frazzled & frumpy

My dad had back surgery last week.  The Sunday before, we gathered at my parent's home for dinner. Dad sat and explained the surgery. How they would open his stomach, push his organs aside and work on his spine. They would put everything back and sew him up. Then, after turning him over, they would open his back and work on him from there. He explained this rather casually. I'm sure he'd heard it so much and was used to it. For me, I was shocked. It seemed so incredibly invasive. I know he needs it, he's been in chronic pain for a very long time. But it just seemed like so much. I went in to see him after the surgery was over. I stood next to my sister and looked at my father. He was pale and frail. The man who had carried me on his shoulders as a child, provided for us, led us in family prayer, and seemed to have an answer for anything, had been reduced to laying on a bed, his breathing labored, eyes closed against the pain. Time can be cruel. It beats us d...

It's September. Those words are like a sigh for me. The heat of summer has slipped away. There are hints of new color on the trees. And, the kids are back in school. For me, fall is a new beginning more than any January. Maybe because of my birthday. Maybe because of the school year. Maybe just because the feel of cooler air and the sight of the autumn ballroom energizes my soul. Whatever it is, it makes me happy. New beginnings are good. We all need them, imperfect humans that we are. It's about being better, doing more, and forgetting the failures or disappointments of the past. There are goals to be set- new heights to reach. This is what keeps us going. The push that comes from a fresh start. Think of what you could do. And, isn't autumn as good a time as any?

I've been working on a birthday post, but until that's done, here's one written for the Write on Edge prompt for this week- 'What are your goals and aspirations for your writing?' "Julie wrote a poem. Would you like to read it?" These words were music to my ears. My parents, ever the supportive ones, would brag about my writing to friends and family.  I would shyly stand by, waiting, hoping, praying that someone would say yes. From the moment I began writing, I wanted to share it. I never did it just for myself.  Like any art, it's meant to be enjoyed, and appreciated.  But, unlike other 'art', writing isn't as easy to share.  You can't frame it and put it on the wall, or sit down and play it for a crowd.  It was always awkward to try and share my gift. Enter the blogging world. Suddenly, I had people reading what I wrote. And, some of them liked it. It was empowering. As my readership grew, so did my confidence. My goals a...

"These dreams go on when I close my eyes Every second of the night I live another life" Those dreams, those middle-of-the-night-head-heavy-on-the-pillow dreams, are not the ones I enjoy. I'd rather skip the ones where I'm sitting in church, surrounded by my neighbors, trying to listen to the lesson, while no one around me notices that I seem to have forgotten my bra. And my shoes. And my dress.  I don't like the dreams where I'm running from a madman in heels. (I'm in heels, he has on supersonic tennies.) I have no control there in my nighttime world. I am plagued by the weird and unexplainable.  I wish I could be more like the Handy Man, who rarely remembers his dreams. Mine always come back to me in perfect clarity. There are other dreams, though. The ones I conjure up on my own. Those come to me in those sweet moments when my head first hits the cool pillow. It's quiet, peace has settled upon our home.  Here in the twilight, I can b...