Feeling the Impact of Shining and Sharing my Light and Love with the World

My muse was dry. I figured that perhaps after forty blog posts I’d covered everything I wanted to say. Then I glanced at my calendar and noticed that it is Random Acts of Kindness week. I never knew there was an official acknowledgment of the valuable art of practicing random acts of kindness and suddenly my muse was nourished, ready to write a fresh blog.

Upon googling my topic, a plethora of interesting sites and images came to my attention. I checked out several videos on YouTube before choosing this simple clip from Scoop to share with my readers.

 

I reflected about my own experiences. In September, my good friend Kim sent me a photo challenge and it was so much fun and so gratifying I became somewhat obsessed with the idea of creating monthly challenges for myself. October was a yoga challenge followed by a daily ten- minute meditation challenge in November. But the one that gave the most back was in December, when I chose to challenge myself to send daily loving-kindness messages.

I was only a few days into it when I recognized that while I was sending daily loving-kindness to one person each day, each person I reached out to gave a loving kindness message back to me. By mid-month I’d received so many affirmations, good-wishes and kind-hearted sentiments my cup was literally overflowing. I felt energized and joyful in a way I hadn’t experienced with any of my other challenges. It confirmed what I already knew; that love is the medicine, our healer, our purpose, our path.

I went back to my computer and watched Ted Talks and more YouTube videos, searching for more examples to share. There was plenty of great material worth sharing, but nothing seemed to express the feeling I was hoping to emote. Feeling stuck again, I took a break, hitching Lola to her leash to walk in the fresh air where I hoped to find inspiration. As I walked, a memory I’d long since forgotten came to me and with it, the beginning of a poem.

I haven’t written any poetry for some time now, but this is what seemed to flow with divine grace from my mind to my pen.

I see a homeless man as I’m strolling down the street,

His clothes are dusty, ratty shoes upon his feet.

My gut reaction is to turn away my eyes

But for some reason I smile instead and we are both surprised.

His mouth turns from an “oh” to a tentative smile

And suddenly I’m asking if he’ll watch my dog a while.

His smile becomes a grin as he gives Lola a tender pat

And I tell him it won’t be too long before I am back.

 

Inside the bookstore I thumb through rows and rows of books,

Every story in my head urging me to go and have a look.

I choose instead to trust my heart

For it gave me the intuition to have faith from the start.

After I pay for the book I desire to buy

I go outside where on his lap Lola lies.

This man I don’t know is grinning from ear to ear

And it almost makes me heart break; I shed a single tear.

 

I realize all the stories in my head

Conceived from ignorance and fear; instead

I’m seeing past the judgment he must be mentally ill

Or a crack-head or an addict to some crazy little pill.

I see a man like any other who happens to be down on his luck

And I ask him if I can pay him, even though it isn’t much.

He thanks me and then he tells me Lola has made his day

And I think, it is oft the little things that help to ease the way.

 

 

So yeah, I’m feeling the impact of shining and sharing my light and love with the world.

Feeling Sentimental; Missing my Father

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I’ve been sending off query letters every week, hoping to catch the attention of an agent willing to take a risk and represent my manuscript, My Father’s Hands. I write about how my relationship with my father inspired and defined me. I share with complete strangers the depths of my connection and the despair I felt in his passing. Sometimes I write those words with a detached complacency born from repetition and the passage of time. Other times the tears streak down my cheeks as if it was only yesterday.

 

In truth, it has been sixteen years. I hadn’t done the math, but the other day I was showing a photo of my dad to someone and they asked when he passed. I told them in 2000, and it was a shock to me that so much time had passed. Sometimes I speak as if it were a recent event. It is often the case with memories; elusive, fragmented and hazy.

 

At any rate, I’ve decided to honour my feelings towards my father in today’s blog by sharing two poems I wrote about him. The first is now the Prelude in My Father’s Hands, the novel. I wrote the poem for his funeral and it ended up becoming the outline for the book. The second is the Epilogue, which I wrote only recently in my thirteenth and final edit. Together they are the beginning and the end; the story encompasses everything in between.

 

Prelude

When I was born

My father’s hands were young hands.

They held me when I cried

And patted my back to sleep.

They tickled me on my tiny toes

And held my bottle while he fed me.

My father’s hands were perfect

For encompassing a baby girl.

 

When I was small

My father’s hands were busy hands.

They held my hands to show me the

Feel of swinging a baseball bat

And threaded bait onto fishing lines.

They pierced marshmallows onto campfire sticks

And steadied my bicycle when I learned to ride.

My father’s hands were perfect

For playing with a little girl.

 

When I was a teenager

My father’s hands were worried hands.

They wrung themselves together

When I didn’t bother to call

And grasped me firmly when

I didn’t come home at all.

My father’s hands were perfect

For caring about his growing girl.

 

When I was a young woman

My father’s hands were relieved hands.

They could let go a little now,

Making room for my husbands’ hands in my life

While remaining strong for me.

They held my excited hands as I walked down the aisle,

Waved to me when I moved away,

And welcomed me whenever I returned.

My father’s hands were perfect

For setting free his little girl.

 

When I became a mother

My father’s hands were teaching hands.

They showed me the “magic touch” when Michelle was crying,

Wound up the motorized swing when Tamara was colicky,

And turned the pages of Kevin’s favorite stories.

My father’s hands were perfect

For nurturing my children.

 

Several years ago

My father’s hands became crippled hands.

Rheumatoid arthritis bent them, giving them pain.

It was hard for him to do the things he wanted to do.

His hands needed medications and operations.

They became tired and it was my turn to be strong.

My father’s hands were perfect

For loving me.

 

Two weeks ago

My father’s hands became ravaged hands.

Infection spread into them yet they comforted me

As I held them and stood helplessly by his bedside.

They managed, even amid such struggle,

To return my affectionate grasp;

An unequaled gift of love and reassurance.

My father’s hands were perfect

For speaking to me.

 

Today my father’s hands are gone.

They are in God’s hands.

They cannot encompass me, play with me,

Care for me, let me go, nurture my children,

Love me or speak to me.

They cannot give him any more pain.

My father’s hands are perfect,

Forever in my memory.

 

Epilogue

Looking out the window into the dark night sky

I glimpse the beginning of a new and spectacular dawn.

The sky in the east transforms from inky black to rusty indigo.

It slowly melts into magenta, then dissolves into a soft cherry pink,

Creating candy cane clouds.

I gaze transfixed.

The sky seems to speak to me of promises and dreams

Of someplace I recognize

But feels like long ago.

 

Daddy, I remember you.

Playing baseball.

Standing at the plate,

Legs planted firmly,

Expression deadpan.

Then looking over at me,

Sitting in the bleachers;

A conspiratorial wink.

The pitcher releases the ball,

It sails through the air.

You swing the bat.

Crack.

It makes contact.

You drop the bat in the dirt,

And start running.

 

I pray that somewhere in that forever sky

You are running free,

Looking over me,

Connected in spirit for eternity.

 

I pick up my pen,

And begin to write.

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Feeling sentimental; missing my father.