Open the Door.

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Sometimes the door is right in front of you and you’re too busy texting on your “smart” phone to notice. #stopmissinglife #observe #interact #smile

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chemo, shmeemo.

This is my husband, Daryl. He recently had a lobe of lung removed with a stage 1B cancerous tumor. Luckily it was caught early. As a “precaution” he has been “advised” to undergo a few sessions of lovely chemotherapy. I captured the first real smile from him during a walk outside in glorious weather (he didn’t have much energy to do the walk in the first place).

We both know of the fragility of life, but we also realize there are much more difficult struggles and battles waged by this vicious disease by so many. We never realized just how prevalent and destructive it is.

As a “survivor of second-hand” chemo (my term for those that sit with chemo patients during infusions), I empathize with those that deal with loved ones. Your day to day struggle is real as well.

Never underestimate the power of that smile.

rise.

Oh on this most ordinary of ordinary morns
As we watch the sun struggle to be free of mist and haze
Let our beings be light
As we’ve risen before
To embrace this day
Tighter than the last
And the last before that.
Make it ours
Really make it ours
To seek all that is love
And make peace with what resides in our hearts
As the non-promise continues to be
That the sun shall choose to greet us
In the morrow of the morn.

#HappyEaster

hyacinth 2 next day

Photo by me with my Nikon D750/Nikkor lens 28-300

unforgettable.

Happy New Year 2016! So Natalie Cole died today. At 65, this velvet throated song goddess fell off the face of the earth. Apparently plagued with health issues for months. Years. She “succumbed” to them and just left.

I obsess about death more often than most. I’m thinking that’s how it works. Born in a minute or two. Dead in the same. I mean the process of death can linger longer, but the actual act of dying is minutes. Seconds. 

Seems somehow trite that we get this seemingly expansive chunk of time to work with. Time enough to pay bills. Fix things. Fix a few people. Create relationships. Drink coffee, beer and maybe wine. And sometimes we get to sing. 

Mortality at my age is looming. Not on my lap mind you, but certainly in the same area. It’s like he’s staring at me from the very back of a doctor’s waiting room. Like a toddler who stares at a man with one leg. It’s cute. Innocent almost. Then easily distracted by a sudden burst of laughter or a bag of peanut M&Ms. 

I often feel the need to constantly throw mortality a bone. A carrot. I’m always tirelessly thrusting images of me evolving. Growing. Learning. Of not just sitting on a sofa waiting to go. I subconsciously (or quite purposefully) want Le Morte to forget about me. Skip over me and move on to someone else.

And then I see. He does.

This time.

  

in morning.

  
The morning belongs to dreamers.

Who watch the world come alive

Through sleep-blurred eyes.

Before the doers wake

As dreams are born

In heaven’s promise and coffee’s warmth.

Hidden light plays with shapes

As lack of motion echos sound

Sky’s puzzled pieces shift and slide 

A dizzying dance

As wispy clouds whisper

Together. Then apart.

While doers still slumber

planets and stars glisten

as they shine on faith,

And hues of blues

Paint the day with promise

And with hope.

As bedroom lamps

blink on.

The world

awakens.

And dreams begin in morning’s light.