Thank you for Deliberating the Intent of the In Tense

•May 18, 2016 • 3 Comments

There are few things more emotionally bruising than not being understood or feeling misjudged through the eyes of someone else’s presumptions.

A person’s intent is not always apparent in their actions.

Sometimes a person’s intent is not even apparent to them, let alone to anyone else.

There are so many unspoken rules to social interactions.

There are so many pitfalls that can send us reeling into hurt feelings, defensive postures, and deemed rejection or indignities.

A lot of minutes are wasted asking ourselves questions about what someone else meant or speculating on the intentions of others instead of using our out loud voice for clarification when we need it.

Why is it so hard to say “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

Why do we assume the intent of another as if we are supposed to know everything there is to know about the mechanics of their mind?

Granted, there are times when it is best to say nothing at all or to let verbal mishaps slip away into error and delete justification.

But other than a slip of the toungue or a forgivible brain fart, we are accountable for our interactions with other human beings—on both the giving and the recieving end.

The cruelest and most arrogant of contentious behaviors is passive aggressive.

To carry around a resentment over a perceived insult without deliberating on the intent with the presenter is like transporting an open jar of rattlesnake venom on a bumpy road.  It can’t really be contained. It’s gonna spill all over everybody.

I know some people don’t feel comfortable clarifying in a converstion.

It may feel too much like confrontation or look like ignorance.

Maybe some folks think it takes too much time to ask a question before they formulate an opinion or come to a conclusion.

I can’t know.

But I am thankful for those who ask questions when they don’t understand me, who deliberate on wether my words are deliberate or not.

Sometimes I get a little intense and stuck in the IN Tense but it does not always reveal my intent.

I am still working on my language development skills.

Thanks for listening, but thanks even more for speaking up if you don’t understand.

I need the practice.


Thank you for Dandelions

•May 9, 2016 • 1 Comment

Not everyone gets to be a movie star, a great scientist, a tzar, or a specialist in some field that changes the world in the eyes of their peers.
Here in the “garden” there are many flowers; rare orchids, blue blood roses, shrinking violets, heirloom varieties, fragile stems with showy petals, and once in a while—usually in an alley somewhere in Detroit or a dark rest area on the road to nowhere—venus flytraps.

But today I am thankful for dandelions. We call them weeds.
Dandelions are common laborers, survivors, migrants, quick to take root in all the wrong places, getting ripped up and discarded into compost piles and mowed down by special landscapers who think beauty is a contrived walkway to a pristine palace.

No matter how we try to rid our culture of dandelions, they will always return. They will pop up in manicured lawns, create cracks in smooth side walks to poke their cheerful little heads through, and take over entire fields overnight. They are the ultimate in representing survival.

Dandelions don’t know they are not supposed to cross boundaries. They have no care for superficial esthetics or territory marked “elite”. Dandelions are the ones that we can count on to bring color to our world in environments where others would wilt and die. They are worthy of our respect and appreciation.

But even dandelions must abide by the cycles of life. They root, they bloom, they seed, and they let go of the present, to ride breezes into the future. It is the way of all things, this cycle.
But at least dandelions are cheerful while they are here.

Thank you for Human Voice

•May 4, 2016 • 2 Comments

Vox Humanus. The human voice.

As a person who has spent a great deal of time alone in silence, I can say there is barely such a thing as silence. Even in the middle of the Nevada desert surrounded by miles of nothing and stars I have heard my own heartbeat and the blood rushing into my ears in an effort to find a sound to assimilate.

Sometimes while I am in “silence” I hear my mothers voice, the voices of my friends (even the ones who are not on Earth anymore), my own voice in my head to fill the void. These voices are merely generated by my own thoughts and associations with others. The human voice is very powerful. It penetrates the voice of silence like nothing else can. The vibration of a human voice travels in a way that causes other sounds to become background noise.

When I miss people, I miss their voice. When I fall in love, it is the voice that opens my heart. When I hurt, it is the voice of my friends that soothe me. When I listen to a song, the voice pushes through the music to touch me.

I am primarily a visual person, but the human voice can connect me to feelings and pull me out of isolation and busy brainiac endeavors like no other sound. I am thankful for the human voice.

My Photo of “A voice in the desert”

Thank You for All the Roads to Here

•May 11, 2016 • 2 Comments

There is no There, only Here.

Every time I try to get there, I end up here.

Interestingly, everyone else ends up here too.

It does not seem so crowded as one would imagine.

Sometimes I think too much.

I think about Where I am going, with a capital W.

Will I get there?

What happens when I get There.

I’ll tell you what happens…

I end up here without a capital T.

I have done a lot of traveling, all over the physical world, far away to the imagination world, and deep into the tiny dark corners of my own internal world.

I have been to Here and back.

All roads do NOT lead to Rome.

They lead to Here.

I am thankful to be Here today.

And I am very thankful you are here with me.

Thank you for This One Special Moment

•May 10, 2016 • 6 Comments

This one transient, elusive, special moment filled with;

All the memories and thoughts and joys and sorrow and life experiences that have brought me here to be a part of this one special…

Oops, it’s gone now…

Oh, look! Here’s another one…

Thank you for this one special moment that I may cling to for…

Oops, another one, gone…

Hey! Here’s another!

Thanks for this one special moment that I get to reflect on all the special moments that make up my life.

Note to self:

Moments are brief. Life is short. Be in the moment so you don’t miss it.

Thank you for the Mother of my Invention

•May 8, 2016 • 3 Comments

Over the years, I have observed the relationships between my friends and their mothers (and one very lovely stepmother in the case of Karma, who was fortunate enough to have two good mothers).

I have listened to my friends discuss histories, memories, struggles, lessons, and situations with their mothers that fascinated me, concerned me, and sometimes made me glad I was born to mine.

At other times, I wished I could experience the kind of bond they had, which I can only view from the outside of those relationships.

Watching these women and their mothers has taught me a lot about the nature of Woman.

We start out as little girls with so many needs, and evolve into nurturers from nurturers.

In time, we seem to inevitably become the mother to our mothers.

My own limited experience in the traditional mother/child relationship affords me the opportunity to romanticize, conjecture, and watch with curiosity and amazement, the unfolding mystery of my women friends as they have grown into themselves and became mother to their own mothers.

My mother, through no fault of her own, inspired me to learn this lesson of the “mother role switch” early in life and has gifted me with the life that makes me who I am.

I am thankful for the mother of my invention and the mother in all of us.

Mother Goddess with Child, Uttar Pradesh, Gupta period, 575-625

Thank You for Isolation

•May 3, 2016 • 2 Comments

Painting of Lea Kelley by Jack

Watercolor: Lea Kelley by Jack L.

I’m wondering about our general view of the word Isolation.

Maybe because isolation is associated with loneliness, or quarantines, or separation from the familiar, we are averse to going there.

Maybe isolation looks like tuberculosis or severe depression or seniors who don’t have a car.

When I think of isolation, I see a shiny silver object standing out from a multitude of brass objects.

The word isolation sounds like silence on the prairie, a frozen glass house in a pristine field touched by one ray of sunlight.

Isolation looks like a row boat in the center of a calm lake.

But on the banks of that calm lake is a strong force that keeps pulling the row boat back to shore.

Though I love a solo boat ride on a lake under a full moon, I also like coming back to tell someone how beautiful it was.

We are not meant to be alone for too long, I think.

“Social isolation in both animals and humans can be responsible for a range of psychological effects, including anxiety, aggression and memory impairment,” said Dr. Erminio Costa, director of the UIC Psychiatric Institute.

Extreme isolation or forced isolation can hurt us by making us forget who we are.

But sometimes, if we get the opportunity, we can experience the kind of isolation that heals the overtaxed human and helps us remember who we are.

Everyone knows you have to isolate a problem to fix it.

Isolationism in world affairs means refusing to participate in someone else’s war.

Now, if everyone refused at the same time, that might be good, making war an isolated incident.


The advice of Switzerland’s popular saint, Nicholas of Flüe (1417-87), “Don’t get involved in other people’s affairs” has been the hallmark of Swiss policy for nearly 500 years. The country has in effect been neutral since 1515, a status formally recognised and guaranteed by the great powers of Europe after the Napoleonic Wars in 1815.

So isolationism must not be so bad, eh?


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