Desert Gold

A sweet, slow trumpet was easing its way through a brassy little song about a citrus fruit. The wine in my glass was cool and mellow. Trace and I slow-danced in perfect synchronization around the edge of the aquamarine pool, with only the light of the neon moon out by the street for illumination. As the song trailed off into silence, I felt myself being pulled into strong arms, and I tilted my face to meet his lips.

Instead of the spine-tingling kiss I was expecting, my senses were assaulted by kibble-scented dog breath. Dog hair tickled my nose, and I sneezed explosively.

“Darn you, Holden!” I grumbled, pushing my little black and white dog off my chest and onto the bed, “How many times have I told you, no doggy kisses before breakfast?”

Holden didn’t answer me. Instead, he hopped off the bed, and I heard the click of his nails as he wandered out into the hallway.

I turned on my side and snuggled my face back down into my pillow, hoping to slip back into sleep and, with any luck, back into that lovely dream. As images from the dream flashed in front of my closed eyelids, I tried to recapture the warmth and sweetness of being in Trace’s arms.

Trace’s arms? My eyes flew open, and I swore both loudly and creatively. What on earth was I doing, dreaming about Trace Bloome, while Will Benton’s shirts still hung in my bedroom closet?

Sometimes I wonder if it's too late to be an only child.

I was born the second of four children. I grew up in a traditional family, with traditional values and traditional differences of opinion. I might not have agreed with the political viewpoints of my siblings. We might have differed in our religious beliefs. And we certainly didn't share the same dreams for the future. But one thing I never doubted we shared was love. I didn't always like my siblings, but I always loved them.

After my mother died four and a half years ago, my brothers stopped talking to me. It happened gradually, over a six month period, but once both Mom and Dad's ashes had been poured into Monterey Bay,  Joe and Doug disappeared as thoroughly as if they, too, were at the bottom of the sea.

My sister followed suit, nursing some imaginary hurt. She and I had exchanged some heated and hurtful words after Mom's death. She had stabbed me in the heart, and made me question whether any of the past 59 years had been real.

But several years later, she finally responded to one of my barrage of emails and phone calls, and decided she wanted to be friends again. The only rule was, we weren't to talk about what had happened. No explanations, no apologies.

Whatever. Fine. Things went all right for a while, but then, last summer, I pissed her off again. I wrote about that in the first post on this blog. We got past that, and after her granddaughter was born, things seemed fine.
But apparently they weren't.

The last time I heard from her was just before the Super Bowl this year. She didn't answer my next two emails, and she didn't respond to the card and letter I sent at Easter. I figured I'd annoyed her again.

But I figured she'd get over it, right? As the weeks wore on, I sometimes thought of her, but mostly I just went on with my life.

Until April 15th. Yes, it's tax day, but it's also my birthday. This year, there was very little discussion of my birthday. No one asked what I wanted, or what I was doing that day, or if I wanted to go somewhere. My daughter said if I wanted to do something the weekend before, to let her know, but I really didn't.

The truth was, I was nursing this secret hope that there was a surprise in the works. I thought maybe my sister's silence was because she was planning on flying out here for my birthday and was afraid she would blow the secret if she called or emailed. In my mind, that explained why there was no card from her, much less a present, and why no one was pushing me to make plans with them.

I waited all day. I checked the mail, I checked my phone, I kept looking out the window. What a fool I was.
I cried myself to sleep that night.

What makes me "ME"?

It would be impossible, I think, to reach this point in my life without at least once or twice questioning who I am and why. Oh, sure, there's the easy answers: I'm my parent's child, my children's mother. But I'm thinking of the other questions: am I an honest person? Am I compassionate, funny, a good friend, a deep thinker?

Before I answer, let me explain why it's on my mind today. Roughly three months ago, a friend was in an accident. Now, mind you, I've never met this person, only read his published works and exchanged emails and chat posts with him. I don't know if he considered me his friend, but I considered him mine. His name is Richard Bach.

In the accident, Richard suffered a head injury. There was doubt for a while that he would live, and once it seemed he was safely on this side of life, there were questions as to how much he would regain of himself. Eventually, he recovered physically enough to move to a rehab center, and recently was staging a hunger strike to be allowed to go home. I don't know if he's made it home yet.

One of his children posted a comment on Facebook, which I am paraphrasing, since I can't find the original. He said his father didn't know who he was, and had forgotten most of the philosophies about which he had written. This confused me at first, because I was pretty sure the same child had posted that Richard remembered who he was, and remembered his children. But in thinking about it, I suspect that what the son meant was that his father no longer knows what it means to be Richard Bach.

I know that personality changes are often a by-product of TBI's, or Traumatic Brain Injuries. Once gentle loving people can become hostile, rude, withdrawn. Personality changes are also sometimes a by-product of a near-death experience, although that usually is a change for the better.

It all makes me ponder the idea of who I am. If I look at myself, I find flaws, lots of them. I'm not 100% honest, although I try to be. I'm a sucker for a sob story, I have too much faith in the people I love and too little respect for the rest. I'm not careful enough with my money, my time, or my love. But I always thought these were traits that were born within me, set in my genes, just like my inability to lose weight and keep it off. But if a TBI can change a personality, cause someone to forget a life's work, then what really makes us us? 

For most of my adult life, I believed that my body is just a vehicle for my soul, that my soul is eternal, and that I chose this life for the lessons I needed to learn. I believed that who I am is who I will always be, and that although I can learn new things, (and unlearn some old things) I can't change my basic 'me-ness". Now I question that. Now I wonder if all along, I've been wrong.

The more I think about it, the more confused I get. If our basic personality really isn't set in stone, then what excuse do I have? I've told myself for so many years that I'm not an extrovert, that if I could be a hermit, I would be. I don't like crowds, loud noises or pushy people. And yet, having written a book and self-published same, I know I may have to develop a thicker skin, and reach outside my comfort zone if I want success. Is that part of the problem? Do I unconsciously not want success because it would force me to change? Can I be a hermit, and a best selling author at the same time?

What do you think? What governs our personalities, where does our self-ness really reside? Can we ever really lose it, and if so, is it possible to find it again?

A fun weekend project

     I thought I'd give you all a look at my latest "stash-buster" project. I have, as some of you know, a huge stash of fabric, in dozens of prints. Cottons, flannels, fleece, wool, felt, velvet, corduroy. You name it, I probably have it. Some of it I've had for years and years, moved in boxes from one home to another. Some I inherited from my mother. 

      Last weekend I rummaged through the stash and picked out three fabrics to make a baby quilt for the soon-to-be-born daughter of my nephew. I discovered an quick and easy, and yet adorable, quilt pattern on the internet, and I made the quilt and sent it off. 

      But once it was finished, I started looking at other things I could make using my stash and that quilt pattern. Several years ago, I purchased a cute border print fabric (see above) and used some of it to make aprons for my two granddaughters for Thanksgiving. (I think they worn them just long enough for pictures.) 

      I don't know what I was going to do with the rest of the material. I suppose I could have made yet another apron, or hemmed it and used it for a tablecloth. But yesterday I decided to use the motifs along the edge as squares for a table runner. I picked out two other fabrics, and started cutting. The brown is leftover from my grandson's dinosaur costume of two years ago, and the tiny acorn print is something I bought thinking it would make a cute blouse for fall. I've had it at least five years, so its chances of ever becoming a blouse were rapidly slipping away.

After cutting out the pieces, I put together all the smaller individual pieces, then pieced each block. I joined the blocks, then instead of using quilt batting, which would have made the runner too thick, I used a piece of leftover flannel. I backed the runner with the pumpkin print from the middle of the border fabric.

I think it turned out really cute! It's on my table right now. I have enough left over to make another one, but I'm currently working on a couple of Christmas presents. Maybe when I'm done with those, I'll make another. Might make a cute present, huh?

Oh, and I also made this: banana bread. I added a bit of orange peel and nutmeg, and since I didn't have walnuts, I used some sliced almonds from the freezer. Don't usually make banana bread (I don't really like it.) but I had the bananas, and I'm a firm believer in 'waste not, want not'. It will be good for slicing and toasting in the morning, especially with a little bit of butter or peanut butter.

So, that's what I did this weekend. How about you?

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....