jakorte's blog

Gnawing, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 21

Still dealing with the shopping mall fall-out…
Still have that overgrown straw-like, dry and ugly mess on my head.
Still another week and a half away from my next hair appointment, it was gnawing at me.
I’m pretty sure I could have survived another week of mirror taunting.

But, miraculously, someone posted a homemade chem-free solution:
“In need of some major hair TLC?? Combine three tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil with two eggs and apply the mixture to your hair. Let the mixture sit for 20 minutes before rinsing in the shower.
The olive oil will help hydrate brittle locks, while the protein in the eggs will promote healthy hair growth.”

Ok, well, with only two ingredients required, both on hand, and half the amount of hair on a regular head, I went forth with half the recipe. The combination easily whisked into a thick emulsion. This made it easy to hand-scoop out of the bowl, and stayed where it was put, without a lot of dripping.

20 minutes later I started to have doubts about whether I was going to have to call in stupid to work on account of my newly acquired, concrete helmet-head full of dried gook. I decided to follow the instructions and rinsed under a hot shower. My hair felt surprisingly smooth and wonderfully tangle free. I towel dried, and reached over to grab a hair brush from the counter basket.

You know that weird thing that happens after a salon visit? The one where you stand and suddenly you can smell the products in your hair? Well, I caught a whiff and thought – no way! If I don’t get this all of out my hair, there’d be a cat fest and probably some huge hairballs for me in the morning. So, I jumped back in the shower, and used a miniscule amount of shampoo followed by a minimal amount of conditioner. Rinsed again. Towel dried, combed, bent over, stood up to smell check. Phew. Still stinky. So, hmmm… there really wasn’t much of a choice to be made. I got back in the shower and rinsed yet again with another miniscule amount of shampoo and another miniscule amount of conditioner. It was getting later in the evening. I briefly considered employing my seldom used hair dryer, and then considered the possibility of cooking up any possible scrambled egg remnants. I set about letting my smooth head of hair air dry, and in a half hour, I didn’t notice a smell anymore.

About 4 hours later I woke up wondering what was dripping onto my scalp. That would be cat with a very cold nose, purring like a fiend. Not really licking and not really chewing my hair, just sort of pushing it around, breathing heavily and poking his snout about. I couldn’t see it, but I imagine he was making that cat face – the one that comes about after they unexplicably stick their nose into an available shoe. I scooted him out the door, simultaneously grabbing a sock to close into the door jamb because it muffles the sound of continual cat-knocking, displeasure communicating, door battery. I succeeded. Not bad for being half asleep!

In the morning, I washed and rinsed again, with regular small appropriate amounts of shampoo and conditioner for short hairt. I was still wondering if my situation was anything like what happens when a car encounters a skunk and the stiff wafts through the auto’s air system. You can’t help getting out of the vehicle and taking a few short sniffs, just to make sure that you don’t now smell like skunk. And then you end up worrying that you may still smell like skunk, but you’ve become used to it, so you’re not the best judge of that situation. I surely hoped not. Just to be sure, I asked a coworker to smell my hair. I probably should have explained the situation before I made the request. Now I know what kind of stuff stops her in her tracks, and that, thankfully, I was in fact hair-mask fragrance free.

The bottom line: it worked! Nicely, I might add.
I’d do it again. On a weekend. Saturday morning. With nowhere to go until Sunday.
I’ll also sock the door to preempt potential cat gnawing. Gnawing what I now know, of course.

Brow, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 20

So, I was having one of my occasional high-brow threading treatments when I realized, well... I’m old. It happened when I was given the mirror to inspect the new brow-do and, well.. there I sat in my melon pants and floral top, sporting a nose stud, tattoos and looking... old and tired, and well... brow-beaten.

True, I had already made 3 laps around the mall, but was happily counting it as exercise. I ordered a gift, picked up another gift, stopped to have my brows threaded. Actually, even before the inspection, when I had been squished into a waiting area with four young ladies whose stick-figure silhouettes inspired envy, well... that was the start of the recognition of the dawning of the old age of a Cancer/Leo cusp.

Then, short on energy and saliva, I stopped for a diet coke and to place take-out order. As I paid for my dinner, the old-enough-to-know -better- than-to-insult-customers-with-uninhibited-outbreaks -of-inappropriate-freedom-of-stupid-speech-opinions cashier exclaimed, “Oh, wow! Crackle! I haven’t see THAT in a while!” Well, damn. It looks like I may have held onto another trend too long. Of course, it didn’t seem too long to me, because, well.. time goes faster as you get older. I didn’t bother to explain that cracklepolish hides chips nicely, and since I’ve been spending a lot of time packing up stuff, many layers of polish give my nails a little extra strength, too. The things is, she might be right. I do tend to stick with what I like, because, well... I like it.

From that interesting encounter, I trudged back to the first store to pick up my special order, and was finally done with the self-torture errands. Two hours of mall-attack sensory overload, had me slothing to my I’m-going-to-get-as-many-steps-logged-in-today-on-my pedometer end of the row where I had purposefully and enthusiastically parked car. I lugged myself and everything upstairs in one trip. To my delayed dismay, I noticed I was missing the very special gift that started this whole excursion. The thought of having to go back to them mall to try and find it nearly drove me to tears.

So, back down I went, around the corner to the car park, into the trunk, where it thankfully had just managed to escape my earlier attention. Purchase firmly grasped, with the near-end in my unhindered line of sight, I shuffled back around the corner, and used the railing to guide myself back upstairs.

Yep, lapping the mall and stairing repeatedly the first day of May at 80 degrees, well… it was not entirely surprising that I was not a pretty sight in my own mirror. My dry, fly-away and yet still floppy short head of standing almost straight up from wind hair was a brittle straw-resembling ugly mess. I also had some serious eye bags and no more mascara on my right eye due severe watery reaction to overly perfumed stores of stinky stuff.

At least, I accomplished the gifting, survived brisk walking, temporary panic, multiple stair-ing, and my brows were no longer weighing heavily on my mind… or brow. So, even if you are old, and tired and stuck in past current trends, a small $15.00 beauty indulgence still has the remarkable super-strength power required to offset even the worst bad self-image day. Highly recommend it.

Why Me? ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 19

4/5/13

I am always astounded when amazing opportunities present themselves to my friends and their first reaction is to doubt themselves, immediately asking, “Why me?”

It’s happened so often, it never takes me more than a few seconds to respond. I’ve got routine down pat. The first five seconds are usually spent emitting a short snort, tilting my head, opening my eyes wide, raising my brows, and silently giving off the impression of a person suggesting that the person asking the question is being completely ridiculous and purposefully being dense.

And then, I get into it. “Well, let’s see,” I shake my shoulders and abruptly offer aloud or silently let my fingers fly fast in writing, “It’s probably because you… (insert obvious and significant answer here.) One of my recent on-the-spot observations sounded a bit harsh to my own ears. Maybe because I could hear my own sarcasm, or maybe because calling out someone else’s tendency to step-back and question is a just a mite hypocritical.

Generally, though, when any of us find ourselves asked to do something in service, the first negative thought is that you don’t have time, and the second more overwhelming and honest reaction is that you’re not comfortable with the responsibility.

Of course you're not "comfortable" with it. GOD doesn't ask us to step out of our comfort zone into another comfort zone, silly. Comfort zone = complacency. You are by no means meant to be a complacent person - you have a voice and you use it when it matters. I imagine that is exactly the reason you were called or nominated or asked. Oh, and by the way, I'll prayer on it for you, even though we both know how it’s going to go. And, I sign my tiny tirade with a simple {hug}, hoping you’ll feel the love behind it.

How is it then that I am always at a loss for my own answers?
And how is it that so far, no one has called me out on that?
I suppose, if you feel like making up for lost time, now would be your opportunity.
Your one and only opportunity.
Just sayin’.

Lessons Learned: A Memorial, ME Newsletter Vol. 6, Issue 18

4/4/13

Feeling the loss of a wonderful person and mentor, and the pain that goes along with it. For those of you who knew her, and those of you who didn’t, the following are my snapshot memories, which I am gladly sharing with you.

It seemed Chris didn’t particularly like having her picture taken. Most of the time, her hands, or her clipboard, or her hair purposefully got in the way. I don’t know why. She was a beautiful woman with an amazing smile. Somewhere, though, I do have one picture. She couldn’t avoid it, since her hands were full carrying a music themed thirtieth birthday cake. I’m sure I could find it in one of many boxes of memories, but I really don’t need to. It’s vivid memory, even without it.

Lessons learned: a picture you may not want taken now, may be a comfort in years to come, and black icing creates black tongues and black lips and lots of laughter.

I very much admired Chris’ ability to not let anyone ruffle her feathers, no matter how hard they tried. In my thirties, it was an unfathomable mystery. Heading into fifty, I well understand it now. I shake my head at the thirty-somethings I know - boiling over, letting off steam, jet-propelling right past an easy solution. I am glad to have such a peacefully, dedicated spirit to emulate.

Lessons learned: be the best example you can even if you’re not getting through to anyone; someday it will catch up to someone and they will finally see the wisdom in it.

A few days before an Asylum staff white- elephant holiday exchange, Chris showed me some canisters she was planning to get rid of. We decided that she would bring them to the event. We were pretty sure that no one else would want them as much I did. They matched the ridiculous chicken border in my kitchen. I’m not 100% sure who I traded a bottle of wine for the chickens. I do remember it was a very fun trade. I still have those chicken canisters. I've thought of her every time I've packed and unpacked them, and sometimes when they’ve unexpectedly caught my eye from their top shelf perch. I really wish I'd told her that they, and she, have stayed with me for all these years.

Lessons learned: Only a true friend would see the value of making someone happy with something no one else would want, and if you’re the recipient of such a treasured gift, you should never stop saying, “Thank you.”

My favorite Chris moment of all occurred in the tiny Asylum Records kitchen one morning. After putting my lunch away, my head came up from behind the refrigerator door to see Chris standing there with an empty coffee cup and a silly grin. She nudged up next to me, and whispered conspiratorially, “I just wanted you to know that Kyle and I are seeing each other… just in case you come around the corner too fast someday and catch us kissing.”

Lessons learned: it’s not always easy to deal with a fast-moving New Yorker, and most importantly of all… when love makes you glow, you should let everybody know.

May your happiest memories carry you through.
With fond regards,

Welcome!

To all who have committed to receiving my input on everything, and to those of you who might have just happened upon my little blog world, welcome to the beginning of a (hopefully) healthy and enjoyable relationship. I have broken down my often very broken thoughts into categories. Humor, Faith, and Poetry.

Humor – a collection of weird little thoughts – mine and others.

Faith – reporting as concisely as possible the God-smacks that have led me to where I am today - a spiritual biography.

Poetry – real feelings about my real days

Of course, I can hope to change the world, but realistically all I am really after is changing your world just little. The bottom line is I want my friends to be happy.

I used to have a silly motto: “Everyone has to like me and all my friends need to be happy." I don’t care so much about the first part anymore, but the second has become a true goal.

Here's a little link to where I've been: http://www.ur.umich.edu/0809/Sep15_08/spotlight.php

jak

Welcome to Midweek Encouragement

Midweek Encouragement is quite simply one page, once a week for the promotion of love and learning.

]]> The entries in this section are a recreated and current history of email messages that have introduced the weekly, Wednesday morning, ME Newsletters, since it's inception.

I have not yet found a reasonably easy way to publish the one page, so for now it remains an email attachment in Word format.

To subscribe please email jakorte@rocketmail.com. Blessings, J.

Bad Things Happen, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 17

Growing up holidays were more about tradition than religion. Most of the time, they centered about food. Passover Seder dictates historical, emotionally significant dishes; matzoh, bitter herbs, haroseth. Hamantashen for Purim reminded us of Haman’s triangular shaped hat. On Yom Kippur we ate honey and apples to bring us into a sweet new year.

So, I’ve been thinking about Christmas, and Easter, and although there are traditional family recipes we expect to enjoy, there isn’t any specific holiday-honoring food demonstrating or pictorially representing the birth and death and rebirth of Jesus. That is handled in Communion.

Hallmark holidays are pretty much the only ones where no one has suffered. Unless you count the childbirth suffering required in order to participate in a Mother’s Day of your own, in which case I’d have to agree, but not from experience. In the same way, very few of us can claim the direct experience of having lived the history of any given holiday, still we understand the significance of the events

Most Holy Days are set as reminders rooted in seriousness. Bad things happen. National holidays follow this rote, as well. Their main purpose is reflection; often on gruesome events with a “whew” sort of subtext. First the horror or the hardship, then delayed thankfulness.

Freedoms are a huge part of it. I’m having trouble applying that to now, as waves of upset, strife, mass shootings, mass knifings, and explosions rock our world and our souls to the core. I, for one, remain caught; swaying between the repercussions of ’HIS will be done,’ and crying out for intervention.

Counting Happy, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 16

4/5/13
Post by Philosophical Friend: You don't have to be happy all the time in your life maybe just sometimes
Reply from a near double-decade sage: That's stupid

I recognize it, now; I tortured myself from a very young age with unguided imagery. No one planted these ideals in my head. I gathered them from books, TV shows, and movies. Always, a happy ending made the suffering worth it, whatever the fictional price. No one ever promised me that I would have a happy ending-point and then, from that point on, my life would be… happy. I just believed it would be.

I figured out the obvious in my teens. Nothing had worked out, so far. Nothing had made me happy. That’s when I turned from quiet brainiac to pouting rebel. Rainbow hair, pierced nails, one long & one-short earring. I even clockworked a little bit; right side blonde and short, left side black and longer, left side full make-up , right side significantly less.

Managed to conformed a little for a Manhattan retail job, but even then I was warned I was pushing the limits. limits. I wasn’t following fads or on-boarding trends.The fashion industry expects fashion conformity, so walked away from that.

I found an easy crowd to fit in with: musicians and artists. There office outlandish was acceptable. Fishnets, satin bubble mini-skirt, silk previously retired men’ pajama tops, lace gloves, uniform rebel docs, multiple necklaces and bracelets, funky hats. Negativity was the norm. That wasn’t really happy, either.

Then came London - where I found leopard print, large frame eye glasses no one in New York could boast, and a unique bi-color hairdo a Japanese magazine photographer stopped me on the street to record on film.

Then came Nashville – where eventually someone had to ask me, “Do you ever wear anything but black?” “Of course,” I replied, “Navy Blue, Dark Brown and Storm Grey.” An attempt to keep the white blonde part white in Nashville, turned into pink. Pink so wasn’t me, either.

No matter what, Happiness managed not only to efficiently evade me, but danced away laughing.

Finally, and lastly, Michigan found a way to show me. Here is what I know:

Being pleased with your life is a wonderful long-term thing, but happiness…?
Happiness is a notch above, usually for a shorter time than we'd like.
How would we know what happy was if it didn't sweep in and out of our lives, in response to our changes, while GOD remains the same?
We forget to trust in what GOD has for us. We allow the folly of supposed riches wind us down into the valley and climb for the mountain top believing someday we’ll get there. We believe that someday a dapper-coated gentleman will tap lightly on our shoulder, hand us everything we think we desire, and we’ll spend the rest of our days in splendor. We believe we are forging ahead when we are truly wandering aimlessly. We simply forget to check our path. Because we are human: not GOD-lik. Because we are imperfect. That is why no one can be happy all the time.

Happiness can only be counted in moments.
So, count them.
Immediately.
Safe-guard the memories.
Someday ahead, you’ll need them to remind you
that you were indeed happy once, and for a while;
Trust that now may not be your time,
Act on this: happiness is something you can give away,
To whomever you choose,
Even if you don’t have any, at any particular time.

"Whosoever trusteth in the Lord, happy is he." - Proverbs 16:20

Wickity Wak, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 15

Wickity Wickity Wak!

13 is an interesting age between silly and seriousness and the switch flips rapidly. Approaching 13 x 3.8462 (not exactly, but close enough) it’s getting easier to be silly.

After all… why not? I think I’ve earned it. Through seriousness and struggling, it’s been chasing me for years. I’ve let it catch up to me once in a while, and it’s always felt good. Still, I’ve always stepped away from foolishness for the chase. I’ve been chasing success for years. That tunnel isn’t exactly straight, though.

Each time I believe I am about to step into that end-place glow, I find myself at a bend staring at a cleverly placed corner mirror that was only ever promising something much further down the line. It’s good to aim for something but the prize can’t be found at an ever moving end.

I’ve adjusted. I no longer care how far away the light is at the end of the tunnel. I can see it there, and that is all that matters. I’ll get there when I get there. And, when I get there, well, then, I will have arrived. Truly, there is no need to rush, which leaves way more time to be silly.

Anyway, back to 13 – the former age of creating cassette tapes of pretend radio shows, interviews and commercials and theme songs, giggling when we came up with new ideas, laughing until we can’t breathe when we mess up our previously awesome rehearsal. Not that much has changed, except now I’m re-embracing my inner 13 alongside a real 13. We’re recording original songs and ringtones on phones. The giggling and laughter remains the same, and that in its own right is quite a success.

Care, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 14

3/18/13

Just as I am getting back into my post-surgery life, making decisions based on age and supposed maturity, the same old sticky cog throws the wagon into a tight spin. Dizziness ensues as I try to differentiate mature acceptance from post-adolescent apathy. I’m not apathetic. Of course I care. Obviously I care, or I wouldn’t be so beside-myself upset. I just don’t … care.

I don’t care in measurements: Is it too much of an effort? To get upset?
Yeah, that’s too much effort. To fight back? Yeah. Too much effort.
I take a few necessary clarifying and oxygen restocking breaths and sit way back before I file what will undoubtably be unpleasant unopened emails into my “I’m Never Going to Open This” mailbox folder. The only way to control reaction is to eliminate the barb. Yanking it out is the only way, still that leaves a bloody mess and more heart scars.

I was just coming down from an idiot-induced house-cleaning rampage, wearing workout yoga pants, because I figured wearing them would allow me to count chores as exercise, when I came across a forgotten repackaged-for-freshness baggie of Zingermans Raspberry Marshmallow Bunnytails. I popped one in my mouth, moisturized my unhappy hands, and decided to peruse Facebook just to see if anyone else was having as fantastic a day and night as I’ve had. You know, misery loves company and all that malarky. My misery doesn’t love company. My misery has established that inviting difficult persons into my life in order to win them over is a ridiculous way to live. The familiar family motto “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” requires energy expenditure.

Is that too much effort? Yeah, it is. I see no reason to keep strife causers close to my heart or even within hug range. Periferal distance is fine.

Another troublesome tole, touted by many, but not entirely understood grows from Mark 12:28-31

28 One of the teachers of the law came and heard them debating. Noticing that Jesus had given them a good answer, he asked him, “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?”

29 “The most important one,” answered Jesus, “is this: ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one.’
30 Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’
31 The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.”

Surface simplicity backfires. We tend to pull this phrase out defensively, erroneously using it as a situational rebuttal and warning. It finds itself lumped in with another hastily thrown defense: ‘Do Unto Others as You would have them Do Unto You.’ We twist it to our advantage – justifying treating others as they have treated us.

The real problem is this: Loving our neighbors as ourselves requires loving ourselves!
We tend to treat others the way we treat ourselves. Who among us really loves themselves?
Who has never had a single “I wish I hadn’t done that,” or “I wish I hadn’t said that,” or “I wish I hadn’t wore that/eaten that/written that,” or other serious non-self-forgiving moment?

If we are to love ourselves as GOD love us; if we are to forgive ourselves as GOD has forgiven us, we could master unusual peace, replacing it with every day peace… and eliminating rage induced house-cleaning altogether.

Conspiracy, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 13

Thank goodness for the generation behind me, Although, I must admit sometimes I think they are a bit too fanatical. One such reference just blew my mind.

It started out this way: http://action.sumofus.org/a/coke-recycling/?sub=fb
“If Coke supports recycling, why is it bringing this ridiculous lawsuit?
This program could increase recycling by 30 percent, if Coke doesn't succeed in blocking it.”

I thought, "Really? There's a Coca-Cola conspiracy?" I doubted it. I do, however, believe that anyone can write any dumb thing and someone will believe it. And, since my cynical scientific nature says, “Prove it,” I immediately began a round of research about research.

A day later, a Yahoo article caught my eye because the topic was so unbelievably stupid.
http://shine.yahoo.com/healthy-living/does-less-housework-really-equal-larger-waistline-192700982.html

Yes, you read that link correctly. About halfway through the drivel I saw something that just shocked me. Oh, so women are fat because we aren’t doing more housework? Hmm, are y’all sure it’s not because we are sitting at desks all day, sitting in cars driving our kids around, running errands, commuting, and drinking Coke to keep us going? Well, of course it’s not Coke’s fault… oh, and wait – it appears these remarkable findings were gleaned from an intensive study… funded by Coca-Cola.

I shared this link, and my astonishment, with the recycling conspiracy post-er.
Then I did that thing I shouldn’t do because it usually means I disappear into a time-sucking time warp as I delve deeper and deeper. I lose track of time. I’m a research junkie.

I imagine Coca-Cola’s position on funding research is based on a realization that they have run out of ways to positively market the brand. Sorry, but I have to lay another idiocy on you. Another miraculous study funded by Coca-Cola: Coca-Cola Recommended to Treat Stomach Blockages. The soft drink might rot your teeth, but it's actually an effective first line of treatment for some stomach blockages. http://www.livescience.com/26124-coca-cola-stomach-blockages.html

Now I’m giving away my age just a bit, but my mom used to give us kids coke syrup over crushed ice for upset tummies. These study results are pretty amazing. First we're fat because we don't do enough housework, and now Coca-Cola has “proved” we have stomach troubles due to fruit and vegetable build up. It appears I am going to be up all night ferreting out other sponsored "research" studies.

No one was asking these questions when I was growing up, we were just happy that our parents' light-weight, gas-efficient, cost-effective Pintos didn't blow up.

PS. There apparently is a Wrigley's Gum Conspiracy, too!
http://www.livescience.com/28003-chewing-gum-no-weight-loss.html

Two Things, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 12

There are two things I’ve grown into that are downright scaring me.

One is the willingness to discuss my bowels with my peers. When you haven’t pooped in 12 days, there’s just no getting around asking for advice. Stuff can’t keep going in and not coming out. So what if my arsenal of healthcare professionals assure me that an average colon is 5 feet long and can expand up to 2 inches in diameter – it just ain’t right. No way of getting around that! I lived in fear of sneezing and in dread of any gaseous feelings. Things are fine now, with the exception of never having imagined having to discuss my bowels with anyone. Ever.

The other notable concern is a noticeable lack of mental filing. I don’t think my cabinet is full, but I also don’t think I’m saving as many thoughts. Perhaps, there is just less new stuff for me to want to hoard in hope of making future days more interesting.

Example: rummaging around in my freezer for something other than chicken, I discovered an abandoned half-eaten pint of Vanilla Häagen-Dazs courtesy of a post-surgery home-visit by a sweet friend. Naturally, I went to the pantry for sprinkles. Poking around a bit, I came across a half-used bottle of red, green and white jimmies leftover from holiday baking 2012. I considered them, wondering’ “do these little sugar shots ever spoil?” I decided not to chance it, partly because food poisoning and subsequent vomiting would not be good for my newly repaired hernia, but really mostly because I spotted two other forgotten treasures: almost a dozen mini mostly-intact peanut butter waffle pretzel sandwiches and a handful of dark chocolate covered pretzel-thin shards. How I could have forgotten them is quite the mysterious mystery. Perhaps my memory lapse could be interpreted as divine diet intervention. Either way, these remnant ingredients were quickly, colorfully and quite beautifully combined to be used as an additional semi-lactose intolerant adult play-doh factory offering in hopes of… well… you know…. Still if a faulty memory leads to lovely surprises and by natural order of my creative nature, magnificent couture ice cream creations, so be it.

I was also delightfully surprised by two unopened boxes of Girl Scout thin mint cookies, also so sweetly delivered to me while my mind was altered and otherwise pre-occupied. (Refer to reason one.) If the ice cream doesn’t work, I suppose I will move willingly onto milk and cookies next, for good measure.

Spiritual Sprint, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 11

My spirituality comes in sprints; short runs after long dry spells. I’ve been pretty pleased with my recovering self; relaxed, unbothered. Physically uncomfortable, for sure, but that has been improving and I can see a near and favorable end. Even so, it only took one moment to be thrown back into the reality of real emotions. Emotions like jealousy and sorrow; so close together. Evoked by where others’ paths have gone and reminders of wrong roads traveled. Loss, and more losses since; family and friends and their loved ones. These are the things that hurt. And just like that – contentedness flees. This isn’t at all where I thought I’d be, who I thought I’d be, or the type of life creative little girl dreams of. Holding a measure stick between my life and others isn’t an accurate gauge of GOD’s will for me. My acknowledgement of this doesn’t always bring about acceptance The past two months have set me up for an unusual spurt. There is no doubt that this is where I am. I’ve been living in a rare occasion, self-convincing; I’m ok. Coasting along in this nice little, quiet, mostly solitary and I-mostly-like-it-fine-that-way life is peaceful and un-dramatically bland. Maybe acceptance isn’t always for the best.. I hope that tomorrow’s sun can blow it all away along with the snow that was beautiful this morning, and is now nothing more than bitter cold. A message notice pops onto my computer screen. I follow along with a click and discover a forgotten note has now become a conversation. I started it:

May 28 2012 9:07 AM
Theresa - I noticed the flag and brokenhearted saying. As I went to share it on my wall, too, I read your post. Just wanted to let you know I am saying a prayer for your broken heart today, and asking my husband in heaven to greet your son with a hug. Blessings.

February 24 2013 12:50pm
Theresa Everett
Thank you so so much. I didn't see your message until months and months later. It went other "other" instead of "inbox". Our family has felt the prayers of many and felt the presence of God like never before over this past year. I'm sorry for the loss of your husband. Someday we will see them both and never have to be apart.

I don’t know how I know her, or if I even do. I don’t remember writing this. I can’t find the picture I am referring to anywhere in the supposed cavernous retention of Facebook postings. Comparatively, though, what, and why are just a minor mystery. For now, just knowing, just tonight, makes a difference to me.

Have I mourned this for the last night? Probably not.
Has turned it around in the remarkable of space of just an hour?
Almost, I’ll still have to see what tomorrow brings.

No Stalin, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 10

2/22/13
Has this ever happened to you?

I’m sitting on the couch on a wintry Friday morning post surgery.
I’ve established today’s goals: Stay awake and upright all day; cuddle up on the couch with cocoa, and a blanket; watch a few movies to engage my brain. Also floating around in my mind but not committed to: making banana bread, cataloging trading cards (haven’t heard that one in a while, huh?), catching up on email – especially the real estate related ones.

Yep, sitting on the couch, watching the snowfall, two things occur to me.
1. Snow is in fact very pretty flitting down if you’re calling the couch your home for the day.
2. There is a rather large dead tree outside my picture window – but far enough away that I don’t need to worry about it crashing through my porch or window. In the crook of its large-limb reaching “V” is a weather worn likeness of Joseph Stalin.

Since my phone is right beside me I super-zoom and snap. Yeah, well, there are a couple of window panes and a screen in the way. I try to take one out the back door but sticking my arm out in the snowfall but my body and eyes don’t bend that way. Determination has led me thus far and I really want a picture of the Stalin Juncture. I step off my hospital issue sticky-sole socks; the ones with the little grippers so I don’t wipe out on linoleum floors, at least not easily. Swing the screen door open again, and barefoot, yep, barefoot… I toe-step out on the porch. Hovering in the wet-but-not-white section, I super zoom again, taking five pictures at various angles to get the light just right.

Accomplished, I head back inside, thinking about how my feet weren’t really that cold. At least not until I hit the warm carpet, then.... ok, cold toes! Shaking off the snow, I excitedly return to the couch wrapping my feet in the blanket that is right where I left it when I started this jaunt. I check my work. No Stalin. I put on my glasses. No Stalin. I flick the screen to enlarge the detail and for some reason my detail is one of those square composites choosing not to be clear. I check the tree. Stalin is still there.

Befuddled, but still determined, I email them to myself in hopes of manipulating them in picture edit, so everyone else can see what I see. I don’t see it, at least not on the computer screen. From my repositioned view on the couch, I still see it on the tree, though.

Well, huh, knock my socks off. I am still on the sparkly pain pills….
Yeah, well, I don’t care; it still looks like Joseph Stalin, or maybe Freddie Mercury wearing a fur cap.

Oh, wait! Now there’s a gorgeous big breasted flaming red cardinal sitting in the “V.”
Yeah, I’m not falling for that again.

Gift, ME Newsletter, Vol. 6, Issue 9

2/20

I don’t remember much about my hospital stay, a few visitors; the new room service food plan that was excellent and has many merits. I remember more about what was going on around me. The two roommates I had; one pleased to be discharged, and the other with a faith of such enormous strength it over-rode years of medical training and hospital experience. Our GODs were not the same, but our faith certainly was. I asked the family member who came and stayed overnight, a doctor from Chicago, if I could pray for them.

It’s hard to describe why I asked. I pray for plenty of people who have their own GOD, and do not know mine. I wasn’t sure it would be appropriate or acceptable for me to pray to my GOD about the situation they believed their GOD would carry them through. It wasn’t for a gap-save back-up plan in case their GOD failed. I have long been stuck on the idea of an Avengers-like GOD collaboration; a plethora of GODs under one One Almighty who created and assigns different GODs to reach different types of people. Though I don’t talk it about it much, I believe the same method of employ must be true of the devil.

My roommate left for surgery, with an expected best outcome of being in ICU. I don’t know, and never will, how that story ends. Instead, I was given another one to share.

A few hours later, getting ready for discharge, a woman came in and introduced herself as a social worker. She was working with a patient a few doors down who needed two witnesses for paperwork he was completing. My sister-in-law and I readily agreed.

I knew there were only two reasons requiring witnesses – either a Durable Power of Attorney or a Living Will, and I knew if the hospital had deployed a social worker to secure those two items the situation could not be good. Just a few steps down the hall, we were ushered through a door bearing a large black print on white paper sign. The sign said "DIFFICULT PATIENT." Through the night I had heard bursts of mumbled moaning and attempted shouting and realized this is where they had come from.

He was sitting in a chair by the window with monitoring tubes everywhere, and another one down his throat. He nodded at us and signed the document he had been holding, while the social worker explained that he was signing over his rights to his ex-wife. We signed them, too. He wrote out a note that said “Thank You,” and then motioned for us to wait. We watched him for a few moments while he scribbled another note. That one said, "I am a prayer warrior. Please write the names of the people you would like me to pray for." Without hesitating, I added my roommate’s name to his list. When I handed it back he had tears in his eyes and kept touching his heart. “May GOD be with you,” I said. He replied with an offering roll of his hand.

I have no idea if his GOD is the same as my GOD or the same as her GOD.
I don’t really think it matters much, anyway. A prayer is a gift, and that’s that.