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Posts Tagged ‘imperfection’

There is no real beauty without some slight imperfection. James Salter

Spilled

Maple syrup spilled
in the back of my refrigerator.

As I scrub, beeps sound
a warning. Close the door. Now.

A fridge’s chill skill
weakens in furnace-power territory.

Maple goo has attacked a jar of pickles
This won’t take long, I hope.

I scrub, giving no anesthesia to mechanical
cries. Yet when I waited on hold

for three-calls-ahead
at the local pharmacy

on a busy Monday afternoon,
I sighed and paced, as if

the workload of my short-staffed
drugstore didn’t exist.

A bit at a time, I say to the fridge
opened for briefer moments.

A more intensive task comes next.
Removing stickiness inside me.

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To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake it is necessary to stand out in the cold. Aristotle

The snow will melt before it touches the ground. One part of me circles inside the cold and another part has already melted on the road. I want to leap into a warmer day yet linger in the present. No moment is perfect.

My heart wants to take icy pain away from some people I know. Their burdens won’t melt on the road. And yet, I always hope that enough warmth will find them. Now, in each passing now…

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“Guard well your thoughts when alone and your words when accompanied.” 
― Roy T. Bennett

Thoughts, Cracked and Imperfect

small thoughts wander through small minds
the way grains of sand move inside a plastic water bucket

EXAGGERATED THOUGHTS CHARGE THROUGH INFLATED MINDS
WITH THE CLAMOR OF BLINDED DRIVERS SPEEDING THROUGH ORANGE BARRELS

DisJointed tHoughtS haZZard tHrough ScaTTered miNds
LiKE  a hUndrEd lOsinG lottery TicKets FloatinG in a fLoodeD STreaM.

Clear thoughts carry possibilities,
confined by human limitations.

small, EXAGGERATED, and DisJointed fraGmentS impoSe
upoN clariTy. 

May I keep my mouth shut
until clarity wins.

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drops

Tis but a part we see and not a whole. (Alexander Pope)

Slices of green leaf hold drops of water,
while my camera crops the rest 
of the plant from my yard.

My window seat opens a square 
of flight into midday sky. Into
finespun white and gray clouds.
 
Blue twists through nature’s 
continuous artwork, 
intangible yet visible.

While the land below blends
into solid colors. Squares. 
An illusion of sameness.

When I hear angry people, I assume 
motives. Yet, what has been cropped 
from this old man’s life? 
Or young child’s future?

How long has this girl been searching 
through fragile clouds of the past 
for what can’t be found in the present?

I belong to the whole. 
The path opens wider,
yet never gives all.

Slices of green leaf hold drops of water
while my camera crops the rest
of the plant from the scene. 

I study what I see
while the whole holds all.





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Have no fear of perfection—you’ll never reach it. (Salvador Dali)

Miracles come in uncanny forms. I experienced one in between ice storms when February’s less subtle moods moved in on Thursday.

Sure, I realize a mask and my hearing aids have a tangled relationship. I know to pull the string as far out as possible before removing any face covering. However, my uncut, haven’t-been-to-the-salon, hair gets in the way. So does impatience.

Inside the comfort of my warm abode, I didn’t notice one aid didn’t make it into the house. Not right away. When I did, panic took over my brain. Panic is like setting fire to a dark house when lighting a candle will do.  

A room-to-room search yielded nothing. The gasp-at-the-cost item wasn’t there. I found my hearing aid on the street, next to my car door. The next morning. A fresh, round battery and tiny, white filter brought life back into the aid. Probably, something akin to device-CPR.

My sense of humor is back. Sun casts strong shadows on an imperfect world. I walk into it. And recognize the chill. More alert now. Oh, I doubt I’ll stay aware every moment for the rest of my life. But I hope I can forgive myself a tad quicker the next time imperfection visits my day.

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Nobody ever figures out what life is all about, and it doesn’t matter. Explore the world. Nearly everything is really interesting if you go into it deeply enough. (Richard P. Feynman)

But I do wonder why. A friend is suffering, fighting for her life. The cause of her illness appears to be random. She is young, with two elementary-school-aged girls. Another person I care about is going through chemotherapy for stage-three breast cancer. Beauty, ugliness, life, death, intertwine. Colors bleed into one another. They rarely remain sterile. Each horizon appears slightly different even in the same location. One same-tint batch of paint may differ slightly from the next batch.

I know this. Yet, I get caught up in either tragedy or joy as if either one were the whole of life. During a water aerobics class one day another woman and I talk. She asks how my book is doing. I tell her it’s okay as far as I know. Several copies of “The Curse Under the Freckles” are available through the Public Library of Cincinnati and Hamilton County.

Eventually, of course, my beautiful grandchildren slip into the conversation. I mention the fun trips I have had with my husband. When I stop long enough to ask about my exercise partner’s life I discover she won’t be having a fun Thanksgiving. She is having surgery, to repair a previously botched surgery. She lives in constant pain.

This time I need to listen. Both ears open, my lips sealed. I remember a phrase used for a children’s class that made me smile at the time: This is my time to talk and your time to listen. Except now the advice is reversed. I stand close, watch every movement she makes.

I place both of my hands on my pool partner’s shoulders and wish her well. For now this is all I can give. She smiles.

The songs presented by Dan Erdman in his most recent Oasis evening come back to me as I leave the water. Dan’s music focuses on the positive, on the real power of love. Sometimes I hum softly as he plays and stifle the desire to belt it out. Occasionally there are moments when all are invited to join in. Then I feel uplifted, engaged. All of it is good.

Dan’s wife, Marcia, is a dear friend. She accepts me at the core of my being, both the places that express savvy and those that need work. She is the most intuitive person I know.

Needs-work seems to be the human condition. And I love people who readily admit they fit into the imperfect category. Together we can explore the world, find the beauty in a decaying leaf, a breaking body, an unpleasant surprise, and pain. We can celebrate with love, even if we don’t recognize the experience as love at the time. Perhaps it is difficult or downright ordinary. I’m not sure that depth can be seen from inside one moment anyway. I think it needs the context of time and distance. And we can’t do that alone. I know I can’t.

Thanks to all my friends along the adventurous path called life.

life challenges PIQ

 

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You are the sum total of everything you’ve ever seen, heard, eaten, smelled, been told, forgotten—it’s all there. Everything influences each of us, and because of that I try to make sure that my experiences are positive. (Maya Angelou)

Before the temperatures temporarily dropped in my corner of the Midwest, I watched the fluctuating dark and bright skies and wondered if they were playing some kind of game. Either that or the atmosphere has a bipolar disorder with rapid cycling. At the pool on Saturday my husband and I were able to tread water for almost two hours while the sky simply made threats. By Sunday we weren’t in the water thirty minutes before the thunder and lightning started.

Storm and blue sky often coexist in metaphorical ways, too. They just aren’t always as obvious.

I’m trying to figure out a problem with the computer—something like asking a second grader to solve quadratic equations. A message has popped up about the validity of my word processor. My gut suspects it is spam; emotion makes a different response. So, my head suggests that I try the checks I know.

While I wait for my icons to reappear after an update and restart I study my current desktop photo—of my two older grandchildren in matching Sisters-Forever T-shirts. The girls both appear happy, confident in their own styles: Kate’s natural smile shows her readiness to embrace the good in all. Rebe’s closed-mouth grin promises humor, in some form, as well as the blunt honesty innate in children too young to be anyone other than themselves.

Actually I have no idea what the girls thought or felt as the photo was taken. A photo presents only one moment. The observer guesses based on clues.

I’m asking what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-my-computer? I’m also questioning my ability to solve problems. And this waiting feels longer than the minute or two it actually takes to watch for the bizarre message to either reappear or vanish into whence it came. The speed of thought is rapid. It can go backward and forward through decades within sixty seconds.

By the time I was the girls’ ages, I already had accepted false notions of myself. Insecurity could have been my mantra, stated in so many forms I automatically went to the end of the line in almost any situation. If I could I would go back through the years and rewrite history, become a different person. However, that person wouldn’t have walked the same journey, and these two dressed-alike granddaughters wouldn’t exist.

I think about positive attitude all the time. However, the notion that all must be blue skies and sweet-smelling flowers interferes with reality. Sure, I need to have an outlook that says today’s effort is worth it. But, sometimes that effort can cost a few tears—maybe even a complaint or twobefore success is realized. No one or no thing is perfect. Sometimes success means choosing another path, without crying, Why me?

So far, so good in the computer fix department, even if I don’t know how I did it. Not sure it matters.

being happy

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