My Mother's Jewelry

A piece of my mother's jewelry. But which one? The topaz stone waiting to be reset? The wedding ring that no longer fits, even though her fingers are still at least two sizes smaller than mine? The myriad jewels shine up at me. I carefully pick up each item, examining it with the exactness of a gemologist, and replace it back into the original place, matching the direction and angle it rested in before I disturbed it. No pieces for me today. No ring for me. Even my pinky is too large for the rings designed for the once dainty fingers. Delicate chains with modest pendants look silly around my neck, like a grown up wearing a porcelain doll's delicate neckwear.

I look in each compartment of the pale pink box, to be sure nothing new has been added. But it's the same as before. Jewelry is rarely added, yet the pieces in the chest are carefully hoarded.

Footsteps walk down the hall. I listen to tell who approaches. Carefully placed, evenly spaced, graceful, with a little shift for the shorter leg. I quietly, yet with haste close the lid, admiring the metallic detail around the edge of the top, and wonder if the pink has always looked that faded. Was it designed that way? I flush the toilet at the same time I set the box back under the sink and ease the cabinet doors shut. I turn on the water and take my time washing the unseen evidence off of my hands. Open the door and walk into my parents' bedroom, the passageway back to my haven of books and  music.

Politics

People spinning media coverage, how can I come out on top?
Increase my votes, my popularity, make the other guy look bad.

Sway opinion.
Do nothing.
That's my job.

Change for publicity - not for good.
Argue until the others say I'm right.
Right is might. Might is Right.
I'll beat you into submission and then you'll agree.
Political viewpoints never change but just slide down the slope into revisions.
I'm right. You're wrong.
No changing my mind.

Spin.
Twist.
Omit.
Add erroneous data.
Always with an objective.

Keep me in mind!
Mind you're P's & Q's!
Time to wrap it up.
Done for the day.
Any questions?
Oops - no time now.

We'll talk next time!
So long!

Pretending

Pretending to be a princess. Pretending to be a king. Pretending I'm a cowboy and my siblings are the Indians. Pretending to play house. Pretending I'm competent. Pretending. Always pretending. Until the pretending becomes every day reality, because practice makes perfect. All the world's a stage, and we are but players, and "play"-ing begins to be natural.

What role am I playing today?
Which play has been called up?
Do I know my lines?
Is my costume ready?

Adorned with robes, equipped with script, the curtain rises and I step on stage. I am judged for how well I play the role. Whether or not I'm ready, the technician locates me in the follow spot, and all eyes trace my pathway from stage left to stage right.

Did I upstage the star?
Did I enunciate clearly?
Did I follow the director's direction?
Did I keep the producer in the money?

But I'm not me. That's a character. One of many.
Starring, supporting, ever changing.
Never me.

Things That Delight Me

Hugs from my kids.

Phone calls from my love just to say hello.

The smell of salmon colour roses.

The wind in my hair.

Laughter with a friend.

Music that makes my spine tingle.

The sun on my face.

The silence after the last note of a piano piece.

Marzipan.

Sand between my toes as I chase the ocean waves.

Warm bath after a long day or a good workout.

Hilariously farcical movies, but only after midnight.

Historical/Regency romance novels.

An email from a friend I haven’t communicated with in years.

Delight of my loved ones when they do something they are proud of, 

worked hard for, or simply enjoy.

The giggles of a toddler.

The design details of a structure.

Happy people.

Flying in a Cessna or other small aircraft.

Tumbling in the ocean waves.

Getting acquainted with people.

Eating Pavlova… or Baklava… or Crème Brûlée.

Fresh passionfruit.

The smell of crushed hibiscus leaves.

Indian war paint made from marigolds.

Running through the spinning barrel of the fun house at the fair.

Stupid jokes.

Art from the heart.

Learning.

Silk on my skin.

Wind

The wind reminds me of carefree days.
Days spent wandering through places both familiar and unknown.
Exploring the trails down to the hydro.

Getting angry at my sister because I had to let her go with us, but she always fell off the log across the stream or slipped on the rock paths across the river, bringing home her teary eyes and dripping clothes as evidence of trespassing in forbidden grounds.
Yet that's where I led the next time we ventured forth.
Trekking through the rainforest bamboo, crossing streams, exploring plants,

Capturing the wind in my eyes - my ears - my hair.
Flowing through my very being, extracting the cares and demands of life;
Filling my head and heart with dreams and visions.
Winding and entwining the spirit into the very essence of me.

The spirit of what or who or why was not questioned - it just infused me with life, elfin mischief, and took away the downs.

Leaving me to lead our weary, dripping wet, bug bitten bodies back to the home -
Away from the haven of possibilities and into the safety of talents and shoulds.

I wonder now, where has the wind gone?

Kitchen Table

The kitchen table is where we were sitting. My grandmother looked at him and said "You know, that reminds me of a phrase I've learned to use over the years - 'That's fantastic!' People have all kinds of stories they tell. Fish stories. Work stories. War stories. And often those stories are exaggerated. Maybe the basic story is there, but the details and obstacles have turned into gigantic monsters overcome through brute strength and unheld skill. At the end of the story, the storyteller requires a response. That's when I tell them 'That's fantastic!' They think I am admirably impressed; and I am -  impressed by the fantasy they have created, often in their own mind. It is a fantastic fantasy. I've provided a response they feel is appropriate and my response is in line with my integrity, so we're both happy."

The kitchen table - that's where gumbo was eaten.
"Pass the filé please." "Do you need more rice?"
Crab legs caught in the gulf, spending the day in an old style bonnet dragging lines slowly across the rocks outside Port Arthur. Dropped in the pot of spiced boiling water. Crack! Snap! Break! Pull! Squeeze! and the white dripping tendrils of crab meat appear like treasures from a pirate's chest. Open mouth,insert crab, mmmm. Shell to the side on the heaping plate - evidence of the feast already savored - and on to the next crab leg. Until no more is left, the lights long ago turned down, just Grandpa and I finishing our meal in peaceful companionship, enjoying Neptune's provisions of the day. Talking not required. No manners allowed. Sharing moments and presence. A treasure much greater than the delicacies on the table. 

Kitchen table.Where life is shared.