No Illusions

I know I haven't been here for a while, but I hope you'll understand when I tell you why. A dear friend of mine was in a plane crash ten days ago, and I've been thinking of little else since.

This friend isn't a friend I've ever met physically. Not even a friend on Facebook. But I've gotten to know him through his writings, both professionally published, and informally posted on his website. We've exchanged emails and commented on each other's ideas. We don't always agree, and not too long ago, I was royally annoyed with him.

But when push comes to shove, you realize what's really important.

Right now, the prognosis isn't great. He has a brain injury, and isn't "all here", as they say. But he and I, and his many, many family, know that looks can be deceiving, we have no limitations, it's all an illusion.

Illusion. According to Merriam-Webster: a mistaken idea, a misleading visual image.The image of my friend in a hospital bed, instead of flying over lakes and forests, is definitely an illusion. Doctors may think he's there, but we know better. We know he's just exploring other dimensions, soaking up atmosphere, maybe even visiting with his beloved Lucky.

In an old Star Trek episode titled "Spectre of the Gun", Mr. Spock is called upon to save his fellow crew members by reminding them that everything they see is an illusion. They are in the middle of a gun battle with aliens, and at one point, he reminds them: "If we do not allow ourselves to believe that the bullets are real,they cannot kill us! 

Spock's logic worked for the crew of the Enterprise. And it sounds great... convince yourself the bullets aren't real, and they can't hurt you. But even better, convince yourself that even if they ARE real, they can't kill you. Nothing can kill you, without your consent. (I can hear you arguing from here. hush.) The truth is,(a truth my dear friend was trying so hard to explain to me just days before his crash) the truth is, WE NEVER DIE. Our physical bodies might cease to exist, but that which is me, that which is you, will never perish. We're not bound by time, we're not bound by space. We're boundless beings.

And that's no illusion. 

Contest

Okay, so if you would like a chance to win a pretty, hand-embroidered bookmark, just email me (najama@earthlink.net)  with the answer to this question about "Sky Blue Orange.>> Name of the person who owns the property on which the labyrinth is located<<. That's it, it's that easy.  You have until September 30th to enter.  I will pick a winner from all the correct answers. No need to give me your address until you win. :-)

Sometimes....

if you give yourself enough time to cool down, you realize that some things just aren't worth stressing about. So, I just deleted a post that was way too angry for even me. I'm not letting someone live rent-free in my head....

Sweet Violet

Here's an excerpt from my new WIP, "Sweet Violet"...
      "The suitcase was large; the type of suitcase Jimmy Stewart was looking for in “It’s A Wonderful Life.” A great big one, big enough for labels from all over the world.  The blue leather was cracked and faded from years of exposure to the desert heat.  It was locked, and of course I had no key. It was heavy, but I had no idea if it had anything inside. I was about to find out.  I grasped the blue Bakelite handle and heaved the heavy thing up onto the bed.  The bed creaked and swayed, and I worried for a moment it was going to collapse. It was only a roll-away, one of two that we keep on hand for our guests. I had borrowed it for Emily, but if it collapsed, I’d have to rethink that. Luckily, after an initial protest, the legs and springs held, so I went to work on the suitcase.

A big heavy screwdriver worked to pop the two side locks, and I used the power drill given to me by my son as a housewarming present to drill out the center lock. I worked slowly and carefully, not wanted to damage anything that might be inside. Finally, I felt the lock give way.I set the drill aside and slowly lifted the lid. The suitcase was almost full. As I pushed the lid back, a silky white blouse slid off the top of the pile and fell to the floor.  I picked it up and placed it on the bed next to the suitcase. There were several other items of women’s clothing, and I lifted them out one by one.
     Underneath the clothing was a bundle of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon. I set those aside to look at later. Most of the rest of the space in the suitcase was taken up by a newspaper wrapped bundle. I lifted the bundle out and set it on the bed as well. It didn’t weigh much, so I could probably rule out my first impression, which was a bottle of wine, wrapped for travel.  The bundle was tied like a Christmas package, more pale pink ribbon tied in a bow right in the middle.

Before I investigated the bundle, I checked the satin pockets on the sides of the suitcase. The elastic had lost most of its stretch, but there wasn’t much in them, anyway. In the side pocket, I found a pretty silver hairbrush, with the initials AE engraved on the back, and a packet of bobby pins, with the 10 cent price sticker from Sprouse Reitz still on it.

Finally, I was ready to examine the newspaper wrapped bundle. The newspapers themselves were brittle and yellow, with cracks in the paper where it had been folded. Carefully, gently, I pulled the loose end of the ribbon bow and slid the ribbon free from the bundle. Gingerly, I folded back the corners of the newspaper. Underneath the newspaper was a thin white terrycloth towel.  To my surprise, the edge of the towel was embroidered with the words “Blue Moon” in dark blue machine embroidery. 

As I folded back the towel, I uncovered a flannel blanket, the kind I can remember my grandmother using for my siblings, with teddy bears screen printed on faded yellow, satin binding wilted and worn from use. 

The sight of that blanket gave me pause. I almost didn’t want to keep going, but as usual my curiosity was greater than my common sense.

           I should have listened to my common sense."

Too much like work

My mother taught me to sew when I was thirteen. It was the only real handicraft she pursued, and I think she learned more out of necessity than any real desire to be creative. I loved sewing, and made doll dresses by the dozen.

In the fifty years since I first learned to wind a bobbin and sew a straight seam, I've tried a lot of different needle crafts. I'm a fairly accomplished knitter, I can crochet a mean afghan, I cross stitch, needlepoint, and yes, I still sew. When my children were little, it seems I always had a baby sweater on my needles, because they worked up fast, and even if I didn't have a use for it immediately, there was sure to be a new baby somewhere, soon, and I liked having a gift ready to go.

But as soon as someone suggested that I knit, or cross stitch, and sell the results, I balked. I like to work at my own pace, do a little or a lot, or none at all. I might put the work down for months, and then pick it up and work furiously for days.  I cross stitched seven birth samplers in a span of four years, for my six grandchildren, and for years, I never wanted to see a needle again! (yes, seven samplers for six babies. That's because baby number six, who was supposed to be a girl, turned out to be a boy. No way was I presenting him with flowers and butterflies!)

I suppose that's why I'm having such a hard time sitting down and working on my second novel. I learned a lot from the first one, about plotting and characterization and pacing. Oh, and especially about editing. You can never have too many fresh eyes reading your work, and you'd be amazed at what slips past on the first three or thirty reads. I spent hours upon frustrating hours learning how to format for uploading to Kindle, and working on a cover design, and fiddling with spacing and page breaks and font size. But seeing the finished product is so worth it, and I can't wait to do it again.

But making myself sit down and actually put words on paper, write that second book, is hard. I know, you're thinking, isn't that exactly what I'm doing NOW? Yes. But this is stream-of-consciousness writing. I have no plot to follow, no characters who must have their say. This is just me rambling, and it's not work.

And that's my problem. I don't like work. Never have, never will. If I'm going to get that second book finished, I know I need to treat writing like any other job: dedicate a set amount of time to the process, and work at it regularly. Which totally goes against the grain with me. My inner, stubborn child is rebelling against being forced to do her homework!  So, while I take a break to sit in the sun and do a little cross stitching, I'm recharging my writing batteries, reminding myself why I write in the first place.Because I love it.

Two roads....

One of my favorite authors is Richard Bach, of "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", "Illusions", "Bridge Across Forever". A few months back, I chanced across his website, and discovered that he is actively communicating with his fans and friends. There is a healthy dialogue going on, and lots of fantastic give and take of ideas.


I wrote the following in response to something he wrote, and I'm re-posting it here, just because I like it, and think it bears repeating. I hope you like it, too.


...Some of us walk the same path every day, so used to it our feet know every rock and rough patch, and mud puddle. And then, for some reason, maybe snow or ice or a new pair of shoes, we venture off the path, and we find a new way. Might get bogged down, stuck in a briar patch. Might find a field of tiny yellow flowers and decide to sit and enjoy the sunshine and have a cookie or two. No chocolate chip. Peanut butter, so the dogs can share. Might find a river too wide to cross, so we have to go back and try again. But we always keep trying. Sometimes we walk with a friend, sometimes we walk alone. The important thing is to realize that the path was there before we even put on our shoes, and it will be there long after we have found our way home.

They're only things, after all.

A local newspaper recently ran a column, asking people to write in with a list of the things they would save if they were suddenly forced to evacuate in the face of a fire or other natural disaster. The lists contained everything from pets and children to computers and photographs.

I made my own list years ago, when I lived in an apartment, and realized I was at the mercy of not only Mother Nature, but my neighbors, as well. My list included all the usual: important papers, my children's baby books, photos and jewelry.

But as I started putting together a new list, I realized there are only two things in this house now that I would make a real effort to save, and they are both four-legged and furry. Lily, my Pom/Chi mix, and Annie, the big, sad-eyed Aussie mix who came to live with me last January. I keep a couple of spare leashes in the nightstand next to my bed, in case we wake up to disaster in the middle of the night. I can't depend on them to follow me out, and I can't imagine escaping without them.

But everything else is expendable. That's not to say that my home doesn't have some nice things, some irreplaceable things. It does. My mother's jewelry. Scrapbooks of the grandbabies for the past seven years. My father's wool shirts, all eight of them, packed away for the day I have time to turn them into quilts. Just sitting here looking at my desk, I see a coffee mug from my mother's fortieth class reunion, and a stamp dispenser made by my youngest child in high school.

When my mother died three and a half years ago, the family home was put up for sale, and my siblings gathered to clean it out. A dumpster went on the driveway, a flat bed rental trailer out front. In the flurry of activity, trying to get everything done in the three days allocated to the work, things were discarded, either thrown away or sent to Goodwill. Other things were parceled out to my brothers and sister, as we each picked what was most important to us.

Afterwards, when I was living by myself for the first time in seven years, I found myself missing so many of the small things I had taken for granted. The Pyrex casseroles sized just right for a single person or the aluminum hamburger press that dated back to my childhood. I regretted letting my sister have my mother's china, purchased in Japan in the 1950's. I'd had no place to store it, but still....and the silver-plated flatware, that Mom had kept in its storage box, under the bed in the spare room. I never understood why she didn't use it.

I found both the china and flatware on ebay, and I purchased as much as I could afford. I use the flatware every day, and it just gets lovelier with each washing. 

About six months after I purchased the chine and flatware, I realized that it had become, in my mind, my mother's. Even though I knew it wasn't, the very act of washing the "Shelburne" pattern dishes or "Eternally Yours" flatware brought back memories of Thanksgivings, birthdays, and other special events.I guess what I'm getting at is that memories don't burn, and things can be replaced.

I decided that the best way to hold fast to the things I cherish the most was with photographs. All the knickknacks and photos and documents were photographed or scanned, and stored not just on my computer but in the cloud, on a photo storage site. CD's were created as well. 


Someday, when I'm gone, hopefully my children and grandchildren will have a whole houseful of things to divide up and cherish. If not, well, they were only things, after all.