azure funk

It's the time of year...
Once a favorite of mine, but now, a bit different.

I realize, I should be embracing the festivities of the season. At least for the sake of the little ones. And to be sure, I do my best. They're smiling still. I hope they never find a reason to feel the blueness that creeps in on some of us.

What is it that causes that feeling of being on the outside? With our breath fogging the glass of the window to that warmly lit home where the laughter rattles the panes...

On the outside, baffled by the amusement of the others. Smiling tearfully, truly happy for those who possess the joy, yet aching for a piece of it...

What is it?

Perhaps, it is knowing. Knowing too much of the dreadful things. Being old enough to be aware of the difficult things hovering over us and having trouble shaking it off.

Oh, to be oblivious. There are moments I've wished for the ignorant blissfulness of a butterfly. A great cataclysm could be falling around them, yet they'd float and flutter, dancing from perch to perch. Smiling inside at the beautifulness of their brief moment of existence. It would seem.

Not too long ago, I had little trouble feeling somewhat carefree and childlike. Wanting to spin in the rain and toss the leaves to the wind.

I've hit a wall. A darkness that does not feel like my own. There seems to be no shortage of people who would see to the failure of the lighthearted.

A break is needed. The road beckons...



Not to turn and run from the heaviness. But, to get a better perspective. A refreshment of sorts. And not just for me.

That's what I tell myself, at least. Though there is something to seeing strangers milling about in towns foreign to us. We may not look or speak the same, still we are together in this. No matter how it seems, or even if they will agree with us on the issue.

I know it is me who placed myself outside that window. Maybe it's best this way. At least I know when my lips part for a grin or a bit of laughter, it is genuine.

late nights and 3 musketeers

Halloween has come and gone. The chocolate is gone, too. Pity. Still, Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.

I've always loved pretending to be someone else. Makeup that sparkles or glows in the dark and things that light up in unusual ways will never cease to amuse me! The kiddos seem to agree with me on this. It's like magic.

While, anymore, I rarely dress up for Halloween, apart from smearing on a bit more glittery makeup than usual, I have been staying up late each night in search of particular pieces of steampunk-style clothing and gear. I've found a character to emulate for next year's A-kon 22, so the hunt is on!

The other day, I scored a major piece of the ensemble! Tis a vintage Swedish Mauser ammo belt, formerly used for stripper clip storage. Yes, an odd thing to be excited about, but this thing will have more than one use. And, methinks it'll look pretty cool, too!

The rugged and worn leather belt is due to arrive tomorrow. I'll have to take pics!

Now, the boots are another story. I'm still searching for those, though I have come across a suitable pair of Tomb Raider styled commandos. Who knows when I'll get those. Boots are a bit pricey. And there are other family members to attend A-kon who might need a pair, as well.

The rest of the ensemble will likely be handmade, which is in the spirit of a true steampunk, no? At least, that is the plan.

Turn off background music here, then come back up.

---

fall

glory o the morn

---

There's a hearty vine taking over the back patio.
I'd not expected it to make it through our dry and supremely hot summer. Though it has, despite many occasions of near-dead wilted leaves.

One morning, after a particularly difficult number-crunching, hair-pulling, over-all frustrating all-nighter, I ventured into the cool moist dawn. The sun barely having broken the horizon. Somewhat muffled, the waking bird songs and distant highway sounds. Fresh.

I rounded the corner, past the porch post and mass of heart-shaped vine leaves, vine tendrils snagging in my hair...

Unfocused, bleary-eye, I caught shocks of blue in my periphery.

Most unexpectedly, the vine had not only survived, but it celebrated with blue morning glories sprinkled throughout its delicate foliage.

Sweet.

---

hatchling

Enjoying the warmth of a summer day, I sat in one of the plastic lawn chairs whilst the kiddos were at play. Trying to sound nonchalant, maybe even happy, about the coming end of the season, I made playful comments about topics that are now unremembered.

The summer will be missed, in a way. The heat of it, not so much, but the sense of time being a slight slower will be. Once fall arrives, and in not too long a time from now, the days will grow shorter. Time will seem to slip away faster, I think.

But before this, I sat in my chair, somewhat wet from our "last swim of the season" as it were, drying in the rays of the sun. As I often have done, I scanned every green thing in the yard. The green would be gone soon.

I gazed briefly at the sky. A beautiful sky. The blue intensifies, it seems, as the air tends to grow clearer in the cooling wind.

Then, eyes to the children and the grass beneath us, I saw a tiny movement in the corner of my eye. I knew, instantly, I did not want to know what caused it.

I tried to ignore what I thought I saw, because in that split second, I'd realized what sadness was to follow. There in the dirt, amongst a scattering of shriveled fuchsia crepe myrtle flowers and twigs, silently squirmed a wee and recently hatched creature. A baby dove.

Quietly I uttered, "I didn't want to see that. I wished I hadn't just seen that."

But it was seen, and could not be undone.

Quickly, before picking up the sweet creature, the husband and I searched for a nest, hoping there'd be one within reach. There was not.

The nest was to be found, eventually, very high up in the tree. Too high to be reached safely. I cursed the mother dove, who sat statue-like on her nest. Was she unaware her baby was lost? The nest of the dove, nearly any dove, a shabby one indeed.

With a pained heart and misty eyes, I picked up the little grey ball. He made not a sound as he wriggled, soft in my palm.

I fashioned a nest of sorts for him, what comfort I could possible give, and placed him in a vee of the tree. Into the summer night, he faded...

Time, fleeting...

raindrops

---

This summer has been a brutal one.

The heat of the day lingers, pushing through cracks in scorched earth and blooming hot into the night. A bit oppressive, one might say.

But on occasion, there is a break of sorts. I'm hoping for one of those today.



For certain, the drops are appreciated. Moments after they hit the dirt, the air is fresh. Plants awakened from their wilt.



How precious and beautiful these droplets are. Each and every one.

---

perseids and me

Image by: Mila Zinkova

---

It's that time of the year again!

The Perseid meteor shower is back once more. Though, since moving to this suburb, I've not tried to get to excited about it. I can't see a thing!

Ambient lights and what all. Egad.

So, last night, whilst watering the garden in the dark, a bit late-ish I realize, I thought about the Perseids and how my childhood summers were spent sore-necked looking for a fireball--seeing at least one large meteor blaze across the sky each year. A bit sad, I felt, that I'd not be able to see them in the glow of city lights.

I was watching through the trees, somewhat disinterested, as a small plane made its way east to west. When suddenly, from the corner of my eye I saw a bright orange glow begin its burn from the north! Nearly as quick as it began, the ball of fire sped to the south and vanished.

Lovely. Perhaps, the first meteor I've seen since moving to this place. Now I feel better.

It's after 2 am. Time to go outside and set my gaze skyward!

---

nearing the end--P90X

With a bit of sadness, our journey with P90X is nearing its end...

The first round, that is!

Yes, the husband and I are in week 12 of our fitness transformation. Next week, "recovery week" as it is called, is our final push for completing the 90-day P90X Classic run.

I'd love to post the before and after pics, but I'll need permission to expose the husband's "guns" as it were. His after pics are fantastic. You'll just have to take my word for it until pic-release is authorized.

As for me, if one values their retinas, they'll not care to view my before pics. Egad. For shame. My afters are pretty good, but I'm waiting until we've completed the next round.

I think I'll change it up a bit. Since more cardio is necessary to prepare for our planned 5K run later this year, we'll need to switch the workouts to fit the P90X Lean schedule. The "lean" schedule is very similar to the "classic", though there is a little less resistance training and more of that intense cardio workout. I look forward to the challenge!

I must say, P90X has taken us on an interesting trip. Not only have we gained strength and stamina, but our outlook is much more positive. We've adopted a new lifestyle. Actually, it wasn't as difficult as I expected it to be. Perhaps, we were just ready.

The workouts never really get easy. One doesn't get used to them, since each day is something different from the one before. And there are days it is difficult to find motivation to stick with the program. But, to miss a workout is even worse. It just feels wrong. I've discovered, no matter how tired I might feel prior to the exercise, if I push myself to do it, I feel completely energized when it's over. A good feeling to be sure.

So, with a bit of sadness, we move on to finish what we've started. I'll miss P90X Classic...

On to P90X Lean...

Then, who knows, P90X Plus! OUCH!!


Tony Horton... We hate him, but we love him...
I can't wait!

sunshine on a stick

The heavy rain was welcome, to be sure. The heat of summer was beginning to feel a smidgen oppressive. If humidity and 100 degree plus temps can even be considered a trifle of hot oppression.

The wind and hail had me concerned, though, that the flowers the children had grown from seed might be pummeled and broken.

Not to worry.

The sunflowers still stand intact, despite one whose head hangs a wee low. Tis a bit heavy that one, as it is of the large variety.



Sweet and cheerful these blooms are. Smiles without faces.
Sunshine on a stick.

P90X--Yoga X and an unexpected rift

So this is week 10 of our P90X journey. Tonight is Yoga X, one of my favorite workouts.



Apparently, Yoga X is not a favorite of some P90X users. I suppose I can understand, it is a bit difficult and it is an hour and a half long. But what I had not expected was the other reason to dislike Yoga X.

Last night, whilst perusing YouTube P90X results videos, for inspiration o' course, I stumbled across a video review by a previous user of the workout DVDs. This user was displeased with the addition of yoga in the P90X program.

Now, I don't know about this person in particular, but when one purchases the DVD set, you sort of know right away there will be yoga involved. That's the draw, the diversity of the workouts, which happens to include yoga. And the program is not cheap, so you might want to know what you're paying for.

Anyway...
The P90X user was displeased and made a point to mention that Tony Horton should make a workout that did not include yoga.

I suppose I'm a touch naïve. I see nothing wrong with Yoga X. I'm getting fantastic flexibility and balance. After the workout, I feel great!

Never once did it cross my mind that my soul was in danger. Though, it seems, according to some, should I continue on this path performing Yoga X, my spirit will be sullied and I may become taken over, as it were. Egad.

I'm not worried. And I shan't be worrying others with this possibility. I suppose if one wants to sully their spirit, there are many other fine ways of doing it, whether one partakes in Yoga X or not.

And so, of course, I went off on tangents with this concept of the dangers of yoga and the groups who oppose its practice.

Yes, I googled. Ouch!

I looked up the reasons for Christian fear of yoga. I guess I should know the reasons for the fear, but me being a person of open mind, I forget how closed some thinking is.

What I found is a good reason some people fail to embrace organized religion. Doomed either way.

The hypocrisy, absurd. So much so, that some Christians are finding ways to perform yoga and call it something else, because "yoga" is "evil".

Really?

Let me see if I have this straight...
Yoga is found to have benefits. The moves promote health and a sense of well-being. But, those moves are created as a way to worship multiple gods. To Christians this is very bad, of course, as they do not worship multiple gods. Understood. Makes sense to me. I can respect that.

So, these yoga moves are being "adopted" (or plagiarized) by some Christian groups and then renamed to better follow their beliefs.

How is that okay?

A tad odd to me.

Also, somewhat humorous.

I found another P90X user on YouTube who didn't like Yoga X because it was not spiritual enough! Go figure.

You can't please everyone, Tony Horton.

Me, I'm fine.

My search for the reasons to oppose yoga took me in many different directions. I even ended up on a site with a map of hate groups in our nation.

It's somewhat disturbing to find religious organizations with lovely, peaceful names on a national hate groups list. Disturbing and misleading. Be careful guys!

Ah well... I could go on about this topic, but it's almost Yoga X time!

Namaste~~

earth

Turn background music off here, then come back up.

---

Yesterday was Earth Day.

I tend to like Earth pretty much every day, though I suppose there are those who need a reminder of this planet's awesomeness. :o)


Thank you aSecretAgent for sharing this vid.

i used to like tea

My blood pressure has a tendency to run a bit high. This after a touch of pre-eclampsia with my last two kiddos. If a "touch" of pre-eclampsia is even possible, it is pretty horrible. So, I try to avoid things that cause tension or anger.

Of course, often I fail. Because, chances are, nastiness in the news will seep through my loosely-crafted shield of ignorance. Nastiness that inevitably causes my ire to go up.

I've kept my mouth shut about such things. Particularly, the political items. It makes no difference what I might think about any hatefulness existing in the world. And writing about is only cathartic to a point. Nothing changes really.

Perhaps it is best to leave the fighting to others. Surely many feel as I do. That our feelings on a matter mean so little. What to do?

But, like stickiness on a shoe, or gum in one's hair, there is one group irking me most, to the point I can scarcely hold my tongue. I'll not honor them by mentioning their names, but only say, I used to like tea. And they are giving my favorite beverage a bad name.

It isn't that I fear what their "movement" stands for. Strike that. Maybe I do. Because I can not understand it. Can not grasp what it is they believe they are fighting for. No matter the explanation their "leaders" give, it all smacks of blatant racism and borderline terrorism.

Maybe, just maybe, there are members of the group who think they are doing a good thing. Fine, I suppose. But what is the "good" of it? I have yet to see it.

During a quick scan of Facebook minutia (I'm not much of a Facebook user), I stumbled on a good friend's posted link titled: Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege

I must say, there are things in that posting I'd been thinking all along.

So without my further rambling on the subject, I'll just copy and paste the piece, which was written by Tim Wise.

Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege
By Tim Wise
April 20, 2010

Let’s play a game, shall we? The name of the game is called “Imagine.” The way it’s played is simple: we’ll envision recent happenings in the news, but then change them up a bit. Instead of envisioning white people as the main actors in the scenes we’ll conjure—the ones who are driving the action—we’ll envision black folks or other people of color instead. The object of the game is to imagine the public reaction to the events or incidents, if the main actors were of color, rather than white. Whoever gains the most insight into the workings of race in America, at the end of the game, wins.

So let’s begin.

Imagine that hundreds of black protesters were to descend upon Washington DC and Northern Virginia, just a few miles from the Capitol and White House, armed with AK-47s, assorted handguns, and ammunition. And imagine that some of these protesters--the black protesters--spoke of the need for political revolution, and possibly even armed conflict in the event that laws they didn’t like were enforced by the government. Would these protesters--these black protesters with guns--be seen as brave defenders of the Second Amendment, or would they be viewed by most whites as a danger to the republic? What if they were Arab-Americans? Because, after all, that's what happened recently when white gun enthusiasts descended upon the nation's capital, arms in hand, and verbally announced their readiness to make war on the country's political leaders if the need arose.

Imagine that white members of Congress, while walking to work, were surrounded by thousands of angry black people, one of whom proceeded to spit on one of those congressmen for not voting the way the black demonstrators desired. Would the protesters be seen as merely patriotic Americans voicing their opinions, or as an angry, potentially violent, and even insurrectionary mob? After all, this is what white Tea Party protesters did recently in Washington.

Imagine that a rap artist were to say, in reference to a white president: "He's a piece of shit and I told him to suck on my machine gun." Because that’s what rocker Ted Nugent said recently about President Obama.

Imagine that a prominent mainstream black political commentator had long employed an overt bigot as Executive Director of his organization, and that this bigot regularly participated in black separatist conferences, and once assaulted a white person while calling them by a racial slur. When that prominent black commentator and his sister--who also works for the organization--defended the bigot as a good guy who was misunderstood and “going through a tough time in his life” would anyone accept their excuse-making? Would that commentator still have a place on a mainstream network? Because that’s what happened in the real world, when Pat Buchanan employed as Executive Director of his group, America's Cause, a blatant racist who did all these things, or at least their white equivalents: attending white separatist conferences and attacking a black woman while calling her the n-word.

Imagine that a black radio host were to suggest that the only way to get promoted in the administration of a white president is by “hating black people,” or that a prominent white person had only endorsed a white presidential candidate as an act of racial bonding, or blamed a white president for a fight on a school bus in which a black kid was jumped by two white kids, or said that he wouldn’t want to kill all conservatives, but rather, would like to leave just enough--“living fossils” as he called them--“so we will never forget what these people stood for.” After all, these are things that Rush Limbaugh has said, about Barack Obama’s administration, Colin Powell’s endorsement of Barack Obama, a fight on a school bus in Belleville, Illinois in which two black kids beat up a white kid, and about liberals, generally.*

Imagine that a black pastor, formerly a member of the U.S. military, were to declare, as part of his opposition to a white president’s policies, that he was ready to “suit up, get my gun, go to Washington, and do what they trained me to do.” This is, after all, what Pastor Stan Craig said recently at a Tea Party rally in Greenville, South Carolina.

Imagine a black radio talk show host gleefully predicting a revolution by people of color if the government continues to be dominated by the rich white men who have been “destroying” the country, or if said radio personality were to call Christians or Jews non-humans, or say that when it came to conservatives, the best solution would be to “hang ‘em high.” And what would happen to any congressional representative who praised that commentator for “speaking common sense” and likened his hate talk to “American values?” After all, those are among the things said by radio host and best-selling author Michael Savage, predicting white revolution in the face of multiculturalism, or said by Savage about Muslims and liberals, respectively. And it was Congressman Culbertson, from Texas, who praised Savage in that way, despite his hateful rhetoric.

Imagine a black political commentator suggesting that the only thing the guy who flew his plane into the Austin, Texas IRS building did wrong was not blowing up Fox News instead. This is, after all, what Anne Coulter said about Tim McVeigh, when she noted that his only mistake was not blowing up the New York Times.

Imagine that a popular black liberal website posted comments about the daughter of a white president, calling her “typical redneck trash,” or a “whore” whose mother entertains her by “making monkey sounds.” After all that’s comparable to what conservatives posted about Malia Obama on freerepublic.com last year, when they referred to her as “ghetto trash.”

Imagine that black protesters at a large political rally were walking around with signs calling for the lynching of their congressional enemies. Because that’s what white conservatives did last year, in reference to Democratic party leaders in Congress.

In other words, imagine that even one-third of the anger and vitriol currently being hurled at President Obama, by folks who are almost exclusively white, were being aimed, instead, at a white president, by people of color. How many whites viewing the anger, the hatred, the contempt for that white president would then wax eloquent about free speech, and the glories of democracy? And how many would be calling for further crackdowns on thuggish behavior, and investigations into the radical agendas of those same people of color?

To ask any of these questions is to answer them. Protest is only seen as fundamentally American when those who have long had the luxury of seeing themselves as prototypically American engage in it. When the dangerous and dark “other” does so, however, it isn’t viewed as normal or natural, let alone patriotic. Which is why Rush Limbaugh could say, this past week, that the Tea Parties are the first time since the Civil War that ordinary, common Americans stood up for their rights: a statement that erases the normalcy and “American-ness” of blacks in the civil rights struggle, not to mention women in the fight for suffrage and equality, working people in the fight for better working conditions, and LGBT folks as they struggle to be treated as full and equal human beings.

And this, my friends, is what white privilege is all about. The ability to threaten others, to engage in violent and incendiary rhetoric without consequence, to be viewed as patriotic and normal no matter what you do, and never to be feared and despised as people of color would be, if they tried to get away with half the shit we do, on a daily basis.

Game Over.

*(Denver Post December 29, 1995)

There are more links in this post. Please read the original Facebook post here.

In fairness, I'm sure there are some conservative groups that do not share the same feelings as those of the media whores such as Rush Limbaugh, Sarah Palin, Anne Coulter et al. Even still, to what end will this madness bring us?

I've often felt, this chaos is a good thing. This is how we sort out the good from the bad. Those who choose to divide peoples are showing their true colors. And with a nation as diverse as ours is, I doubt such a concept will fly.

Now, where is my tattered shield of ignorance? There are children here. Their shining innocence need not be tarnished just yet.

in training

Turn background music off here, then come back up.

---

So the husband and I have a plan to run a 5K later this year. My idea, mostly. I'm crazy like that. The husband, he's very supportive, luckily, as there is much work to be done from now till then.

In effort to better prepare for the run, we have taken on the P90X program.



P90X in a word . . . WOW! Or maybe just, OW!

We are doing pretty well with the workouts, so far. Each day, rather night (for us), a different challenge to be had. Each morning a new muscle discovered, a very very sore muscle. The difficulty getting out of bed, we can only laugh at. "Ha ha!" we say, "T'was nothing, that P90X. What else have you? Tsk. Tsk." Then on with the day we go.

But this last night was different for me. Our challenge was a bit of yoga. Okay, Yoga X, as it is called. Not your normal let's do a few stretches and breathe a little, yoga. It is extreme, and done as instructed, will create loads of sweat to pour down the brow. And other places, not to mention.

Anyway. I was looking forward to yoga. Particularly after the previous night's workout involving the lifting of weights and the dreaded AbRipper X. Yeah. The AbRipper. Rip those abs! Ouch! And did I mention the X? Yes, it is extreme.

So, the yoga. What a lovely thing. Well over an hour of loveliness.

We were put through several, somewhat difficult, moves. Though I did this routine with the husband, I found myself more focused than expected, not paying attention so much to what he was doing.

Even more interesting, odd, and a little startling, I felt as though I might cry. What is this thing called yoga that causes tears to fall?

Now, normally, I only find myself crying when under extreme stress, or when recalling moments that are particularly sad. Even beautiful pieces of music cause mist in my eye on occasion.

But, exercise?

Fascinating.

Of course, the husband had no clue what I was experiencing. I believe he was focusing on his own moves. Even so, my ego got the best of me. I made jokes and acted cool, to cover my welling up emotion. He seemed a touch perturbed by this needless burst of humor.

Ah well.

And so it goes.

Tomorrow we will pump more iron and hit the chinning bar. If anyone cries, it'll only be because it hurts!

Bring it! ;oD

march ending...april beginning

To remember~~

odd dream

Some nights, on the rare occasion I find a bit of sleep, I dream strange things.

Last night was one such occasion.

I'd gone to bed much too early, before midnight. With so much time to dream, there was bound to be something of interest I'd not forget upon my waking.

There were strangers in my dream. One was sorting through his expensive camping gear in my mother's living room. I shook his hand as though I was just meeting him for the first time and pretended I'd heard his name once before.

I'm sure I'd seen something on television about thrill-seekers and outdoorsy types to provoke such thoughts.

Though one vision was just plain odd.

In my room, in a house I was unfamiliar with, there stood a metal frame that held a large delicate paper sheet. The paper was cut maze-like, as in the image shown above. It bellowed in a breeze that was non-existent.

Someone had told me it was bad qi to have this thing in my room, though I'd no idea why. I refused to get rid of it, saying that it was a fine piece of art, cut so delicately.

Perhaps, it was a passageway of sorts...hmm...

In any case, I found myself yelling repeatedly at this bellowing, breathing sheet, "Go back to where you came from!"

Creepy, to be sure.

I've no idea what provoked these images, yet it has me curious.

It is the time of year again, when the deja-vu is most active. The dreams most vivid. I suppose it is the spring weather causing such things.

Even still... it was an odd dream.

tiny blue and the child's treasure

Spring~~
At last there are buds and blooms on the trees. The grass is greening. There are birds picking through the blades. Flitting about in the branches.

Fresh and new, it is. Lovely.

And so, naturally, I with my camera crept low to the earth searching for the tiniest of flowers in the lawn. These blooms are the reason the grass is getting tall--not yet time to mow. And, too, the reason I do not care to have the perfect one-grass-only carpet of green. I love the variety.

There are clusters of blue scattered here and there across the yard.
Upon closer inspection, individually, tiny and delicate flowers. So sweet.

There are other sweet flowers dotting the lawn. Some most hated by those who love their pure green carpet! The dandelion being one of them.

To the children, the dandelion is pure treasure. It is magical. Make a wish and blow the seeds from their stem. The wish is carried to heaven on the wind and is certain to come true.

peace seeker

Today was a difficult one. Everyone has those days, of course. But mine didn't have to be so. It was my own doing, and for that I am sorry.

It started innocently enough. The day, I mean. A bit of beauty in the clear blue sky, the sun. Nice, to be sure.

As the day warmed, so did I.

Mistakenly, I reminisced of times I should have long forgotten. And so, I became agitated and distracted. Those days of old have bittered and hardened me to a point not to be recovered from easily.

Though I try.

A touch of rage nipped at me whilst I drove the car this afternoon. It was not just that the young driver in front of me was clearly distracted for a great length of the road. Instead, the trigger was the reaction I received shortly after my slight tap on the horn when we were stopped at the light.

Never mind, the light burned green for its duration. That the driver sat staring blankly at it, while I sat behind him in frustration.

Never mind, that when he finally decided to go, the light was yellow, then nearly burning through a red light I did.

No. He took it further and jabbed an unkind finger in the air. Yes, I suppose it was my doing, his temporary paralysis at the green light. He then proceeded to drive recklessly in front of me, nearly causing me to crash with my children on board.

Never mind, all that.

My largest fault began after avoiding contact, firmly slamming the brakes, and hitting the horn in hopes of raising awareness at the fire station nearby.

Yes, I pursued the young fellow. Actually hoping he'd pull over for a chat of sorts. So he'd not flee without having had a piece of my mind to mull.

Luckily, for us all, I suppose, he never pulled over. No harm came to his ego, I'm sure. No harm to the children, thankfully.

My eldest daughter, sickened by my behaviour, sat angry next to me. And I, sat disappointed. In myself.

This is not who I am. I am not some enraged animal, out for vengeance. Am I?

When I think of who I once was, and who I'd like to be, I don't see this darkness. When it wells up, this confused cloud, it saddens me. Frustrating it is, I thought I'd come so far. But no.

Perhaps, it is a small thing.

For those like me, whose past has been tortured to an unimaginable brink by one other hateful soul... surely they could understand. For the rest, it is difficult to explain. Nearly best to avoid trying.

I've had dreams of recapturing that light, the innocence of trust I'd held in others to be kind. Truly there is a decent music in my heart. But still, there is the fear that is provoked by sometimes the simplest of things.

Why must we need be so ugly...

It tires me, so...

snow night

Early in the month of February, a snow came.

That day, I watched as the flakes went from delicate tiny stars to big puffs, soft feathers. This was a perfect snow. Not too much. Just enough to be caught in tree limbs and thick enough on the ground to give our feet something to sink into.



When the night came, it could not be helped, I had to venture outside for a peek at the sparkling landscape. And so, camera and tripod in hand, I tip-toed across the front porch. The ambient light, captured in low hanging clouds, reflected moon-like from the rooftops. The silence of the eve was peaceful, like cotton.

This, I rarely see here, and so it had to be captured in some way. Appreciated, breathed in.

just because...

...the cuteness.

Allen Middle School Orchestra--Canon in D

Turn off background music here, then come back up.

---

This raw video doesn't capture how lovely the group sounds.

Somewhere, amongst the violins, is my daughter. I'm very proud of her. She plays quite beautifully.

She'll be a freshman next year. I can hardly believe. It goes quickly, this growing up thing.