Inspire Me [POETRY]

Rip this bleeding heart from my chest
Show it to me but offer no rest
To the weary words that trip my tongue
And pull a shroud across the sun
Until I find the muse who lights fire
Inside an empty breast moves the wire
To raise the puppet head high and dip the pen
Once more into the well so ink can stain
An empty page to reveal pain that inspires
So many words to kindle new desires

I know poetry isn't everyone's favorite, but what do you think? What types of posts will make you come back for more? Feel free to post below.

A Loss For Words On Loss [PREACHY]

Small moments in life can bring you full circle to thoughts and feelings that you believed you left behind. A while ago a friend lost her mother, and I wished I could find words from my own loss to comfort her. At the same time, I recognize that no combination of words, even the most eloquent or heartfelt, could bring the peace I wish to give. Many miles stretch between this friend and I, so I couldn't offer her a hug, but I hope I will be inspired to bring a bit of light into her life in some way.

To fuel my thoughts on longing for those we have lost, a former coworker of my husband passed away around the same time. Originally, my husband intended to go alone since packing a tiny baby and her accoutrements into the car can be an extreme undertaking, but somehow everything worked in our favor. I had time to bundle her up and select an appropriately somber outfit before he arrived from work. His smile lit up the room as he came inside to claim his ladies, affirming that I made the right decision.

Despite the rainy night, loved ones poured in for the viewing. As we walked inside, a gentleman greeted us with the right blend of friendliness and sympathy. Having never met the deceased, I immediately felt out of place. Though I felt for those there to mourn, my sorrow was for them and not my own loss. As my eyes fell upon the bereaved sons, friends and family circled around to offer comfort. My desire to be there for my friend hundreds of miles away resurfaced.

As my husband offered condolences, my tiny tot began to fuss. I camped out on one of the couches in the foyer to feed her. As I looked into my daughter's face and she smiled at me, I remembered that life does go on. I felt a tightness in my chest as tears threatened to spill down my cheeks as I watched people coming in from gloomy rain to the brightly lit yet somber interior. Many of them stopped to smile at the baby and comment on her beauty and sweetness before leaving me to reflect on the many stages of grief.

We all grieve in our own way. Thinking back on the many losses I have experienced, I recall a variety of reactions. I have found myself staring blankly at a television that hasn't been turned on or a live screen displaying a children's show that spouts joy and happiness. I have stood stoically stood by while others cried and then awoke bathed in my own tears. I have even buried my sadness in the art of being busy, caring for those around me when they found themselves too stunned or lost to think about something as basic as feeding themselves. As every grief is different, every attempt to cope must also be unique.

While we mourn, we may push away those who love us, but we must remember that they mourn with us  with us. Even if they don't technically share the loss, our sadness seeps into the lives of those around us. My husband watched me with sad, worried eyes for a long time after my mother passed away. In fact, I still see him gauging whether or not I need the comfort of his arms around me when I mention her.

While time gives us the ability to accept our loss (or at least perfect the appearance of moving on), I don't think we ever completely get over events that change our life so greatly. I still mourn pets who died or disappeared in the 80s and 90s. I miss my mother every time my daughter reaches a milestone that I want to share with her. I long to compare notes about experiences raising a little girl. I want to give her a hug and tell her something nonsensical that happened. I know I am not alone in such feelings.

So what advice or solace can I hope to offer to my friend and any one who mourns the loss of a loved one?

*Cherish your memories. Any moment that brought you close to the one you loved, keeps you close to them.

*Share your memories. Write them down. Tell them to you friends. Let your kids know how your life was shaped by people they may barely remember or never have met.

*Let your loved ones comfort you. Even if their words are awkward, remember that they mean well. Their love doesn't replace the love you lost, but it brings its own sweetness to your life.

*Remember that you will see them again. I believe that we will see those we love again. I still mourn the time I am missing with them, but I look forward to seeing my loved ones again.

I hope my words bring comfort. I hope they remind you that you are not alone. Even if I can't wrap you in a warm embrace or wipe away your tears, I wish I could.

Hunting [FICTION]

I stretch lavishly, exclaiming in surprise to find that my hands have bumped one wall even as my feet press against the other. I watch as my arms retract back into the red plaid sleeves of my flannel pajamas. I note the dark outline separating me from the orange walls of my bedroom. For a moment, I think to question this strange phenomenon. The question quickly fades away as my eyes rest on a chunky blunderbuss resting against a dresser with rounded corners and drawers with no knobs to pull them open.

"Time to catch that gwoundhog!" I exclaim, leaping from my bed.

I look around for my wardrobe, realizing that comfortable nightwear and hunting shouldn't mix. Before I can locate rugged clothing, I look down to find that my pajamas have disappeared. Now a thick pair of jeans, heavy hiking boots, and a thick green flannel coat cover my body. I reach up and pull a fur-lined cap with earflaps from my head. I replace it and pull the earflaps down, leaving my hands free for more important tasks.

I pick up my blunderbuss and rest it against my right shoulder. "I'm weady."

With stretching steps that must make an outsider think I am doing lunges for exercise, I cross from one room to the next. I vaguely notice that the next room sports the same orange walls and brown flooring, but only my deep need to catch the groundhog registers. I pull open the front door and step out into the vivd day.

One fluffy white cloud, outlined in black, mars the perfect blue sky. A few dark lines mark higher tufts of grass on the solid green ground beneath my feet. I pass my mailbox and glance at it and see my name emblazoned in thick block letters: PHYLLIS FUDD. I giggle and reach one hand up under my hat to reassure myself that I still have thick, red curls on my head.

A noise sounds off to my right and I turn toward it. Without thought, I face the left and address the unknown source of sound.

"Be vewy, vewy quiet, I'm hunting gwoundhogs."

As if summoned by my declaration, an oversized groundhog lumbers past me. I intercept him easily and point my blunderbuss at his face. He wraps one hand over the barrel, tapping long claws against the dark metal as he offers me a buck-toothed grin.

"What's your problem, lady?" He asks in a gruff voice.

"Youw day has come."

He shakes his head. "You're a couple of weeks late."

Startled to hear him speak, I blink slowly. "I'm what?"

"My day came weeks ago. I predicted an early spring, so why the violence?" He pushes the barrel of my blunderbuss toward the ground.

I stare at him, flummoxed.

"Nothing to say? Good. Fudd, go home and sleep it off."

As he disappears over the crest of the hill, the sun leans toward the earth to laugh at me. Discouraged, I take the rodent's advice and return to the comfort of my bed. But I know, as you know, that I will rise tomorrow and pursue my prey once more.

The 50s Housewife Experiment Revisited [RANTINGS]

Last year, I shared my desire to behave more like a 1950s era housewife. I posted twice on the subject and then no more was heard from the social scientist. Why? Strange nausea and distraction gave way to obsession and sleep deprivation. None of these events made me feel like I was in touch with a 50s housewife. Today, I realized I have the final ingredient for my 50s household--a tiny baby to love, care for, and be amazed by.

So my daughter continues to amaze me. She also makes me feel like I have begun my own cooking show. I place her where she can see me without being splashed by soapy water or hot grease. Instead, I shower her with commentary about her beauty; what I am cooking, chopping, or washing; and any other topic that pops into my head. I often wonder if I should put such delightful banter into syndication. That ambition fades as I remember that sometimes I sing and only a very old lady at church has ever told me I have a nice voice. Most other people change the subject when I ask for an honest answer about that hot topic.

Anyway, as today is the first Mardi Gras since I became a mom, I decided that making a king cake would be too much of an undertaking for me and my princess. I decided to make monkey bread instead and take the easy route with cans of crescent rolls, cream cheese, and a cinnamon sugar mix. While not as tasty as homemade king cake, it has helped make me fatter this Tuesday. Dipping some bites in melted chocolate certainly enhanced that outcome.

Another feature of my standard day features leftovers. Today, some lonely meatloaf from the fridge made a nice lunch when I heated it up with broccoli, cauliflower, and garlic until piping hot. I washed that down with even more monkey bread in keeping with my theme for the day.

All that eating made me tired, so I snuggled up to the little one and tried to get some sleep. Sadly, I am getting over something, so my coughing kept waking us up from our slumber. That means we should be headed back to bed soon.

How did you celebrate Mardi Gras, my friends?