Sunday, August 4, 2013

Excerpt from journal entry to my husband:

Hello again my Darling,

The days slip by like dreams through sleepless nights. Some of the individual days linger, taunting, rasping, digging at my lonely soul, while other flee on wind-blown clouds, hardly noticed as they flutter by. I seemed to have more of the lonely moments, as of late. I'm not sure if it's to be chalked up to hormones, weather, allergies or the need for a gentle hand to sooth my ruffled locks. Four and a half years have passed since I last kissed your waiting lips. One thousand six hundred forty two tomorrows became yesterdays, since I've seen your smiling eyes looking into mine. I've waded through thirty nine thousand four hundred twenty hours without you by my side. In the wee hours of the time now past, every minute whispered your name, shadowed your face, breathed your warm breath upon my grieving neck. Now, after time has singed close the raw, gaping holes piercing my injured heart, after rivers of unshed and shed tears toughened my delicate soul, a hope of an eternity shared with you carries me, daily into another tomorrow. One day closer to your arms.

 A Sunday Reflection

06-30-2013

My world is quiet, peaceful, still, yet somewhere the earth shakes, a life has ended and wounded hearts bleed eternal tears.

I wake to pouring rain, yet the roof over my head keeps me dry.

My abundant stomach growls from a night of fasting, still, my pantry holds food to satisfy my hunger.

A child cries in fear. Another day of abuse.

A gnarled hand reaches out for companionship. No one sees.

Oh, but for the power to dry the tears, hold the hand or shelter the homeless, if but for a day.

I cannot change the world.

I cannot mend the broken, stop the pain or turn the tide.

But for one, small creature, for one ailing heart, might I share a smile of hope for a brighter tomorrow.

Barbara L. Frazier   

I Believe in Believing

I believe in fairy tales, happily-ever-afters and wishing on a star.

I believe the sun will come out tomorrow,

And that tears spilled on innocent cheeks will be dried and forgotten.

I am sure, that after the thunderstorm,

Somewhere a rainbow reaches across the dismal sky,

And at the bottom of that rainbow, for someone, there lies a pot of gold.

I believe that every man and woman is born with a light,

A light that starts within our hearts, sits on our uncertain shoulders,

Twinkling through our enlightened eyes.

I believe, that in believing,

Great miracles erupt out of hopelessness, soothing, healing, loving.

Because of belief, white knights conquer evil,

Ogres are like onions, and chambermaids can become princesses.

November 25, 2012



A Soul That Hungers
Returning home from church today I passed a gnarled old pear tree. For decades, the once supple sprig grew ,exceeding its natural potential, bearing bushels of small, sweet fruit. As in years past, the neglected fruit fell to the earth, feeding the nectar-loving insects and nocturnal creatures of the area. Through the icy windshield of my van, far to the top of a twisted branch, I spotted the lone pome. A dried leaf blew like a saluting hand to the pear's frozen brow. Reminiscent of a courageous captain riding out the last wave, as his ship plummets into the icy blue abyss, the pear stood centennial on the mother tree.

Living in Indiana, cornfields are a magnificent part of our surroundings. A true token of winter's end are the tiny chartreuse spikes poking through the recently frozen tundra. When planted, the seeds inside the planting boxes all look the same. They fall randomly into the long, deep furrows, finding sunlight, rain and nutrition in the same amounts as the rest of the kernels. Weeks latter the stalks reach high, waving their golden tassels to the hot summer sun. But wait! Look closely. Amid the top of the even sections of corn, sticks a tassel just a wee bit higher than the rest. One inch, six inches, sometimes more, these over-achievers reach to grasp that extra ray of sun.

Why only one or two protruding stalks per field? Why did only one pear refuse to give up its final grasp on life? What makes some believe in rainbows during a torrential rain storm? Are the children we label 'problem', gifted with the same lust for life as the gangling corn stalks and the clinging pear? Do the 'normals' of the world stifle the song in the young composer's bosom or the masterpiece in the youthful artist's eye? I'm not knocking normal, if there was no normal chaos would reign over the earth. They are the solids of the world, the foundation, the security. Without normal who would notice the cornstalk towering above the the flat field or the delicacy of a newly woven spider's web on a dewy morning?

Maybe your soul is the one that hungers to explore a still-darkened corner of the universe, or unleash a song that has never been sung. Maybe, hidden just beneath the obedient layer of your mind, a restless kernel silently trembles, eager to explode into unfathomable genius. Let the 'normals' have the sweetly-deserved comfort of their world. But speaking for myself, a trip into the unknown is often worth the journey.

tis a test, only a test, gh

Hello again

It seems like a lifetime since