Thank You, Sunshine

When my mother died in February of 2006, I spent many a night asking myself if all that she was--all that she had the potential to be--had died with her. A few months later, I found myself discussing a similar topic with someone who would later become a very dear friend indeed. He and I spoke about our individual longings, pondering the question of whether one truly could "follow his [or her] heart. Of late, I have found myself lying in bed tormented by the question of whether my mother, Ms. Katie, was aware of the impact she made upon this world in her brief seventy-four year occupation upon it...and if my own four decades have by any means impacted upon this same world in any positive way.

This past week, I have been fortunate enough to have had the encouragement of someone I both admire and trust. And, he has assured me that my presence--as a person and a writer--made some small difference in his life. Realistically, it is more than feasible that he would only say as much to bring succor to me during this time, when my fate is uncertain and my future, ultimately, bleak. (After all, I have had the sinking suspicion on more than one occasion that this particular "friend" is more than capable of telling a whopper of a tall tale when it suits his purposes!) Even so, the fact that I now sit furiously scribbling the words forming in my hazy recesses of my oxygen-starved brain tells me that I have been given at least the hope that if I do depart from this Earth in the near future, my time here was not completely wasted.

My mother may not have had that assurance.

For that very reason, I am all the more grateful that someone took the time to make sure that I have.

2010

Does anyone else remember those last years in the 1990's, when the whole world seemed convinced that the second 1999 ended, the Earth would rock on its axis (tipping, in the process, California into the Pacific), the planes would fall from the sky, the nuclear weapons would simultaneously activate themselves, and we would all die in a heap?

Okay, it is pretty clear in hindsight that we were all a bit naive in those fears. Even so, the sensations they evoked, the hunger to live, the building excitement which coexisted with that streak of realism (the inner voice that jeered at us every time the question, "What if...?" popped into our heads regarding that whole Careening California thing) which kept each of us fixedly pointed towards the future despite even the most dire predictions...thrived. We all wanted to LIVE, to believe in the magic of the future--eager to see what "Y2K" would yield....

This morning, I awoke to new confidence and determination. For a while now, I have battled my own doubts as a writer, as an editor, as a human being with something vital or unique to contribute to the "literary" world. Perhaps everyone who puts "pen to paper" does, regardless of commercial success (or failure). Yet today--even though the changing of years has not had much of an impact, quite frankly, on my attitudes or "psyche" in quite some time--I was honestly swept away on a tide of frenetic anticipation, unable to sit or stand, move or remain still, sleep or fully awaken in my utter conviction that something new, something startling, something significant awaited me.

Thus, here I sit, beginning yet another short story, entering yet another contest, jotting down yet another idea for another literary "piece," and it feels good!

It feels right.

Here's wishing anyone who stops by my disorganized little thought pool the best and brightest 2010. New beginnings await us all...and I would like to believe that piece, prosperity, and the fulfillment of a wealth of our desires lie just beyond that compelling new horizon.

Christmas and the holidays have proven indescribably horrendous this year; however, the determination to continue writing through it all--despite it all--has remained (for the most part) undiminished. Having entered a few very bad poetry "chapbooks" in various contests, the objective is to work as long, as diligently, and as consistently now that my laptop has been repaired and restored. Though progress is hard to measure at this point,  my hope centers on that well-used adage "even a broken clock is right twice a day."

Something has to turn up.

In the meantime, tomorrow is gone and cannot be changed. The future is beyond my present comprehension. All that is left for me--indeed, for any of us--to do is learn from the former, strive for the most favorable results with regards to the later...and keep doing the best that can be done with that which is known at the time.

But, y'know what?

'Tain't always easy, ya'll!!!!

(Keep writing, everyone.)

By the way,

If you are ever in Colorado Springs and in need of a little TLC for your Mac,  top in the Macstore and ask for "Phil." He's really a great guy!

Taking a Long, Deep, Cleansing Breath

When my beleaguered iBook died last month (probably from over-use and exhaustion), my initial reaction was to take this momentous event as yet another sign from God and the Heavens above that this little black duck was simply not meant to write. How, after all, could I make the money to repair or replace the thing when I did not have it as a means to make the money?


At times, it was a dark, dark place.

All the same, a wonderful group of individuals stepped in and bolstered my dwindling reserves of optimism at a time when such support was--well--vital. Now, "new" laptop in hand (with, I might add, the majority of my information in tact) I am forcing myself to take just a moment to relax and "reset". Even though I have been virtually out-of-work for a month, despite the bills piling up on my tables and floors, even with the holidays peeking over the fence into my back yard (not to mention my middle daughter's eighteenth birthday the day after Christmas), I have convinced myself to stop, take a long, deep, cleansing breath, then again grasp hold of the fervid belief that I can, will, and must retain my faith in myself, my dream, my "talents," and my love for my "craft" in order to continue on...

And on...

And on...

And on...

Until my work is "done."


Keep writin' ya'll!

A Christmas Essay

At this time of year, many people quote the line, Jesus is the reason for the season: yet this is not entirely accurate. The "Savior" featured in the New Testament was not evident that Earth-changing day long ago: only a tiny newborn baby. Upon Its birth, that baby spouted no profound parables , preached no sermons, uttered no great truths. Further, He had saved no lives, performed no miracles...known no suffering, or made any sacrificed on this Earth--great or small; and in truth, there was no guarantee--at the time--that It would. Those choices, as listed in the Bible and recorded in the annals of collective spiritual history, came much later--the operative word being choices.

At that time, at the time of birth, nevertheless, none of this had taken place. Moreover, none of the oft-remembered attendants of this celebration had any inkling that it would. They gathered together in anticipation of what would be, not what was.

It seems to me that individuals become so engrossed in forcing their beliefs upon others that they, in doing so, lose sight of the basics of those ideals themselves. At Christmastime, it is not His future which we commemorate but the simple, glorious promise inherent in that single, quiet miracle of birth. We, like those animals, those shepherds, kings and wise men gathered around the manger, celebrate hope and faith; limitless joy: the innocence of trust; that childlike awe experienced when encountering that which is new and breathtaking--never before seen, of which we had never before conceived. We are reminded of the incontrovertible values of selfless giving, of embracing hope of peace...and of that purest form of goodwill which both transcends the boundaries of nationality, social status, and economic standing in order to draw us--as human beings--across those meaningless divides so that we might share in what is truly important, not to mention infinitely more magnificent than anything we have or had in our lives before imagined:

Promise.

The Promise of (indeed, the birth of) a limitless Love.

...So, I suppose it is my hope that during this season of lights and marvels, of beauty and majesty, of childhood and optimism, of exultant spirits and joyous giving none of us forget that in truth, for not only the believers in the Divinity of Christ but for every human being--young or old, of every race, creed, color, nationality, or religion--the True "reason for the season" is Love. It is Love which should be, is, and always has been the basis for honoring this magnificent day we call Christmas. How wrong it is, therefore, to accuse "the powers that be" of diminishing that message when it is those who attach to it self-righteous, often sanctimonious qualifications who are most often guilty of forgetting this fact!

The only differentiation between the "believer" and the "non-believer" is that one faction maintains that Jesus is Love. And, in all candor, if the objective is honestly to illustrate to others that this is the case, the means to accomplish this can never be anything less than offering love to others...rather than criticism and condemnation.

If one truly "believes," then the expectation should be that--having done this--Someone Greater can and will easily step in to do the rest!

My wish for this and every other Christmas is that every single human being who comes into contact with its concept remembers--in fact revels in the recollection--that the one thing we must never forget at this time of year

Is to love one another.

Another Day

As usual, finding significant work (in term of size, responsibility, and the ever-present pay) during the holidays is proving something of a challenge. Still in all, despite the invariable setbacks which typify "writing" as a career, there is nothing I would rather do with my time, no other way in which I would ever chose to make my living.

Still, a nice, big fascinating assignment would make my holidays a little happier, ya'll!

Redefining a Love Affair

When months ago I made the decision to again viewing my writing as--instead of a commercial endeavor--an enduring passion, I did so with the same drive and determination as I have faced most important decision in my life. In the beginning, the enthusiasm was as potent as any drug, I suppose. Nothing was more thrilling to me than pouring over my research, playing those sly little love gaames with words and punctuation, and delving into the cobweb-filled corridors of my long-unused imagination.

And I loved it.

When it happened that my body could not keep up with the frantic pace of my frenetically racing mind, my love affair with the written word was soured by my constant exhaustion. There is so much one wanted to give: in time, in care, in terms of quality and simple, basic respect. And "art," I was reminded, is any form, a demanding "lover." It settles for nothing less than complete and concentrated devotion, its expectations deeming unimportant the practical constraints of time. (Did I mention that at the time, I loved it?)

Now.

I sit at a loss.

What next?

How, exactly, do I progress, now that there is not doubt in my mind (or any one else's) that I am no longer up to giving to this relationship all that it asks...

And deserves?