Author: eyeamdust

And now take the time to write, knit, weave and crochet... I eat good food, I walk the dog and I care about what people think about everything. While I have shelter and sustenance, I am calm and peaceful, but I'm not assured that the serenity I live in now will abide if I were to lose my income and lived under a bridge. I do not live under any illusions that life is fair. I have had too much heartbreak to believe in justice and so have you.

I’ve No Apologies to Make

I’ve done many things in this life, it’s been long. I may have hurt a person or two and maybe it was you,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

I’ve looked death in the face, and while others died, I’ve escaped,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Lovers I have lost in a maelstrom of words,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Friends and family left for a time, it was just to find some peace of mind,

But I’ve no apologies to make.

Memories fill my mind and searching my heart, no regret I find,

So, I’ve no apologies to make.

Memories and Scraps of Leather

Memories and Scraps of Leather
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Handmade purse and sandals

When we were married, Jack used to make leather goods, that included purses and sandals. He started to sell them when the Rose Festival Center was in the park across from the Lloyd Center Mall. It was probably 50 years ago.

What I have left of these is this purse he made for Mom and the tiny, little sandals he made for Hannah.

I clearly can recall the smell of leather, dye, Lexol and rubber cement. His workshop was set up in our small front room and a stump was installed where he cut and hammered and finished his handmade goods.

Scraps of leather and tools were scattered all about. His fingers and the floor were stained with shades of warm browns, soft reds and black and deepest blues.

I was the blessed recipient of purses, belts and sandals and small wallets of latigo and soft suede of many colors.

I miss that workshop that was our tiny house. I miss the sounds and the smells and Jack’s ability to create works of art from leather.

And this is what life is made of, memories and scraps of leather.

A Woman’s Bravery on Display

Brave but Naive in Portland

Has no one heard of soldiers stripping women of their clothes, raping them, cutting their unborn children from their wombs, excising their genitals, executing them, leaving them for dead, buried in unmarked graves?

It has happened and happens all over the world in authoritarian countries where men rule the world,  own all the resources and mandate the military. Very Franco-esc.

She’s lucky she wasn’t grabbed, thrown in the back of an unmarked car and hauled off to jail and/or “disappeared” or simply raped and thrown back in the street.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of women clothed and unclothed die everyday while protesting, while the world watches.

History: read it. It happened in the past, it also happens now. News: read it.

Do you really think that soldiers are afraid of naked women? A womans body is not powerful. It’s vulnerable.

This reminds me a little tiny bit, but much less dramatic, of Thich Quang Duc who set himself on fire in Saigon and the student who stood against a line of tanks in Tianamen Square… other than a big news flash and it being documented in history, what good did it do? What permanently changed in the world?

What permanent good has been done by the imprisonment, torture and death of millions of women and men protesting injustice when small groups of wealthy men own the world?

Am I saying give up? No. Adamantly no. Just acknowledge reality before you put your bravery on display.

A Tree That is Me

A Tree That is Me

It wasn’t until I saw myself as the tree, clinging to the side of the cliff, hanging over a raging sea, that I was finally – finally able to see myself as beautiful.

I saw the tree, twisted and contorted by storms blowing in from a turbulent ocean. Rain, pounding the sandy soil, washing away its only source of life… or so I thought.

Dark days turn repeatedly into black nights of threatening clouds and stormy chaos, determined to wash the tree off the precipice and into the icy and crashing waters, year after year.

The tree, contorted and twisted by harsh weather, would otherwise stand tall and straight if not continually buffeted. It’s branches symmetrical in form and covered with graceful needles.

But the tree, perhaps not beautiful in the eyes of some, had grown strong. Its roots exposed to the chilling elements, had dug ever deeper into the earth, into the rock, drawing its sustenance from what seemed impossible. Its branches nearly naked, stripped of all but tufts of stubborn needles.

The tree had learned not to resist where it had been sown. Instead, it welcomed the pelting sand and the stinging rain and the bleaching rays of the sun when they came. I saw it as beautiful.

The tree gave in to nature’s artist’s hands and in so doing did not die but thrives.

Every Last Thing

Every Last Thing

Every last thing

158,000 will die today.

What memories and secrets do we hold heart-side and in our bodies.

Do we let them bind us? Do we let them flow through, cleansing wounds long neglected.

Let’s find joy in adventures we thought were painful, when in fact they were our wild ride.

How fortunate we are to have these memories that sweep through our souls.

Remembrances of days long past. Let’s look at them, share them, revel in them.

We were and are fully alive. That means all of it.

Every last thing.

I Am Here but Peripheral

I Am Here but Peripheral

I have no importance here. I try to talk to everyone. But no one talks to me. When I join in conversation, I feel their disdain. I have nothing authoritative to say because I am not an expert on anything, they say. Look it up, they say, with a slight sneer contorting their lips.

When I explain that my education and experience and research gives my opinion authority, I am scoffed at.

When I talk I am ignored or am made to feel foolish or am misinterpreted

I sometimes feel loved but that changes moment by moment. I reach out to embrace. I have been told not to embrace. I embrace too much. No one reaches out to embrace me.

No one consults me and if I offer the wrong advice, words chastise me.

No one tells me where they are going nor if they are going.

I don’t feel welcome at the table.

I ask all the wrong questions. Words and looks say I sound stupid. I have been told that my questions are stupid.

Sometimes none of this is true. Sometimes I want to run away.

I am not needed. I am peripheral.

When it rains, it pours and roars and throws out spears of lightning.

It’s Rainy season in Puerto Vallarta

The first time I experienced a thunderstorm in PV, I thought that if thunder could kill I’d be dead. It literally shakes the windows and your bones. These storms are like nothing I’ve ever seen.

At night the sky lights up and the entire world is like daylight and all things are in sharp contrast. It truly is unbelievable.

And the rain, the sky opens up and sheets of rain come down as if you’re under a waterfall. Truly fantastic storms… and it’s hot. Temperatures are in the 90s and the 100s with 100% humidity. Truly spectacular.

The ocean turns brown and fills with jungle debris from torrents running out of the hills; all the dry gullies rush with water and floating garbage. The jungle creeks fill to overflowing and merge with the water filling the gutters in the streets. Then it’s over.

Everything is soaked, the strong sun comes out and the evaporation begins and within minutes everything dries out but the air. Then you’re left with 200% humidity and you’re soaked in sweat.

And that’s how it is in the rainy season in Vallarta.

An Old Christmas Tale

I don’t remember when I wrote this but it holds sweet memories of Christmases past.

………………………………………………

Many a Christmas I remember well.

The fragrance of fir boughs,

The sound of Daddy reading our favorite stories.

Covered feet tripping to the edge of the bed,

Two blue eyes and two green and small soft noses,

Red lips whispering, “Mommy, Daddy? Is it time?

No, we would murmur, drowsy from a deep winters sleep beneath warm heavy quilts.

The shush, shush of tiny feet making their way back to bed.

Our hearts thumping with Christmas joy.

The coffee first. Daddy lit the fire.

Popping the sweet cinnamon rolls into the oven.

Sitting so close to the tree that I could hear the twinkle of clear glass icicles, were two dear children with cheeks a-glow, waiting with bated breath.

Now it’s time.

One by one, each gift was opened.

Steam rose from our cups and laughter filled our hearts.

Yes, tears fell and shoulders shrugged and love was there.

A Cup for Promises.

A bit of love remembered:

I finally retired in October 2014. My sister, Kristi, had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.

Kristi’s
Mine

We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.

Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.

I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.

I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.

When she was only 3 years old, and I was only 5, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.

I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.