Sometimes Things Don't Go According to Plan...

So I had planned on writing a slammin blog posting while at work today. It's a Friday: there's lots of down time. I don't usually ost at work because, down time or not, I like to be alone and really able to immerse myself in thought when I write. I'm not saying I have to, but it is my chosen path. It is hard for me to concentrate and really sink my teeth into a piece with phones ringing, file drawers clapping shut, and a copier/scanner/faxer that has decided to be bipolar. However, in a jam, I can mostly go to my quiet mental place and churn it out. Today, however, there are two maintenance men working away not two feet from my desk. With their BAMMING, and their sawing,and their "They painted over the hinges! I told them not to paint over the henges!" it is quite hard to find a quiet place of any kind. so, between answering the phone and having to yell ("NO! HE'S NOT HERE RIGHT NOW CAN I TAKE A MESSAGE? NO A MESSAGE- DO YOU WANT TO LEAVE A MESSAGE? HE WON'T BE IN UNTIL 11:00. ELEVEN. YES I'LL TELL HIM YOU CALLED.") and answering emails...I'm lucky this made it here at all.

I do plan on posting a real one later on tonight, as I have recently been very inspired by thinking back to some stories my mother told me of her childhood growing up on a farm and just the overall way I believe life might have been in my hometown back then. I'm excited to be able to sit down and really delve into it. I just wrapped up my on site class last night and have only my final to complete for my online class. I plan on doing that when I get home this afternoon and then I will be DONE! Oh, how I have longed for summer! It's going to officially begin this weekend and I'm not looking back. It has been a stressful semester and I am very glad that I made it out alive.

Until later, have a splendid Friday everyone :)

My Mother. My Friend. My Inspiration.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune. ~Graycie Harmon

The above quotes perfectly sum up my mother to me. She is everything I could ever want to be, but never will attain. She is the strength in my heart, when I thought I had given everything I had. She is the smile in the corners of my mouth when I thought I would never smile again. She is the friend I can turn to when all others have turned their backs. She is the arms that held me, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. 

The truth is, I could write forever and still not express the way in which I feel for her. When I was a child, she would stop whatever she was doing to tuck me in at night. She would sit on the side of my bed and read my bedtime stories from an old book with pictures of vintage looking children; little girls in their pink, frilly dresses-little boys in their blue coveralls. I remember laying there being so soothes by the sound of her voice. A teacher by nature, she had was a fantastic story teller. She had a way of making each character come to life; a play taking place in a little theatre on the foot of my bed. She sat with me as I said my prayers, asking the Lord to bless my family and not to forget my stuffed animals.

I could take anything to her that had broken and she could fix it. Many a decapitated barbie doll passed through her hands, which mended the plastic body and handed it back-good as new. I used to think that she could have fixed the world, if only the right people had asked. I still do.

She supported me incessantly in whatever my dream of the moment was. I wanted to be a dancer. She paid for me to take dance lessons for eleven years. I wanted to play the clarinet. She bought me a beautiful instrument that carried me into a new phase of my life.

When I discovered at age seven that I wanted to be a writer, she watched me as I wrote a ten page masterpiece titled "The Killer of Love" (based on the familiar Harlequin romance novels I saw her and my grandmother reading of course). Her and my father acted out their given parts with enthusiasm and vigor. She encouraged me to keep writing when she bought me my first type writer and supplied me with plenty of paper on which to craft my next work of art. As I grew and my writing grew, she gave me journal upon journal to document my thoughts. She told me of how she used to write when she was my age and gave me a notebook full of her teenage thoughts. It is something I treasure to this day.

She is always the first person to be proud of me and never fails to show that to other people, never in a boastful or negative way. It used to embarrass me when I was a teenager, as I am a fairly modest person. As time went on, I learned to enjoy it. She was proud of me. What shame was there in that?

The older I get, the more our relationship tends to change. There is a time in every child's life when the veil of perfection that has shrouded our parents is lifted- and we see them for the first time as humans who make mistakes. It is a bittersweet moment that comes with realizing that before your parents were your parents, they were just people-like you; moving through life trying to figure it out. They were people who loved you when it was difficult, even at times when, to someone else, you might have been unlovable. It makes me want to put my arms around her to shield her from anything or anyone who might hurt her. I suppose this is how she feels towards me, as if her love has been superimposed onto my heart.

My mother sacrificed for me, as did my father. She would often go without so that I might have that doll at Christmas or that dance costume for the recital. She never failed to tell me she loved me. She never failed to encourage me to dream the impossible dream. She always held me higher than herself so that I might reach the stars, herself perfectly content to remain in the ground. She let me have my own adventures, consuming me with the thought that I could be whatever I wanted to be; yet she remained in my shadow-always ready to come out and rid my world of the people who told me I could not.

My mother loves me with a love that has yet to be matched by any mortal heart. She loves me wholly, completely, unabashedly for who I am. She never tried to make me into someone I didn't want to be. I can only hope that the love I give her in return is enough. Though she deserves so much more than I could ever give.

If your reading this, Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.

Remembrances of a Golden Time...That I Never Knew Was Golden

I never had a good relationship with my grandmother. We were never especially close. She was controlling, manipulative, and vain. It always upset me when my friends would talk about spending the weekend with their grandparents and they seemed to have literally had a good time. My grandmother made it clear from a young age that she was displeased with the person I was. I was a chubby kid. This was not acceptable. She told me this with all the monotonous repetition of a broken record that no one takes the initiative to fix. Most children remember their grandmother telling them how perfect they were in every way. They remember affectionate smiles and warm embraces. The most common words I remember being told was to "suck in" my tummy.

I recall childhood instances when we would be out to lunch, my mother and I talking and laughing when suddenly, the laughter would be interrupted by a parting of lips: "Do you see that woman there," she would say, "if you don't get your act together, you will be just like her. Do you want that? Do you want to be like her?"

The words ring out in my brain, echoing from the long term memory file folder with "Mema" etched in salty tears. That was what we grandchildren called her. It always struck me as peculiar that I was called her "grandchild". She didn't seem to think I was very grand. She spent the next seventeen years tearing away little shreds of my self-esteem. She would often ask me if I actually enjoyed living the kind of life I was living. She brought diet pills to Thanksgiving dinner. She would discuss me and my lack of interest in changing my ways to various people, some of whom had never met me.

During my fragile middle school years she pulled me aside and told me that if I didn't do something to change myself, no boy would ever love me and I would be lucky if they were my friend. Again...the echoing of her voice haunts me. She never failed to compare me to my thinner, prettier sisters. Why couldn't I just be normal?

Over the years, I built up a high level of resentment for her and her failed attempts to "fix" me. But more than that, I believed her. I soaked up every negative thing she said to me; the Bounty quicker-picker-upper of emotional burden. She taught me how to hate myself. She gave my self loathing a voice with which to do the damage she had somehow managed to leave undone. It worked. I always realized that I needed to get a handle on my body. I just felt it was so far out of my control. I was too young to understand that the neighbor who molested me at five years old, stole much more than my childhood innocence. His foul touch and her sharp tongue created the perfect environment to breed a downhill spiral.

When I was 17 years old she was no longer able to live alone or care for herself. After years of being bounced around a small handful of nursing homes, assisted living communities, and children's houses; none of which could handle her presence, my aunt and mother decided to move her back home and pay caregivers to stay with her around the clock. It was a job that used to belong to my mother before she required 24 hour care. She was the only one who stayed close to home. We spent our live at her beckoned call.

I was going to college and working a really crappy part time job as a cashier when they brought her home. I was so dissatisfied with my work that I approached them about being a caregiver for her. Soon after, I quit taking sweaty money from the bras of old black ladies, to spend the weekends caring for an old white one. That was what she was to me: an old white lady. I hated everything about it at first. I hated being away from my family, I hated being in that house which seemed to suck the very life from my body, I hated being trapped there with her watching her watch me and hating what she saw. We fought a lot. I said she couldn't do something according to the list of rules I was given. She said God would punish me for my sins. She said I was a disappointment. I said she had disappointed me my entire life. She said I was hopeless. I told her she wouldn't know hope if it danced at the foot of her bed. She fired me two years in at the end of September.

That was it. Or so I thought.

I swore I would never go back. My mother swore I would never go back. My father wouldn't speak her name, much less speak to her face.

January rolled around and the lady who stayed with her at day time during the week quit. I needed a job, so I went back. Excuse me-she allowed me to come back. We still didn't get along every day, but I knew that at five o'clock I could go home. I felt I could fake it for at least nine hours a day.

Before long, I felt like I didn't have to fake it. I genuinely started to care. We watched birds. I tried to convince her there was not a squirrel stuck in her bird feeder. We watched Gunsmoke and bonded over the handsomeness that was Matt Dillon, wondered in suspense as the Cartwright boys escaped one mishap after another, and laughed at Lisa & Oliver as they tended their Green Acres. But I think the memory that stands out the most is the first time she ever watched Steel Magnolias. We laughed and cried, then laughed some more. Every now and then, I would look over at her as she laughed. At that moment, she could have been five years old again. She laughed without inhibition. Her head was arched back and her eyes seemed to glisten; her small body a quiver with the sheer force of her happiness. The sun was coming in the giant picture window on the side of her and it was that perfect time of day where the rays casted a golden glow that shrouded the room, as if God himself was saying, "This is important. Remember this." I did. I think that was the happiest I had seen her in my entire life.

When we got the call one lazy Sunday afternoon in early November that she was not having a good weekend, I didn't think much of it. They said she wasn't eating. No big deal, some days she ate like an anorexic bird. We made sure to at least get Ensure in her system. When I got to work the next day, I knew something was terribly wrong.
I called the local Hospice center, where she had been a patient for over a year. When the nurse came out and checked her, my concerns were realized. At first, I was immediately panicked about where I was going to find another job. I know that sounds horrible, but it really was my first concern. I don't think I allowed myself to believe that she could actually die. I tried to keep it together. I tried to ignore her ragged breathing. I tried to look past her blank expression. I tried to erase her skeletal frame. As I sat alone with her, in that house, with my mother in the other room; I sang her favorite songs. I kissed her forehead. I held her hand and tried not to fall apart as I told her I forgave her. I felt like a lifetime had passed between us, and I didn't want to let go.

November 18, 2009

I wasn't there when she died. My mother, cousin, and I had gone to town to run some errands. My mother was relieved because she didn't think she could handle it. I never told her, but I really wanted to be there. She was surrounded by family and people who loved her all singing her favorite hymns; but I wasn't there. And I wanted to be. 

I never cried at the viewing. I never cried at the funeral. For the first weeks after that, I never cried. Thanksgiving happened, then Christmas and with the hustle and bustle...time just kept going. How does it do that? How does it have the nerve to keep going after someone has been ripped from our lives and we can barely keep going ourselves? I longed for people to stop looking at me with sympathetic smiles. I yearned for the day when we would no longer receive cards in the mail expressing sincere condolences. I was ready to move on. At least I thought I was.

I never thought it would be this hard. I couldn't have perceived missing her this much. I don't miss the drama. I don't miss the stress. I don't miss the fights. But I do miss fawning over Marshal Dillon. The Cartwright boys must feel abandoned and confused or at least they might if they were still alive. I hear a song that we used to sing together and I'm right there with her again. I miss walking out of her bedroom and saying, "I love you," only to hear her say, "I love you more." Those words echo in my mind too. They aren't always as loud as the others, but with time and love...I might not hear the others at all. These are memories I will always have of a time I can never get back. Of this, I am grateful and, can honestly say, I wouldn't change a thing.

There is a Blog for Everyone

I know this might seem a little like-DUH- to most bloggers/blog readers, but it is a legitimate new thought for me. I have found myself thinking a lot recently about how to get more people to be aware of my blog and its existence. I thought that maybe I wasn't writing in a way to reach people...how does a blogger get on the "Notable Blogger" list again? Then I had an epiphany: There are billions of blogs out there, floating about in the abyss of the cyber world. There are just as many, if not more, blog readers (you know the type, like to read, but don't have the time to blog themselves...I used to be one. Creeper.) but I will not appeal to them all. There is no way, nor would I want to do so. You know why? Because that would make me run of the mill. That would make me generic in some way. I will just continue to write about what I love: I will write short stories. I will write about margaritas. I will write (inevitably) about someone I love. I will (most assuredly) write about someone I hate. I will be inspired. I will try to inspire others. I will laugh while I blog and will, no doubt, cry too. I will live my life and document the pieces as I see it, from my puny-yet real-perspective.

When I was growing up (wait...am I done?)

While I grow up, I have been known to say "I'm sorry" quite a lot. Even if it wasn't necessarily my fault. I felt that I needed to bear the brunt of the blame. I'm not really sure why. If someone didn't like the way I did something, I would change it. I look back and become really, majorly frustrated with myself for doing this. I am at a point in my life where I refuse to continue to apologize for being ME. I can not, do not, and will not change, conform, degrade any part of myself for the pleasure of someone who never did that for me. I will not befriend people who put the "narc" in narcissistic. They physically make me sick. I will not allow myself to feel bad for leaving said people behind. I shake off the losers like dust. And I do not look back. Or maybe I do and this is what I'd like to change because, let's face it: it is hard to say goodbye and really mean it. This time I will do it. I will mean it.

So, I'm gonna go give myself a bear hug and really start to embrace this burgeoning Lizz within. I was told recently that I am hardcore. I'm going to try to live up to that now.

:)    (<----Old habits die hard)

The End of the Semester Better Bring A Margarita...or at Least A Parrot's Bay!

     So just a quick blog tonight to check in and say hello! I wish I had the mental or physical strength to actually post something inspiring and worth reading, but I just finished my LAST thesis before Summer break and I really..........don't have it in me tonight.

     On one note, I want to thank all FOUR of my followers :) Some people might laugh at a number so small, but I say...Ya have to start somewhere. My friend Jayne from injayne'sworld only started out with 5 followers and has added many since then. Perhaps you'd like to add yourself to her list? You wouldn't regret it- just visit her blog at http://www.injaynesworld.blogspot.com/ and check her out. Especially if you are having one of *those* days.

     After speaking with a young I love deeply earlier this evening, then settling in to watch Idol Gives Back I leave you with two thoughts:

1. Love yourself. Plain and simple. NEVER let anyone treat you in a way that makes you feel less of yourself. There will always be someone who revels in your falls. You must find the people who will help you up and smile with you through the good times too. These people will never be the same. Remember this.
2. We are so blessed to have the things that we have. There are people out there who are in dire need of help and-call me crazy- but I fervently believe we can give that to them. You don't have to donate a dime of your money (although it would help). You could volunteer, or donate food to a food bend. You could help teach a child to read or color a picture with them. The smallest simplest things we do DOES make a difference. WE make a DIFFERENCE. If we so choose to...and I choose to. How about you?

"A journey of 1,000 miles begins with a single step."

Every Day at Three

       He visited the graveyard every day. At exactly three o'clock -rain or shine- you could always see him coming up the gravel walk, flowers in hand, his tattered plaid overcoat a more obvious sign of his age than the wrinkles around his eyes. What beautiful eyes they were; sage green with tiny gold flecks that always seemed to sparkle whenever he was truly happy- usually when he spoke of her.



     They had met right after high school, during that awkward time when no one really knows what they want or how to get it. He would never forget the first time he saw her. She was sitting at the end of the bar at the Milk Maid, a local diner that, he would later discover, made her favorite strawberry milkshake. There she was, perched like a southern angel, drinking the pink concoction that perfectly matched the sheen she wore on her lips. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss those lips. When he opened them again, he found her staring directly at him. For a minute he was sure she'd caught him staring, but at that moment--he couldn't seem to find it in him to care. Instead he got up, walked over, and asked her for a date. She politely refused at first, but somehow-between his smile and his charm-he talked her into it.

     Times were tough and uncertain for many people. There was a raging war, rationing, money shortages...everywhere you looked there were people trying to do their part. Trying to make things right again. Children collected scrap metal and bottle tops, so much so that on any given day you could spy them on the street, tugging their little red wagons behind them. It was so odd to him. What used to carry memories of childhood, now carried a burden much too heavy to be pulled by any child. One crisp, autumn afternoon he got the news he had been dreading since the U.S. entered the war. The next week he boarded the bus with the rest of America's youth; all looking equally scared as hell. None of them had any idea what was coming.

     He arrived safely and was immediately glad it had been an undisclosed location. He would not have wanted to know that this was what awaited him. He was also glad his family didn't know where he was. He could picture his sweet mother crying at the sight of him hunched in the corner eating something resembling pig slop. They expected him to fight a war with this in his belly?

     His thoughts often drifted back to her. Her blonde hair falling just-so around her heart shaped face, the way her milky white skin seemed to glow beneath the pale moonlight, the way she always twisted her pearl necklace when she was scared..or angry...or anxious. She never let a day go by without writing to him though. It seemed a letter or two would arrive nearly other day. He looked forward to those letters with all the nervous energy of a child on the first day of school. She wrote about everything. Picking flowers on the side of the road, riding her bicycle to Downy's Creek for a swim, the newest tricks she had taught Rocky-her prized cocker spaniel-, and of course those impetuous trips to town for a strawberry milkshake. She made him laugh out loud at her declaration of being the driving force behind the success of the postal industry. He missed her. He returned home some time later to find himself more in love with her than ever. He asked her to be his wife and she accepted...without hesitation this time.

     Life, all at once, took over. She taught school. He did carpentry. They had children. The years seemed to fly by with rapid succession; a blur of diapers, lunchboxes, permission slips, graduations, Christmases, play costumes, laughter and tears. He treasured every moment spent with her in his arms. The children went to college and moved away, inevitably beginning new lives of their own.

     Time had drawn them both in a different light. His hair was graying and she had the slightest traces of lines on her face. He watched with amusement as she fretted over them in the bathroom mirror. She could never have been more beautiful, he was sure. He went with her to the doctor the next day. They didn't usually think it was necessary to things as a couple, especially doctor visits. One of them sitting impatiently in the doctor's office was more than enough. But today it was raining and she hated driving in the rain. So off they trudged, hoping that perhaps the rain would clear and they weren't headed towards an all day ordeal.

     If he had only known, he would have held her tighter. He would have loved her without abandon. He would have taken her place. He still had no idea how he missed that red light. He was always such a conscientious driver, but something must have distracted him because the next thing he remembered, he was waking up in the bleakest of hospital rooms with nothing by his side except a beeping machine. When the doctor came in and told him what had happened, he wondered if anyone had ever actually died of a broken heart. Were there records for such things?

     He spent his time in various ways. Some days he would sleep until noon. Some days he would walk the half mile up the road to the Burger Barn, this ridiculous chain restaurant that prided themselves on clogging the arteries of thousands of southern people, all out for the ultimate burger experience. They had torn down the Milk Maid a few years ago and stuck this abomination there in its place. He'd still make the trip though, just to sit where they had once sat together and drink a strawberry milkshake. They were nowhere near as good, but almost just as pink. Every day at three o'clock, he would comb his hair, put on some fresh socks, and slide into the plaid overcoat that she had given him on their 25th wedding anniversary. Sure it was worn and, he knew, completely out of style; but none of that mattered much to him. She gave it to him and for that, he would always love it.

     He would walk up the long gravel driveway leading to her section of the graveyard. He always liked to clear away any dirt or leaves that may have collected since the day before. He would bend over-an increasingly hard task- and nestle the flowers beside her picture on the tombstone. It was one of his favorite photographs of her. It was taken right after their wedding ceremony and her eyes still seemed to gleam with all the happiness of being a young bride. He just stared at her. After all these years and eternity in between, she still managed to take his breath away.

The Little Girl Who Played with Fairies

     They would only come out if you were very still. She learned that a long time ago. So often she would stand in the middle of her circle made of sticks and she would close her eyes-that always helped her- and be very very still. Her mother would tell her not to be so stubborn. Those were no fairies she saw-only bugs with a light in their behinds. She thought this was rather amusing. What was her mother thinking? There were no such things as that! She would sneak out in the warm evenings and follow the path that lead her to her secret place. If the moon was out, she could follow its pale beams all the way without need for a flashlight. She made sure she had enough supplies that would tide them over until her next visit. She would go every night if she thought she could get away with it, but ever since her mother married Jim, things had changed and she knew not to press her luck. They were both light sleepers.

     So off she went carrying plenty of match boxes, thimbles, old wooden spools she found in the basement, and cotton balls-they loved cotton balls. They made excellent pillows. She made sure to tuck them in their usual places-the knot hole in the old Weeping Willow, beneath the fragrant blooms of the gardenias, right next to the log that nestled in the shallow water of the pond, and one last one on the lillypad for the stubborn one who never would come all the way to shore. What was she scared of anyhow?

     As she held up her nightgown and waded into the cool water she felt the tickles of the tiny brim as they seemed to play hide and seek around her ankles. She placed the matchbox on the lilly pad and stood there for a moment, wishing beyond anything that if she was very still and closed her eyes, she could open them to find herself a part of their world. Suddenly she saw a little yellow fleck of light from the corner of her eye. She turned quickly and waded back to shore. She hoped she hadn't scared them away, but minutes passed and she never saw a thing.

     Giving up, she decided to go back to the house. It was an especially clear night with a beautiful moon and she was sure that if they came back she would see them from her window. As she walked up hill she never ceased to be taken aback by the sudden image of her house in front of her. It always seemed to appear out of nowhere. This used to excite her-like an old friend popping in to say hello. Now days it just loomed over her, dark and silent like so many other things seemed to be. Except tonight, something was different. A small square of orange light beamed forth from her mother's room. She began to walk faster and with purpose. She knew she had been caught and nothing good could come from this.

     As she walked in the door, she expected to see him right away, standing there waiting for her to speak, but he was nowhere to be seen. No one was. All was quiet. Maybe she had been mistaken. Maybe her mother had simply awaken from another bad dream and went to splash some water on her face. She was okay. She was fine. She turned the corner to head up to her room, when suddenly he was before her-popping out like a clown from the scary jack-in-the-box she hated a few years before. She could see her mother behind him in the kitchen, her pink bunny slippers looking up at her as if even they couldn't believe what she let him do.

    It seemed that all at once an explosion landed on her cheek. Her breath caught in her throat and she stumbled backwards, against the wall-looking at him. She was wrong. This was bad. This was very bad. She saw him come towards her and she knew what was coming, but she also knew that running would only make it worse. So she closed her eyes and she stood very still, making believe she was with them, in her circle made of sticks. They ran and laughed and played. They bathed in thimbles and slept in matchbox beds with cottonball pillows and no one ever hit her.

     When she opened her eyes it took her a moment to remember where she was. It only took a second for the pain to remind her of just what had happened. At that moment she just didn't care. She grabbed her bag of leftover spools and a blanket and ran back down the path the way she'd come. When she arrived, she spread out the blanket and layed beneath the willow tree. As she stared up at the sleepy, swaying branches, she couldn't help but think of how much in common she had with the tree's name. She had never let it make her cry before. She was strong that way, but something shifted in her tonight. Something made it okay to let it all out and as she weeped, a small light flitted by and landed on her sore, tearstained cheek. She made sure not to move an inch, but it moved and landed right next to her on the blanket. She looked at it closely. It was beautiful! It was glowing! It was...a bug with a light in its behind. She breathed. So her mother had been right-it was just a stupid bug. She thought about getting up right then and running away. She thought about going back to the house and taking what she knew would be coming to her. But she didn't. Her mother had been right about this, but she had been so terribly wrong about many other things. She stayed and remained very still, so sure that she would open her eyes and be a thousand thoughts away.

A Sacred Bond

A ring,
A vail,
A long white dress,
Butterflies,
Laughter,
And happiness.

A father,
A daughter,
A walk down the aisle.
A bittersweet moment,
A warm, loving smile.

A promise,
A vow,
Words from the heart.
A brand new life
Fixing to start.

Jobs, goals, and bills
Oh my my my...
Before you know it
Five years have gone by.

A love, still new,
Expanding each day.
Learning and growing
Along the way.

A house,
A cat,
A new baby girl.
The best of each other,
She completed their world.
It's been eleven  years now
And life has sure changed,
But they wouldn't change a
Minute of it for anything.

A touch of the hand,
A kiss in the dark,
A deep understanding,
An infinite spark.

Looking back now,
It just doesn't seem
As if twenty-five years
Could have passed between
Our life now-
A dress,
A vail,
And a ring.
__________________________________________________________________

I wrote the above poem for my Aunt and Uncle in celebration of their 25th wedding anniversary. Marriage is one of the most sacred of bonds and I hope God blesses me with the type of marriage they have. <3 Best wishes for another 25 years!

The Old Lady in the Orange Grove

     There was an old woman who lived in an orange grove. She grew oranges so bright and so fragrant, it appeared like a painting in the clouds. A picture of life and it's simple pleasures. Often, I would drive by her wonderland and see her walking amongst the trees-bucket in hand-waiting to pick the first one that caught her eye. She was no amateur, she had been plucking oranges from trees long before I was anyone's conscious thought. She had a way of reaching, ever so gracefully, up into the abyss of the branches, looping her fingers around the floating orb, and with a press between forefinger and thumb; coaxing it into her pail.

     On any given summer day, I could jet by and see the many people she would let come and mingle with her amidst the trees, talking and laughing; and of course picking baskets of oranges. She never charged a dime for her oranges or her time, though I often thought people would have gladly paid a generous amount of money for a small taste of either. She loved them all-stranger or neighbor, but she especially loved the children. She struck me as the mother type, though I never saw her with anyone except her friendly great dane "Frank". She named him Frank after her late husband. The poor dehydrated thing showed up on her back door steps the day after she buried the only man she ever loved and they shared the same pale blue eyes. It was a sign. She was a big believer in those sorts of things.

     She had a way with the children that was neither geriatric nor motherly. It was a kindred bond she shared with them, as if they were equal partners, only decades apart. It was sometimes hard to distinguish their laughter- hers so effervescent-blending right in. Spanning the time between them.

     She never needed anyone's company in order to have a good time. I passed by one drizzly afternoon, only to catch her in the lowest part of the grove, leaping over the tiny puddles of water that always seemed to gather there after a bit of rain. There she was, her coveralls soaked and her hair  matted against her face; which despite the rain was completely aglow. Frank ran beside her, as he always had and she hoped he always would.

     Those summer days seem so far away now. I wish I had known her name. I always felt I knew the things that really mattered, but it still gnawes away at my heart that I never learned her name. She's been gone some time now. The grove- overgrown and in need of pruning- sits alone; beckoning anyone to frolic about in its perfectly straight rows. How I would love to be the one to give in to its desire. But alas, the gate is shut on the property and in a way to that section of my heart.

Laughter, Enchillatas, and .99 Coronas

It seems that April has not gotten off to a bad start for many people I know. This, however, couldn't be more untrue for me. Sure-this semester has been kind of rocky and a little turbulent, but overall...life is oh-so good. I don't know that I have been this content with my life in a long while. Who would have thought 2010 would be such a slammin' year? (and before you say anything, YES! I realize we're not even half way through it yet, but allow me the optimism while I can.)

I had lunch today with one of my oldest friends. We've been meeting up frequently for lunch and has been so nice to reconnect with him. It reminds me of what a great guy he is and how much fun we have. We ate at this new Mexican place in town, and I highly recommend it...now if I could only remember the name. LOL-yeah I know-not very good to recommend a place and not know the name of it. Oh-well. What topped the whole afternoon off? My friend was not only great company-he paid for my lunch :) I thought that was a really nice thing of him to do.

So I started off with light, fun things, an especially fun title (clever huh? no? well-I tried); but I'm nothing if not honest and I'm about to discuss something very personal to me. I am about to embark on a new journey in my life. Well, maybe not so new but definitely a journey. My sister has been going to a doctor who has helped her lose some weight. The program has seemed to work really well for her. She asked me if I would like to give it a try because she thinks I would really like the doctor and the program. Now, some people might be offended by this, but the reality of the situation is: I need to lose weight. It seems everyone does these days. My weight has always been my pitfall; my "weakest link" if you will. It has been the cause of deep rooted depression (along with other aspects of my life), many shed tears, the butt of many jokes, and a wall for me to hide behind.
I know I would be more happy if I lost it. Got rid of it. Bye-bye flab. The thing is, I learned to hate myself a log time ago. I learned to take the twisted lies and knotted up insults that I heard and turn them into a kind of "truth" that I let myself believe. I let the opinions of others form my thoughts of myself. I recently read some old journals that I kept and it actually scared me. I know it's only by the grace of God and love from family and friends that I made it through. I refuse to go back to that place. I am not happy fully with the person I am on the outside or inside. It is a work in progress, but...aren't we all. Aren't we all nothing but walking canvases on which the picture of our lives is painted? I used to think that everyone else had it all figured out, then one day I took a good look around and I realized: they were all just as confused as I was.

Now I'm not saying that all of my life's problems are going to be solved if (I mean "when") I lose the weight. But in realizing that I made a huge step in the right direction. I am going to live my life on my terms and be the best person I can be. I am not going to hang my happiness on the hanger of other people's opinions of me. I'm going to allow myself to love all of me-every perfection and every flaw. If I don't, how I can I expect anyone it from anyone else?

Spots of Sunshine

Today I have been inundated with the thought of learning through failure/critique. Some people, let's face it, simply do not like being critisized no matter how constructively or otherwise. Here's my thoughts on the subject: you have to to fail in order to learn. If you are not willing to fail, you don't care enough about your craft. If you are not willing to receive contructive criticism, you don't care about it either. Success could not stand without the support of failure. I am in the process of writing my first novel and when I first began, I was terrified that I wasn't doing it right. I was so caught up in the construction of the skeleton of the story, that I wasn't having any fun. I have always loved to write and it has never been a chore. Suddenly, I realized that the thing that I loved had become a hassle. I stopped right then. I put away all of my notes and told myself that I wouldn't come back to the story until I was in a place where I could allow myself the freedom to make mistakes. I had to learn to approach it in the same way I had any other writing project I had done over the years. I had to allow myself the possibility of failing. I would love to be published, really, but I think what's most important to me is that I am pleased with my work. I want to finish this book to say that I did it. It might not turn out good, heck it might stink, but being open to failure and allowing myself to take part in the process will, no doubt, bring me closer to my desired goal. There are some things I am terrified at failing at (does life count? lol), but writing is not one of them. I love my work, not in a conceited way, but in a passionate way. My work is me: all of my feelings and experiences all wrapped up in a bundle of words. No on could ever take that away from me.

moving on...

I found out today that the Florida Public Library Fund is on the chopping block. This just distresses me in so many ways. With the illiteracy rate in this country, the decision to do this astounds me! Reading should be a fundamental part of every child's life; every person's life. Sadly, this is not the norm. When I was growing up, my mom read to me every night before bed. I remember being aware of reading before I could understand the words. She was very patient and worked with me every night, so that by the time I was 4, I was reading on my own. I am so grateful to her for giving me the gift of literacy. I use the public library all the time. I have seen children, during the summertime, walking to the library to check out books. I was warm and happy for the rest of the day. I think about my future children and the thought of being responsible for teaching them to read is terrifying. It can be so confusing to children, as English can be so confusing. That being said, I will do the very best I can. I will do it because I know how important it is in the whole rhelm of things.

Speaking of children...

We were discussing children in my educational psychology class and we touched on an issue that really struck a nerve with me. We were discussing the proper amount of time a mother should stay home with her child after giving birth. One woman said that the first three years are the most crucial and that if a mother goes back to work she is depriving her child of the bonding and attachment that comes along with that time spent together. She went on to say that children who are put into daycare centers at an early age suffer problems and are unhappy in the longrun; that society punishes mothers who want to stay at home with their children. She also said that children lacked social awareness and such by being placed in daycare too soon. I'm sorry. I couldn't disagree more. My mom ran a daycare center from 1981-1997. I still keep in touch with a lot of the children who went there. We were like a family and those kids knew that their teachers cared for them. I agree that children should be with their mother at least for the first six months.
As a woman who wants to have children, I do not want to take three years out of my career for every child I have. I don't think I should have to. She claims that society frowns on women who choose to stay home, but she (and my classmates) are frowing at the women who choose to go back to work. Where's the justice in that? Furthermore, I don't think that my child will suffer long term consequences if I put them in daycare at one years old. For some people it is cheaper to stay at home than to pay for child care. I understand that. I think that there are a lot of benefits of going to daycare. I think your social skills are markedly improved. I just have a real problem with women giving up their chosen career, one that they worked so hard to obtain, not because they want to; but because they feel their child will suffer as a result. Both of my parents worked full time jobs while I was growing up and I turned out just fine. I knew they were always there for me. There are plenty of women who might physically be home, but wishes she were somewhere else. Is that beneficial for the child?
It just seems like the area where I live has smacked into the twilight zone and reverted back to 1950 where girls get through high school, then have visions of wedding bells and babies dancing in their heads. They don't aspire to go to college or learn who they are as individuals. Some go to college, but as soon as they find their man, they drop everything to get married and have children. I feel like we're being taken back sixty years. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife and mother. It's a comendable job, but why does it have to be rushed into? You have the whole rest of your life to wed and birth babies. This is your time to learn about yourself. Stand on your own two feet. This is just my opinion. I know there are plenty of girls my age and younger who are married and either pregnant or have children. I know a few of them who are great mothers (some of whom might be reading this right now-not sure) and are doing the very best they can for their children and family. I respect them tremendously. I commend them for going to college while caring for their children. I just think their load would be a lot easier if they had waited.

Alas- life is life. It cannot be planned, it can only be lived. Love the one you have been blessed with and if you don't like it, rage against all odds to change it.

Here's to your very own "spots of sunshine" :)

This is a first...kind of

Hi everyone (well, I guess at the moment it's just me, but that's okay too). My name is Elizabeth, but I was dubbed Lizz-with two "z" 's-and well, it kinda stuck :) <---Notice that smiley face. This blog is called "Smiley Faces & Random Thoughts" for a reason. I use them a lot. I like to smile and spread the sunshine. I'm just your average 20 something college student. I like to laugh and have a good time, but I take my school work and career goals very seriously. I have written poetry, short stories, and whatever else for as long as I can remember. I dream of writing books. I am working on my first one now and wish I had more time to devote to just tucking away and writing for hours at a time. Yeah-that won't be happening any time soon. I find that I like to take a while in my writing, making everything sound just so; quaint in some way. This is another reason I want to blog again...to remember how it felt to just go where ever the words lead you. There doesn't have to be order. Sometimes writing is just chaotic and emotional and...raw. I have found that some of my best work comes in those forms. So I used to blog all the time when I first graduated from high school. It was fun, and as a lifelong journaler, I was excited to experience a new tech savy way to keep track of my thoughts. Now I realize that the thoughts and feelings of an average teenager aren't exactly on the top of everyone's "Must Read" list. I understand this now. I did not understand it then. I remind myself that keeping a journal, whether it be in a tattered notebook or on my HP; it's for me. Only for me. If people can identify with my thoughts and I make friends along the way that's great (I sure hope to!), but at the end of the day-as long as I am pleased with it and it lightens my emotional burdens...that's all that matters. :) <---there I go again So I think that's a pretty good start. Now to figure out how to share on FB and such!