Paul McCartney's Birthday

It is the birthday of musician and songwriter Paul McCartney (1942), born in Liverpool, England, where he picked out chords on a family piano. When he was 14, he learned to play a left-handed guitar and met a local art student named John Lennon.

Your Own Sanctuary

From today's DAILY OM.  I like this thought.

A Refuge of Your Own

Creating a Garden Sanctuary

 

Think about creating a garden sanctuary to reconnect with nature and honor yourself and Mother Earth.  Each of us has been blessed with an innate need to celebrate and glorify life. At a most basic level, we honor the forces that came together to bring us into being by caring for our bodies and our souls. To truly rejoice in existence, we must also learn to cultivate loveliness in those special places that replenish the soul. When we create a garden sanctuary, we are reminded that we are a part of both nature's essence and something more. An outdoor retreat is a place we can surround ourselves in nature, beauty, and the life force. It is not difficult to create a sanctuary—we should endeavor, however, to create sanctuaries that speak to us as individuals.

Whether we have a yard, a grassy corner, a patio, or a porch at our disposal, our creative potential is infinite. Any of these spaces can become a magnificent garden. When we feel drawn to specific themes such as Zen, angels, paradise, or the ethereal, we should explore them. Décor and furniture crafted from natural materials like wood and stone blend seamlessly into nature. Yet we can also augment the natural world by filling our garden sanctuaries with statues, bells or gongs, or colorful flags.

Running water, like that in a created stream or fountain, helps energy flow smoothly. If space is a concern, crystals and mirrors can fulfill the same function. Hidden features like concealed swings and reflecting pools veiled in shadow can surprise and delight. As your garden sanctuary evolves, remember to invite the elemental spirits of nature to assist you in your efforts to create a small pocket of harmony, beauty, and peace in your own backyard. If you have not already felt their presence, sit quietly in your garden and reach out to them. You will feel these earthly guides at your side as you continue to develop your sanctuary.

In the refuge of brilliant color, sweet scents, and stillness you create in your garden, the burdens imposed upon you by a sometimes hectic world will melt away. The splendor and tranquility of what you have brought into being will entrance you, allowing you to forget the constraints of time and space. No matter how large or small your garden sanctuary, the time you spend reveling in its pleasures will refresh your spirit and provide you with innumerable opportunities to celebrate life.

Bad Dream

Last night I had a very bad dream.  A nightmare, really.  But short.  Happened fast.  At least that's all I can remember.

I dreamt that my niece's dog, Brady, was put in a kennel and when I went to get him, the vet tech. said he had died.  Then I went to a little wire crate where he was lying in an curved ball with his eyes closed yet looking big and brown and liquid-y.  Like two big brown almond-shaped limpid pools of dead dog.

It was horrible.  Then, I woke up.

Wonder what bad dreams mean?  My guess is that it's the psyche's way of working out stressful situations; dealing with anger or fear or negative emotions somehow.  Or empathy.
Compassion and caring for someone, a way of sorting through that which we cannot fully understand.  A way of coming to terms with confusion or ire. 

I heard he recently had surgery on his jaw. For a little Jack Russell, that's significant, as his mouth is so small.  Maybe I'm worried about his recovery.  I hope he heals well and goes on to live a healthy happy life and that my dream is NOT an omen.

Now That I'm All Grown Up

Now that I'm all grown up, I can eat chocolate before dinner
And stay up 'til 3 AM watching old movies.
I can leave my dirty socks in a pile on the bedroom floor
And undress in any room of the house I please.


Now that I'm all grown up I can have as many pets as I want
And take them all to bed with me.
I can eat pizza for breakfast and ice cream for dinner,
And talk on the phone to my heart's content.


Now that I'm all grown up, I have to watch my shekels,
And make sure I have enough money to pay the bills
Keep a roof over my head
Food on the table-- and in my tummy.


I have to reply only on myself.  For everything.
And sometimes I get weary,
From being alone,
And doing anything I want.


Now, that I'm all grown up, I miss my parents
And the life we had together.
The meals we shared.  The drives we took along the lake.
The company.  The consistancy.


Now, that I'm all grown up, I don't feel so grown-up.
I look back at my childhood and still cover my ears at loud noises
Look up at the stars
And cringe when I hear animals cry out in pain.


Knowing half my life is gone
And half, with luck, remains,
I don't feel all grown-up at all;
Just part grown and part older.

copyright 2010 -  Phyllis Perry

Writers on Writing

Why I Don't Write Autobiographical Poems

 

Vengeance doesn't work in a poem,

nor do digs at anatomical parts

or mean-spirited, see-what-I-mean, anecdotal jibes.

For example. you write an epic tirade against "Bob."

Who is Bob to me, the reader?

The fact that he lied, cheated, was lousy in bed,

that doesn't make Bob special, nor does your
problem with Bob make me feel
different about my life.

However, speak to me of Bob's kitchen,

of its perfect, painted walls

of deep and shiny teal with high-gloss white

moldings, (he was into that Southwestern look),

of the way Bob's toast had to be cooked evenly on

both sides, and of Bob, himself, draped,

regally, in a raggedy old kimono,

dragging on a filthy, filterless cigarette, his hand

as graceful as a gazelle in slow-motion, the nervousness suspended, of how each word he spoke was

always articulated as neatly, separately,

yet as packed with juice as a champagne grape –
and I can begin to feel more impassioned.


And when, after several years of cohabitation,
he drops you as carelessly as he flicks

an ash, you allow me to be devastated.

 

by Mary Wallach

Dad's Birthday

Today is Flag Day here in the United States. On this day in 1777, the government officially adopted the Stars and Stripes as our national flag. No one knows for sure, but it was most likely designed by Congressman Francis Hopkinson and sewn by a seamstress in Philadelphia named Betsy Ross.

Today my Dad would've been 108 years old.  Born in 1902, he lived through the Great Depression, stock market crash, world war II and much more.  He went from horse and buggy to the Model T to the Pinto.  Imagine the span of technological inventions and advances in his lifetime.  It's mind-boggling.

When I was born, he called me his "dolly."  Sixteen years older than my Mother, Dad ruled the roost of us four chicks (mom and 3 girls) and we all called him "Dad."  During my childhood he was in his 50's and 60's then had a heart attack at age 59 when I was in 4th grade.

Things were tight economically, and Dad had to go pick coal, before I was born, to heat the house.  Times were lean for this factory worker who made $100/week for a family of five. 
Yet, somehow, we muddled through and always had enough to eat and a bed to sleep in and a doll or two to play with, although I preferred horses & dogs to dolls.

Dad died when he was 74, back in 1976.  I was working at Tiffany's in Beverly Hills, California at the time.  It was a sad day.  I remember the manager calling me into his office and telling me I could take time off to go to the funeral.  Everyone gathered around me upstairs in the lunch room.  I felt discombobulated and confused.  It was a difficult time.

Years passed, but my sadness never went away entirely.  So every Flag Day I feel kind of melancholy.  But I know why.  It's one more loss and one less person who knows and cares about me.  As time goes by those relationships become paramount to living a quality life.  Ghosts of the past are but memories of friendship, fading rememberances of lost love and tender times.

Home

“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

~Maya Angelou

Yesterday I saw a play called Home, written by a local playwright, Suzi Regan.  It was a series of vignettes, by four actors, all about various scenes in and about our homes.  Mom and Dad geting older, siblings fighting, affairs, widowhood, and the myriad of relationships that cross our doorways, paths, garden gates and entrances into the realm and worlds we call our "home."

Fantastic play with excellent acting, writing, directing and sets.  Made me think about my home and how much it means to me.  To come back, from wherever I may roam, and know that there are 8 furry critters waiting with open paws and hearts to embrace, comfort and greet me tenderly.  That's HOME!

To be able to relax, in comfort, on my deck with redwood benches, daydream on my cedar swing, read a book on my covered porch, curl up in my down filled bed, write letters in my cozy study, entertain friends in my gracious livng room, and enjoy roaring fires in wintertime in my country inn-like family room. I love my home, and the play just confirmed my relationship with my four walls times 8 rooms and made me feel happy, grateful and very content.

My pets are part of my home.  I mean the gestalt of all that I consider when I think about the concept of home.  They are part of the fixturs, you might say, the very workings and heart of the dwelling and domacile.  They embody the true notion of "home sweet home" and some of them even have the name as part of their own--Sweetie Pie, Sweetie Pooh, and Sweetie Sue.  All part of my real home--the tapestry of life within walls of love.