Then There Was Me

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From a book I am writing for/ to my son.

I want you to remember you are born from LOVE! When I was growing up, I was a dreamer. I wanted more; to experience
more; to be more. My imagination was limitless, and i believed more than anything that i could become bigger than the
world. I loved swinging, because if I closed my eyes long enough, and gave into the motion, I could feel myself soar
against the depth of the sun’s heat. I used to sit in front of my closet waiting for it to open into another world, with
reep-a-cheeps, adventures, and life. My favorite book was “The Secret Garden,” because it was a world unto itself. I
walked through that garden a thousand times, felt the wisps of flower petals listlessly touching my hands. I didn’t know
what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I remember thinking its’ going to be just like my dreams, limitless. When I
became your Mom, all this became true and something unexpected happened. My love for you became bigger than me. Knowing you is like walking through a garden over a thousand times, experiencing life with you is like soaring through the sky,
and you opened my life and showed me a world full of adventure.

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“What Did You Say. . .”

We are all judged every single minute of every single day . . .We are profiled based on monikers of society.  By marketing campaigns, home loan officers, job interviewers, or  the person approaching us on the street.  What do they see, and how much do they understand.  When I say the word “disabled,” there is a brief moment where you want to explain, to reason it out with the sound.  The moment passes, as “we are all judged every single minute of every single day.” 

. . .there is never a moment where you can explain or add a thought to further explain its sound/ the very nature of your disability.

I take ownership of having Parkinson’s and dealing with it, with facing it.  However, YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT to use the meaning of it against me.  You do not have the right to minimize who I am, because I am not like you.

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Searching for Nelson Mandela

The times I feel when my emotions have nowhere to go. . .I think of Nelson Mandela’s cell. For over 25 years that cell contained his body, but not his mind or essence.  The deconstruction of my physicality, my ability to move is in its’ own cell.  My ever so slowly transfer of power is tempered by perception.  

However, the good stuff, my dreams, where my laughter originates, the music, well that extends beyond any physical borders.  We all have it, the place where judgement no longer is valued.  Where we can let go. . .This place is where I meet Nelson Mandela.   



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Muted Words

The courage it takes to reach within your emptiness and touch the words, their absolute lines, the darkness of their typeset and whisper them out loud.
Their muted solitary sounds feebly reach the pages of the world which absorbs its ever definitive blackness of its ever drying blot of ink. Your stamp upon this world.
You follow, trailing your words to take them back to refuge, back into your emptiness. From your lips they were snatched, misconstrued, denied, terrified, mangled, and deformed.
Your words are barely recognizable. . . A line is drawn. ..their words are very pronounced, insensitive, lacking. Their words are a process, a gesture towards muting yours.
You are ” A victim,they say.
” A Victim, A VIctim, A VICtim, A VICTim, A VICTIm.
Their words do not come from emptiness, but ignorance.
Their words become ever so harsh, their words encrusted in the ink of the world. Ultimatums ensue, bullying tactics operational.
The stillness of your stance shocks you, as you no longer trail after your words. How could you, as they are no longer there. Your stamp is fading, your resignation no longer evading.
You turn ever so slightly to retreat, so tired of being beat. Inside you, you emptiness solidifies, makes you try. ..You twist and turn towards them, scuffling your foot over the line that separates you from them.
” There are no absolutes,” you say. It is NEVER this or that. After all, words are just words if coming from an individual who says them without presence.

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How do agnostic’s celebrate Christmas

In the Midwest, where I grew up, religion was just simply a natural component of life. I learned to snow ski on church youth group trips, met a couple of boyfriends through wistful glances across aligned pews, AAU basketball practices housed in church gyms, took part in theatrical church productions as a lamb ( of god) or an angel. Hell, I even wore a beach towel on my head once as a tragic Halloween ” look alike a bible character” contest failure.

3rd grade CCD classes never inspired me, in fact memorizing verses caused more anxiety. Mini van rides over to church were insufferable.

My outstretched hand, always greeted by the echo of my muffled whisper of ” peace be with you.”

I have vivid memories of Aaron B. sticking his foot out and tripping me during a church youth group relay race. A compound fracture and surgery definitely helped me feel closer to god.

Standing in line for my first communion discussing with Andy what church laws I broke left me in a dead sweat. Then being told that we had to disclose this info face- to- face with Father Funky ( honestly his name) left me impaired. Oh god why do I laugh when I’m nervous.

Despite being a social Christian, None of these altruistic rites of passage left me with the Holy Spirit. In fact I felt infinitely guilty for not believing. In what?

I wanted for my son what I never thought was possible, a choice.

Besides being a social template, I wanted Christianity to be enlightening. To hear the quiet understanding of Quakers, to feel the expansion of Yom Kippur, to feel the magnitude of a Morman congregation, to understand the kindness of Islam, and the necessary reasoning of Buddhism.

To celebrate Christmas, for us, is to embody the diversity of faith and to love the creation of my family. To be moral is an inherent characteristic not an exclusive religious rite. To love and show compassion is to empathetically understand that faith is not derived from only one path, but numerous paths that have the same destination .christmas is love.

I love you Aaron.


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Letters In Tomorrow: (Disclaimer: Drama at Work)

“Tomorrow never comes. . .” They say..”. “I say”. . .Or perhaps the things we don’t say, because the words never come.

My son still grabs my hand, sometimes, when we walk.  We still blow kisses through window panes.  He still rests his head on my lap.  He still never listens, but yet yells spontaneous “I love you(s) over his shoulder as he leaves to meet neighborhood friends.”

We still believe in the magic of the world. . .

When he lost his first tooth, we received a confirmation text from the Tooth Fairy.  Aaron took it as an invitation to negotiate the value of his tooth.

We make sure each cloud resembles a character, after all, “the sky is one big comic strip,”   he says.

We live in Terebithia, explained by Black Cat Queens, sidewalk portals, invisibility capes, wind chimed Troll voices.

It’s easier to be present today, than to wait for a day that may never come. . .

“Did You See That”

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“Blood,” The Middle East, a visual delight as the animation depicts the essence of the song.

“Autumn Story,”  Again, keeping with 2D animation, the usage of the chalkboard is amazing.

Of Monsters and Men “little talks.” Where do I even start with this group. . .the visualization of their words in this video, frankly, leaves me speechless.

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