: my muse.

and his response included how he is learning to be a less private person.

I used to be, and still am for the most part, a woman who hoards her thoughts and words. I have tried to maintain an impenetrable  mind and heart because there is so little to trust in those who hear and do not listen, or who repeat what they did not understand in the first place. (I do this also and I examine myself moment by moment to try to retain understanding and accuracy, and to keep no place for gossip in my life.)

Eventually my thoughts become an enormous pile of marbles I can no longer keep. One escapes over there; I scramble to catch it, and more escape elsewhere.

Privacy is an illusion, as is safety and security.

I’ve been digging through ancestral records. For a single individual, I can find out where they lived and when just through old phone books that are now scanned and filed online. It is something like connect the dots. We have that in the digital era more so.

I have offered up my superficial sense of privacy and am now freeing (sllloooowwwwly) my mind, though doubts prevail. I suppose if I were perfectly confident that would be a warning to others. Of what, I’m not sure, but warning just the same.

No Peace

I find no peace today.

I would follow my feet through the wet grasses and walk in wind among the stone remains of the dead; there is no peace there either. They cry from abandonment. They speak of the hauntings of war. Some are buried far from home and family, caught unaware by death. A mother embraces her child no longer though they are side by side in death on the same day and buried in the same ground.

I find cemeteries poignant. Like the streams that feed the rivers to the ocean of humanity and inhumanity, I follow the steadfast families anchored in generations and those filled with wanderlust in single or in company. Likely my blood is from among the ones beneath my feet who travel no more.

No peace today.

©2012 Sandra Davidson

Greeting Seasonings

Whichever hour I woke, I would set the coffee on and get dressed. With a cup full of light, sweet brew, I’d sit on the top front step. She’d be beside me, sometimes close for warmth, sometimes sprawled on the cool cement.

I wish I could say it was idyllic. With a state highway, train tracks, and industrial river traffic, it was either less or more noisy. I came for the movement of land and sky. She came to heal me.

Recognition Detraction

This evening I am struck by someone who is not apathetic yet takes little action. They have enough ire and pride, and little enough energy to complain. (Not that I haven’t my own lifetime supply of whine.)

A commenter to a photograph mentioned how other branches of the military and our local heroes show kindness and compassion as well, not just Marines. I can agree with that, and then some (see below).

The Photo: Apparently a boy with prostheses was participating in the Sea Turtle Triathlon for  kids (that in itself humbles me) when his prosthesis failed. A man, who happened to be a Marine, placed the boy on his back and ran him across the finish line with others around applauding—applauding the boy, and other men running along (probably also Marines) cheering the boy. That kid and all the others deserved cheering for just signing up; I never would sign up for a triathlon.

What would you have done? Let the boy sit in the street,

What is Your Point of View ? | akandrewwriter

What is Your Point of View ? | akandrewwriter.

Great piece for writers on choosing points of view (do read the comments also).

I believe I was seven years old when I discovered opinion versus fact (points of view, in other words).

I was riding in a truck with my uncle, the radio was on and a familiar song began to play by an artist I hadn’t heard sing that song. I told my uncle, “Joe Cocker’s version is the best.” He said, “That’s your opinion.” I countered that it was the truth.

He explained very clearly and with much humor the difference between an opinion and a fact.

I’ve never confused the two since.