River of Sorrows, Mile of Pain

There never was a love so true

though time would not allow it

to grow despite the odds and fate;

still their passion did not quit.

A river of sorrows, a mile of pain,

their crossroads made them one.

Misguided, chained and longing for

the freedom to become.

Choices made them who they are

yet chance tried to bring change.

It's never easy to break away

but stay put in one place.

Is being content worth more than love?

Is true love worth fighting for?

A river of sorrows, a mile of pain,

a star to wish for more.

There never was a love so true

no hearts a stronger beat.

Though time has won its battle,

odds' war they can defeat.

Written in March of 2010

Where You Can Find Me Now

I thought about disabling this blog, as I have not posted any thoughts here for quite some time.  But I decided against it, as this site serves as a virtual diary of sorts, chronicling different stages and times in my life.

For the last 1 1/2 years, I have been a full-time student--working on my BA in Communications after being away from the academic world for over 25 years.  Learning APA style, condensing thoughts into grammatically correct sentences, and precise, formatted paragraphs (basically "coloring inside the lines") was difficult for me at first, but I soon got the hang of it.

If you'd like to visit me at a blog I created for my Intercultural Communications class last summer, I've decided to make that site my blog home; www.reginatekulve.blogspot.com - "Perspectives" I call it.  Not far from "In the Eye of the Beholder."

How we see ourselves and others and this great big world we live in requires some serious thinking now and then.  What we see is not always represented in truth, or we fail to look deeper before making false judgments.  Every person and every different, unknown, uncomfortable, or foreign situation deserves an unbiased perspective before we roll up our sleeves and delve right in. 

I hope you'll visit me as I continue to share my thoughts, feelings, and opinions regarding this life...the way I see it...and the way we should strive to perceive it.

See you soon.

when the words don't come

when the words don't come
as my heart cries out
frozen pipes-no speech
wounded soul is numb

eyes are shut real tight
fists are clenched in fear
as I try to speak
but taste salty tears

will god hear my soul
when the words don't come
spirits--carry hope
giving you control

shame and disbelief
in my humaness
causes me to doubt
furthers scars and grief

heal and make amends
bring the joy once more
hear my heart cry out
hope in treasures stored

when the words don't come
thaw my bitterness
help me understand
you hear every one

every single cry
every burdened life
crying out for you
in their darkest night

silenced mouths are dead
only in the ground
you hear every word
even with no sound

when the words don't come
hear my soul cry out
help me know your ways
take away my doubt

There is a Season

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven…” Ecclesiastes 3:1


As Christmas season draws near every year, I promise myself to become more simplistic and child-like in my approach and attempt to enjoy the holidays. I don’t always succeed, but in trying to recapture that youthful, magical time, the memories of my advent innocence—when belief and faith went hand-in-hand—return and help give me a new perspective…

Looking out my bedroom window one Christmas night, I KNOW I saw Santa’s sleigh in the sky! What else could that red blinking light be other than Rudolph’s nose?! I couldn’t pry myself away from the cold window pane as I watched until the light blinked out of sight.

I eventually fell asleep, but it took a long while. I actually saw Rudolph leading Santa’s sleigh! Happy I now had proof and anticipating Santa coming in the morning made my mind and heart race! I could hardly wait to see my presents!

Christmas came that year unlike any other. My ‘secret’ sighting not only changed my Christmas experience, but it changed me. I knew without a doubt that Santa did exist and nothing or no one would ever take that away.

Of course as I grew older, I remembered that experience and realized that the red blinking light was from an airplane either taking off or landing at the municipal airport near our house. But even though the truth of ‘my secret sighting’ was revealed in time, my memory and experience did not change through time.

The truth of the story did not change my story.

In this season of Christmas, I’m humbly reminded that God alone is the author of time, the keeper of time, knows the truth and knows when it is the right time to reveal that truth. He knows exactly what we need, when we need it and will supply both in His time.

As I live my story, I see only what my mind perceives. And more often than I’d like to admit, I see what I want to see. What is my truth today, I’m sure God will reveal as His truth tomorrow.

But tomorrow never seems to come soon enough, does it? We’d like answers and solutions, peace and equality, a better life, a better paying job, healed relationships, healed lives to happen TODAY. But God doesn’t work like that.

A nation once cried out for a king, for a savior to rescue them! Persecuted, in slavery, wandering in the wilderness and wandering away from God, they demanded to be saved from their troubles. Though God didn’t answer them when they demanded, as they demanded, with the king they thought they needed, He DID answer them.

He answered them at just the right time in history, with the right answer and continues to answer the cries of His people today in the same right and perfect manner.

Jesus.

So while Christmas remains for me a package wrapped up with so many mixed emotions, memories, hopes and dreams—from the past and for the future—as I celebrate another Christmas again, I’m so humbly reminded to accept God’s gifts as only He can give them, in His time, one day at a time…

Our present.

Merry Christmas.

Being Picky

Thanks to my 16 year old, I've added the History Channel's "American Pickers" to my list of favorite TV programs. The show centers around the road travels of  Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz as they 'pick' for hidden memorabilia by digging through junk piles, abandoned barns and neglected garages across America.  (The term 'picking' refers to the act of treasure hunting or antiquing.)  Mike, Frank and their assistant, Danielle, are very entertaining, but their finds are what keep my eyeballs glued every week.

"That old bike is worth HOW MUCH?!" 

"I've seen those before.  I used to have one like that!"

"You've got to be kidding!  Really?  That's what it was used for?  Amazing."

History meets the Antique Road Show---I love it!  And I also love that it reminds me of my Grandpa, Ora Tracy.  He was THE American picker in his time, combining his love of history, farming and politics in every antique he kept in his pole barn.  He was nearly 63 when I was born, but he lived a long, healthy life and blessed my life for 34 years, instilling in me the same love of history and antiques. 

I never grew tired of walking through his antique barn, or shop as he called it.  He would lovingly take the time to explain what each piece was, where it came from and how old it was. Usually every piece had its own story and Grandpa LOVED to tell a good story!  After he passed, grandma let the grandchildren go through and pick a few items from his shop before an auction was held.  I cherish these items today, my grandpa-treasures, I call them...Not because of their monetary value, but because of the memories they invoke.

I suppose there were reasons why grandpa chose the items he did for his collection--just as there were reasons why God throughout history chose the people He did as His. Seen by others as used up, worn out, rusty, broken or unwanted, God viewed their lives as useful--worthy and valuable in His kingdom. 

Moses was a former slave, a murderer, was old and even stuttered.

David was a smelly shepherd, an adulterer and murderer.

Rahab was a prostitute.

Peter, Andrew, James and John were only poor fishermen.

Paul, formerly Saul, was a pompous Pharisee and an avid Christian-killer.

And Jesus was a meager carpenter.

Sinners, broken, and with histories of our own, God continues to seek us out, brush us off and tell us, "You are valuable to me!  You are a treasure!"  Yes, God is a picker...a picker of lives, a picker of souls.

"You've got to be kidding!  Really?  That's what I can be used for?  Amazing!"

God, I'm so glad You are picky! I'm so glad You have picked me as Your Own.

Wildflowers

"For aren't the wildflowers along our path
still beautiful in God's world?
Not planted by hand, but by wind and chance.
They grow just as true love should."

Too bad you cannot purchase your favorite variety from an FTD florist.

I wish you could order a dozen online from 1-800-FLOWERS.

I doubt very highly that the street vendor advertising ONE DOZEN FOR $5.99 has any in the back of his van.

And why is that?  Isn't there anyone else out there that adores wildflowers like I do?

Ok, they may have been given a bad name---'weeds' ---but they possess a certain innocent quality, a frail beauty that makes them more appealing than the well-kept, bug-free crimson roses in Mrs. Whittaker's yard across the street.  Planted and pruned, dusted and watered by the human hand, 'the flowers on purpose' seem to lack something...  They lack...spontaneity...inspiration...a carefree dependence on nature.

For who waters the wildflowers?  Who planted them?  And why do they not seem to care if one or more of their leaves have bug holes on them?  (For imperfection, rather than perfection, inspires beauty.)
I used to fear picking the wildflowers along the road during my morning walks---fear of bee stings, poison ivy and mysterious spiders and bugs that would hide among the pestles.  Not so anymore.  Almost every morning this summer, I have returned with a handful of wild yellow daisies, Queen Anne's Lace, purple thistles and periwinkle cornflowers.  I gently trim and arrange them in a vase set aside specifically for them. Their cheery colors, textures and fragrance light up my kitchen better than any stiff, fabricated bouquet could.

I still have to be careful when picking these beauties, for just this morning my finger was pricked. For in every living thing, God was mindful to instill a means of self-preservation.  A rose has a thorn, a bee has its stinger, a bear has its claws and...a wild thistle has its prickly stems.
Wildflowers and I seem to have a lot in common these days.  We're both frail and fragile and depend on God more than ever for our sustenance.  In the morning when we rise, our faces gravitate upwards and yearn to soak up the sonshine.  Still guarded, naive and not wanting to be in a crowd or put on display (but rather left along the side of the road), we want to be used and there for those who need us--the ugly--spiders, insects---as well as the beautiful-- butterflies, hummingbirds--and share our commonalities to reach anyone who comes along our path.

Seasons come and go. The wildflowers will soon be brown and colorless, withered and gone.  But as long as they are here, I will intentionally reach for them and cherish their wayward beauty.

A Grief Observed

Never in my life have I seen such a scene.

Never in my life have I experienced beauty in such an ugly, horrific way.

Never in my life will I forget what I witnessed when taking my morning walk on August 3rd, 2010.

A few steps ahead of me, I thought I spotted an opossum...dead, on the road. (not an uncommon sight when you live in the country)  A few steps closer, I realized that the opossum was alive.  It was moving, circling and laying on what appeared to be a bloody spot.

Gross.

A few steps closer and I realized that this opossum was not alone on the road. For scattered about her were three or four baby opossums, not moving...quiet, still.  I looked above them and realized right away that the babies must have fallen from the tree.  The spot was probably where someone had not been able to maneuver around several of the babies.

Gross.

I just stood there and watched as the mother continued to circle, smell, curl and lay.  She didn't stray from that bloody mess.  She continued to circle, smell, curl in a ball and just lay there until she decided to move and repeat her motions over and over.  Not wanting to move any closer for the fear of being bit, my legs were frozen even though I wanted to turn and walk away.  I couldn't seem to take my eyes of this disgusting scene. 

Gross.

But as I continued to watch this ugly creature, I realized what I was experiencing was a mom grieving for her babies.  Grief--in its ugliest, rawest form.  My heart was softened, my right hand rose to my mouth as I began to cry.  The tears came--naturally and unstoppable, as if I was grieving along with her.

Not so gross anymore.

Grief is never planned, never explainable, never welcomed.  Grief is inevitable, for in experiencing life, we must all experience death.  Grief is difficult, heart-wrenching, life-changing and is an ugly, ugly feeling.

But it can also be beautiful.

Beautiful in that we who observe grief know that because an enormous grieving is taking place, there must have also been an enormous love. Yes, to love much is to grieve much.

Beautiful love, beautiful grief.

Grief is no respecter of persons, of circumstances or time...
or creatures.

Here

Here.

How did I get here? I think I know, but I'm not quite sure. Here is much different than I thought it would be. Here is not where I thought I would be. I thought being here would have been there, but it's not. Yes, here is not there...at least not yet.

Should I stay here? Or should I go over there? Do I really want to be here? Or do I want to be over there? If I go over there, I may not ever have the chance to get to where I want to be...way over there. Every day's a guessing game and I wish I could go back to there...right THERE and then maybe, just maybe, I would understand better how I ended up here.

I thought by now I would be 'now here'...but my here has become 'no where.' Do you think we will ever get there? To our 'here and now?' I want to be there. I really do. But I'm here and you're there. Here and there with no somewhere in between.

I'm hoping you'll be there...someday. For I really want you here.

Child-Like

Perhaps my age has something to do with how often I've been reflecting on my childhood lately. Or, maybe my sentimentalism is more profound due to me thinking about my mother who passed away 3 years ago yesterday.

Could be I'm looking back because I'm taking another leap of faith and my foothold is more firm in my past than it is in the here and now.

Whatever the reason, I felt compelled to walk back in time...to walk barefoot in the grass today. My feet have been socked and covered all winter and they needed to breathe. Just that simple walk through the yard--feeling the tender wet grass between my winter-pruned toes as the sun warmed my back--made me feel seven years old again.

When I was seven, the world seemed simpler, though I knew a war was going on (how could I not know--Walter Cronkite on Channel 8 was our constant dinner companion.). I was terribly shy with adults and strangers but enjoyed playing "Hide and Seek" and "Mother May I" with my neighborhood friends and cousins. Both my maternal and paternal grandparents were still alive and even paternal great-grandparents for a short while. Christmas and Easter were still 'magical' and playing on the swing set in my backyard was like having a castle with a mote. I looked forward to hearing the bells chime on the Snow Cone Lady's white El Camino as she drove past our house. My favorite flavor was blueberry and sometimes I paid for it with my own dime.

Yes, summertime is sweet and simple when you're seven years old.

I remember running outside to play the minute my cereal was gone, hoping to find my best friend, Susan and her dog, Lady. If she was not outside, I would sometimes sit on the front porch, play with my Barbie, using the metal Thompson milk box as a doll house. I loved sitting on our front porch before the afternoon sun made it hot. The porch's cold cement felt...comforting...safe. Well, maybe not safe for the ants or 'Rollie-pollie' bugs I squished, but it felt safe to me.

And that's how the grass under my feet made me feel today...comforted and safe.

As adults, we're our own worst enemy. We take ourselves WAY too seriously. We run outside the minute our cereal's gone, but not to play and enjoy the day. With children to support, clients to please, and family to appease and a house to keep clean, we forget to breathe! Coffee in one hand in the morning, maybe lunch in the other later on--if we have time--and a rushed evening if there are meetings, practices, concerts or games describes most working parents' daily lives. Though we gladly accept our roles and desire a fun and full life for our family, parents often lose their own identity.

When your world is rushed, uncertain, scary, full of complication and confusion, my advice is simply take off your adult shoes. Find time to capture joy before it escapes the day. Make time to unwind before time winds you up. The more you pursue the simpler things in life, the more you will realize that life is really pretty simple.

Pure inner happiness--not contentment in life--doesn't cost a dime (though that blueberry snow cone made me happy). But a life without that kind of happiness is costly.

Simple work. Simple play. Simple happiness. Simple love. "If only it were that easy!" we tell ourselves. Life is complicated. Love is not easy. Our occupation may have chose us instead of us choosing it. Seldom are we completely satisfied with who and where we are. But I believe true happiness is attainable. With child-like faith, child-like joy and a child-like attitude towards life, our idle perspectives and monotonous living will no longer define or confine us.

True, simple happiness is not found in what we are pursuing, but in the actual pursuit itself--our journey--our child-like barefoot walk in the grass.

Silence

Silence

Voices...are only sounds and words

Spoken...but silence has a voice.

Listen with your heart

and you'll hear more than the sound of

Silence...although it can be dark and

Evil...you must not let it be.

Feel with your eyes the touch of its hand

and you'll know silence.

Words stay the same, never change

while a silent moment never, ever is the same.

Explore the beauty of this Earth

and you'll find silence

whispering through the trees your name...

Crying...floats in the quiet air through

People...when silence bears the pain

of their thoughts and words never heard

through silence....

silence...

silence...

Silence.

(Lyrics to a song written in 1978-79 by Regina Walker

for a school project...Many thanks to Mark Bennardo for

re-discovering this among his old school papers

and sharing it with me.)