20 Lines A Day

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Every Human Being Is An Artist – Inspirational Quotations, Don M.Ruiz






The dream of the planet is the dream of all humans together. We can call it society, we can call it a nation, but the result of the creation of the mind, individual and collective, is a dream. The dream can be a pleasant dream that we call heaven, or it can be a nightmare that we call hell.. But heaven and hell only exist at the level of the mind..

~Don Miguel Ruiz

Originally posted on Children Of Light.:

You tube  with quotes from Prayers, A Communion With Our Creator -Don M.Ruiz


Moving to some light reading on the blog today, I’ve decided to post one of my favourite passages from  “Prayers – A Communion With Our Creator,”  by Don Miguel Ruiz. I love this little book of homilies and always keep it on my desk by the side of the computer. Don has a writing style that hits  at the heart and opens it through his loving words. I could have chosen to write the passage from the book on “Love” for it is beautifully witten,  but instead, after the story-telling effort of my previous post, I’ve decided to write instead on “Humans As Artists” and Story-Tellers, because that is what we are. The great teacher Nisargadatta Maharaj once said this: “To expound and propagate concepts is simple, to drop all concepts is difficult and rare.”  I…

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A Blossom in the Wind

It wasn’t difficult to remember the first time I had been to that old house.

My curly hair was drooping in pigtails, golden brown from the summer sun.

 My Aunt Lilly had whispered to me as we dried the dishes, “I have something I want to show you!”

 “Okay.” I smiled as we continued to work.

 Soon, we climbed into her 1966 white Ford and bumped our way a few miles down the dirt road to a drive way that looked as if had not been used in years. It seemed like the bumping and grinding of the gravel went on forever. Now, I realize, it was only a half mile or so.

 My aunt grabbed my sweaty little hand as we skipped up the chipping rock steps of a wooden cabin, paint long faded to the natural gray of hardwood. She took the key, clipped to her shirt with a safety pin, and unlocked the door.

 It smelled musty inside, and I giggled, ”Yuk,” as I looked up at her.

 “Houses smell like that when no one lives there anymore, Sarah. This is the house I grew up in. I was born here.”

 “But you live on the hillside, Auntie!” I protested. “We were just there!”

 “No, honey, I mean when I was a child, like you. This is where your mother and our brother Willie grew up.”

 I glanced around he room in wonder. It was a mess. The curtains hung down limply, so dusty that the bright sunlight filtered through as if it were sunrise. There was a desk cluttered with writing materials,a yellowed tablet, the edges of the paper curled. a pencil that badly needed sharpened. I noticed that one of the drawers was partly opened and reached to see what was inside.

 My aunt stopped me. “That as mama’s drawer. We weren’t allowed to mess around in there.”“But it’s opened ,Auntie,” I said “Why can’t I look?”

 To be honest, I don’t have a reason, Sarah.” I guess it is just my remembering how we were not to mess in that drawer. Obviously, someone has!”

 “Yeah,” I whined, eyes cat to the floor. “I sure would like to see what’s in there.”

 “Sometimes, Sarah, it is more fun to imagine what a drawer may hold than to actually know.”

 I shrugged my ten year old shoulders and smiled. In my young mind, knowing what was in the drawer would be much more fun.

My aunt and I spent another hour or so wandering through the room. We looked at boxes of old doll, metal cases filled with uncle Willie’s cars. My aunt show me how the pedal operated sewing machine worked, the drawers where scissors and thread were kept. I remember my favorite was the button drawer. In it was an assortment of buttons removed from many different items of clothing before the cloth went into the rag-bag.

 “Why did you bring me here, Auntie?” I asked her as we started out the door.”

 I saw a tear slide down her cheek. “Oh, Sarah,’ she cried. “I was thinking of mamma. It’s been ten years today since she died. We started clean the house , your momma and I and one day, we just didn’t come back. It hurt too much. It was sort of like the drawer, we decided we would rather remember the house the way it had been when she was there, when we were children.”

 That was twenty-seven years ago. I had brought my children there a few times, my mother and I had even come here with Willie one day to get some things out of the barn. But today was different. Today, a tear slipped from my eye as we walked down the steps. We had just buried Aunt Lilly in the family cemetery on the hill. Somehow, I felt a deep, almost mysterious connection with my Aunt Lilly as I looked up at the apple tree, bursting in bloom as if nothing had happened.

 Life changes, time goes by, memories are made, but somethings never seem to change. I snapped a small branch of blossoms and twirled them in my hand. I already had a place picked out for them-the would dry and remain on the inside cover of my Aunt  Lilly’s oldest photograph album. Someday, a young girl with golden brown hair would remember the story that her mother had told her that day.

Daily Prompt: Keep Out/ Hoping My Child Will Not Dig Deep Into My Blog

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

You asked if there were someone we would not want to read our blog and immediately I thought of my son.

Yes I do not mind if he looks at all the pretty photographs and all of your posts I have re-blogged.

Why I want him to KEEP OUT is I do not want him to know how much pain I used to be in.  See it is key that he gets to see

how very happy I am today.

Happiness spreads Joy and  Sadness spreads Pain.

We are both to BE HAPPY for the rest of our days.

So Keep Out



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They Needed Me As Much As I needed Them/Daily Prompt: Silver Linings

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

I was still injured but I needed a job.

I used to drive a “big rig”  but then I was hit,  by that bus.

I went through the savings which were sadly,  as in most case, s never enough.

I saw an Ad in a local paper for a Special Needs School Bus Driver,  surely I could drive a small van.

I applied for the position and they could clearly see my wounds but it was the ones inside that hurt the worst.
Due to my physical injuries I was given the troubled youths to transport to schools where they did not want to attend.

Many never even bothered  to get up and shower and dress for the day,  never mind step into the van.  Very sad.

One by one as they entered my school bus I introduced myself,  the one with the huge blue knee brace on.

I asked…

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Amid this winter’s grey mist grip
our April mocks her Spring impression.
Rush hour red lights stop and start,
frustrated and my happened glance at

a waif like girl no more than nine,
she’s mouthing words of imagined rhyme.
I watch her whispering monologues
as she tiptoes boulders in the park.

Pure innocence her soft protection
from cruel worlds I suffer much too well.
I mouthed my thank you to the waif
and she tiptoed boulders until dark.

After My Son Was Gone

Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

After I had my son there was no reason for me to stay in the hospital.  He was healthy and beautiful and nurses,  bless them,  kept bringing him in only to say OOPS, sorry, do you want to hold him?  I asked the doctor if I could get discharged,  he understood and said it would be OK,  good thing as I was going anyway.  I had things to do.


It was mid February and there had been snow. Mom came to get me as I had stayed the last 2 months at home and my car was there.  I was in a hurry to find an apartment.  I needed to get out of the family home,  no reason to cause them more pain seeing me each and every day in pain and tears.


I worked at  the factory where I had been for three years.  They had taken…

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Christmas Past

Albums from my shelf stare at me-
Don’t take them down, my heart screams.
My hand reaches up, my soul wanting to see
the sweet face of my baby, the glimmer of the tree.
Presents piled high-touching the limbs.
Pictures of lots of kids, lots of different trees.
The tears I knew would come, fall down my cheek,
In a quiet house, my oldest  ones all grown,
Families of their own, their houses now with those
glimmering trees, those piles of presents.
And my baby, the baby from those days, gone.
I visit his grave, decorate it like a table in the den.
I cry there, with his younger brother with me.
Not even born when those pictures were made.
I made the cookies, wrapped a few gifts, got cards.
I went on the church outing, held my tears, my breath.
Christmas, it was so wonderful, hope, peace, love.
I knew better than to believe it would last for me.
I need to get a new album, this one is falling apart.
Like my life did. Tears fall as I replace it on the shelf.

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Sandy Hook

I am rarely at a loss for words. But now? Connecticut, Sandy Hook Elementary School, the perfectly-innocent little children, the teachers who teach and care, a town overturned by senselessness — this leaves me at a loss.

It is not a merry Christmas in Sandy Hook. I think of those parents who sit in their living rooms in front of decorated Christmas trees, possibly with gifts already-wrapped underneath. I feel hurt thinking about dolls that will not be hugged or slept with, bikes that will not be ridden, Legos that will not be put together with daddies, puzzles that will not be assembled, books that will not be read, movies that won’t be watched, new winter jackets that won’t be worn. Cookies and milk set out for Santa will be nearly-impossible to do if there are other children in the families.

Last night at our family Christmas gathering I watched my grandchildren with different eyes — my 14 year-old grandson, his voice now deep, his hair a little longer, looking, smiling, involved with his iPhone, being his polite and loving self, my 13 year-old step-granddaughter (my son’s stepdaughter), who is having great difficulty since the shootings, unable to sleep, this sweet young girl afraid to go back to school, my 11 year-old granddaughter, surprised and thrilled at receiving an American Girl doll for Christmas, her sweet countenance filling the room, my 2 1/2 year-old granddaughter, dancing through the excitement of the evening, the lights, the Christmas tree, the beautifully-wrapped presents, her joy infectious.

I watched my children, too. My daughter is 39, and she works in an elementary school where visitors have to be buzzed in. She works helping to increase children’s reading skills, and they love her. She is creative and task-oriented. My son is a police officer, and I shudder to think that it might have been him to have come upon such a scene as Sandy Hook if, God forbid, this had happened in our small town. I am proud of their contributions, but more importantly, I am grateful that they are safe.

But it did happen in Sandy Hook, and it has happened in other places. We need to step up and do whatever we can to make absolute certain that it will never happen again, anywhere.

I cannot even come close to imagining how the parents of Charlotte and Daniel and Olivia and Josephine and Ana and Dylan and Madeleine and Catherine and Chase and Jesse and James and Grace and Emilie and Jack and Noah and Caroline and Jessica and Avielle and Benjamin and Allison are agonizing.

As a former teacher, I understand the natural desire to protect our students. And that is precisely what Victoria and Mary and Lauren and Anne Marie and Dawn and Rachel were doing.

There are no words.

There are no answers.

There is only pain of the deepest kind. I join my prayers with all the others around the world for the souls of those who have been so cruelly and senselessly taken, and I will join my efforts, whatever they might be, in doing something to stop this. I live near Chicago, where children are killed every day simply because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time or because they get caught in the cross hairs of gang violence or because of a drive-by shooting. This horrific constellation of crimes and evils has grown to epidemic proportions.

Something must be done. Let us not simply give this lip service. Let us remember what six and seven year-old children look like, how they talk, what they like to play with, how they learn to read. Let us make it personal. Let us boldly walk into our school systems and demand meetings with police and other organizations that can help us in our communities.

Let us remember.

Role Play Plays a Role?

Mass murder? I don’t understand.

I don’t suppose I am alone.

But -

Role play enables learning in many situations.

Why not through computer games and television?

Can children really differentiate between the death they cause with a button and real killings?

Have we hardened their hearts and anaesthetised their minds through role play?

We attended a PUMPKIN Stroll



Originally posted on Living and Lovin:

The recreation department in our town held their  Third Annual PUMPKIN STROLL

The children came in beautiful costumes

They brought Carved Pumpkins for the contest

Vendors set up tables  with items for sale but they all had candy to pass out to the children  who also were Trick or Treating(dress rehearsal for the 31st)

We had a table with lots of candy as well and our raffle items for the Garden Club fundraising effort.

We donated 3  house plants for the Recreational Departments SILENT AUCTION for the many things they do for the towns Children

Have a look, after the heavy rains all night we were blessed with a beautiful day!







Third Annual Pumpkin Stroll

Pumpkins for the contest!




Epping Pumpkin Stroll

Vendors came to sell their wares




Setting Up

Setting up her booth











Two More for the…

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Happy Birthday

We’re going to an open house this afternoon for our friend Isabel, who is turning 80. I hope this little poem, tucked into her card, will make her smile.

And here you come, octogenarian,
swift-sliding into first with ease and grace,
arriving “Safe,” the umpire calls, on base.
We’re honored to reflect your friendship sun.

Through marriage, children, music, writing, art
you let the others in, allow a peek
at all the depths of you and what you seek.
As friends we’re thrilled that we’ve become a part

of your especial universe. What fun
to write with you. Remember when we pressed
those flowers onto a poem page? They blessed
my father in his grief. You have outdone

yourself in many ways, expressed the blaze
of sunrise, tenderness of hands, a smile
or laugh that turns a sadness or a trial
into an individual turn of phrase.

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Monday Morning Writing Challenge

To tell the truth, I think my day might bore
you. What, you’d ask, do you get done, what chore
have you accomplished?
Yes, the dishes wait
sometimes, and dust balls gather. Yet, I state

that writing wakes me with a push or shove.
I jump from bed in wonder of the love
this new day’s words will show me. Rituals
of morning now complete, I hear the lulls

and rhythms of the day and seek to find
my place. Perhaps piano calls. My mind
shifts into Beethoven or Mozart mode
and music emanates from my abode.

Then hours of writing consummate my time,
with background sound of antique clock’s sweet chime.
The soccer games and cross meets of our dear
ones fill the evenings, weekend mornings. Here

we go to watch them once again and cheer
their fine accomplishments. We pack up gear
to sit on sidelines, see the runners slide,
so effortless, it seems as if they glide.

On every Monday evening I attend
a Bible study group where women blend
their thoughts and prayers. At this I’m always filled,
as angst and worries of the day are stilled.

Once monthly I attend a writing group
where eight of us critique the others’ work.
Another writing group I joined of late,
and we host festivals, participate

in local readings, book sales, arts events.
My college friends plan gatherings. No fence
could separate us. O, how we’ve been blessed
to stay in touch. Who would have ever guessed

that nine and forty years after we left
our university we’d still be deft
in making sure our tight-knit friendships last?
And then, pièce de résistance: the blast

we have in being grandparents, this joy
so tall we can’t love more our girls and boy.
Because of Skype I teach my brother. He
now plays piano, Für Elise the key

unlocking satisfaction he’s not known.
Yes, both of us are older now, are grown,
but students we will always be. Life’s songs,
a goal, a race, a friend, a word rights wrongs.

Sometimes I simply need to take a nap.
How I resist, but know that it’s the cap
to a day that brimmed with lots to do or less.
Each element of day I cherish, press

as wildflowers in a scrapbook. O, the pines
that stand straight on the hillside are like mines
of gold that I unearth by looking. Give
me nature all around…and I can live.

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Many Faces of Loneliness


“Loneliness is an unpleasant feeling in which a person feels a strong sense of emptiness and solitude resulting from inadequate social relationships.”

Sisters hardened by an ugly man,

who escaped his wrath

by running into the night.

They left home, scars lacing their bodies.

They left home, with nary a bag.

They left home with nary an idea of who they were.

Life became their man,

their things, their perception of  self.

Their men died. They unwound.

They never did know which face was theirs.

They hid amongst their stuff.

Loneliness took hold, they’d had enough. 

Such vile evil is a hand raised to a child.



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