7 words per thought about a day

Let me tell you about my day

Like no other it started with rotation

Tire rotation amidst probing fingers slippery sliding

Over grease drippings caressing a new crack

Worsening ball joints aging like my own

And a promise of more to come.

Nine hundred and thirty seven bucks

Later, much later, I embrace

The mounting cost, abreast

A non sexy

Kind of

Day

R.I.P.

Frozen in time, she realized it was probably too late to rest in peace, for there were still dreams to be conquered, dance steps to learn, kisses to give.....used up habits to dump. No, rest in peace meant living a fulfilling life in some little way every day....while breathing deeply was still possible. I want to die while on my own dirt road, not in the passing lane of others. She 'Romanced Inner Passions' is what I want my goodbyes to whisper.

Walks With Harley

6/11/09

With my subconscious in control behind the wheel of my car, I miraculously arrive at the forest…. and I’m glad. Glad this is a habit now. Harley is in his glory catching up on the world of doggyness, galloping and prancing, always in the general direction of me. He’s good that way. It relieves me of having to be consciously in his moment, freeing me to relax into mine.

I find myself walking this morning on the path I’ve grown to adore. I look forward to it. I block all else out and focus on the new life I am creating and what I need to do next. Fear crosses the path and suggests it’s too difficult. Oh shut up, I respond, pushing it out of the way with the glorious sight of morning light on the lagoon. Part of the water was shimmering, signifying renewal and birth happening just under the top of the water. So close, I thought. So close to being born. Doubts and fears once more demanded attention. I pray for help.

Oprah appeared. Yes, Oprah. And she said:

You, Lynda, are the idea person. I, Oprah, am the one who can make it happen. I can make anything happen.

If you give me ideas that are born from your heart and soul I will act and it will be yours. Do not worry, fret or buy more books about doing it. You know your craft & path as well as you know your heart. As well as you need to.

You think birthing is scary. In Truth it is great fun.

You think birthing is painful. It is only so if you don’t do it.

WOW. Oprah is God !!

I think... This world is a dream world, manifested by thoughts that swirl in new energy forms and create the illusions of our day. Most urgent to know: our thoughts create. Change my thought and I can create anything new that I pointedly think about with gut passion. Back to Oprah.

OMG. My God is wrapped in the veil of Oprah! I trust that image and I invited her to reside in my solar plexus, the direct line to my awareness. She wanted to sit on the top of my head, like any God image would. We compromised on the space between my eyes, the beloved third eye. I tell her: I want to parent. I want to give birth. I’ve nurtured my ideas and watched them grow. They want out. They now want a life of their own. I often thought, as a young woman, if I got pregnant my greatest fear was how the hell was the baby going to get out. Seems I was still worried about that.

As I descended the walking path, leaving the magic of flow and intention that the forest embodied, I heard Oprah saying everything she said the first time a second time to make sure I got it. I accepted her offer and agreed to keep her very busy. She was undaunted, so damn self-assured that she could do anything. Feeling supported in partnership with the universe I picked up Harley’s poop and lightly bounced out of the forest.

Lynda

An Open Letter to Alice Miller

Dear Alice:

I found you by chance

or maybe not

a click away as I perused all things parenting

It is my passion

All thoughts expand back to be enveloped by it

as if it's the good earth and fertilizer all in one

the pool of hope and possibility

the prayer for a happy beginning, a fulfilled ending

We, you and I, Alice, share a knowledge

and although I was not looking for validation, I found it

Are we the only ones who know this?  Who care?

How precious is a life.

How definitive is a child's earliest emotional experiences to the remainder of his life.

How awesome, as in comprehensive, is every parent's responsibility.

How often are children clinically or educationally 'treated' for the negative effects

of their parenting.

How often are parents released from learning by 'they did their best'.

I write not to blame but to inspire,

to encourage change in thought and action;

to gently but persistently dispute a subtle, enduring, damaging belief system.

And to acknowledge a role in life that offers a healing

for those who are blessed to call themselves parents.

More emotionally healthy people walking around

More authenticity to find and share

to access

for us all.

Alice, do you hear me?

Your friend in all things childhood,

LyndaKMT

aka MaidaBellpepper.com (under construction!)

p.s.  Maida Bellpepper is my safe, secure, beloved childhood; the enduring foundation upon which all crazy challenges of my life find resolution; without which I would not be my authentic, happy self.

Although not without minor neuroses, I am eternally grateful to my parents and huge extended family for their consistent love, respect and care that I never questioned.  They were passing along how their parents parented them.  I just got lucky.

Etude in G

Garbled genius ghostlike beneath too much gin

A gourmet mind now a mere garnish

The grandeur gone from our conversation

The potential embers a fading glow

The goodwill between us gliding, sliding down his throat into gut drowning suppressed feelings by yet another glass of booze.

Glancing at the clock I am panicked by the passing time. Our moments together governed by his rank and file and the goodwill of the war machine.

He's scared. He's different. I glide my fingers into the small tuck behind his left ear.... our secret spot.... as my lips gloss over the nape of his neck. A gust of knowing acts as go-between to our hearts, and there is a gentle connection still.

Damn the grenades and other ghastly goods of war. I will find this man again and nurture the garden of true love we once shared.

Ode to Woodstock

Forty years ago the Goddess of Getting Along merged with the Godfather of Hard Rock and Music Greats.
And, doused by mostly harmless drugs, put 500,000 hippie-types into a stupor of love and gut appreciation for the beat, the voices, the guitar solos bending minds into happy mush, the embracing of flow in everyday events like finding food, a bathroom, a familiar muddy blanket.
I remember the beginning and the end; but I know it's the middle that made me different. I totally abandoned the former rules of my life in the name of survival and found freedom, trust and humanity. I took off my bra and never wore another. I felt safe as we were all on the same mission, as it turned out to be, of random kindness and peace. You may think it naive, but it worked. I paid eighteen dollars for that ticket that never got collected. The fence was a joke against the masses of people wanting in. Damn, I wish I had that ticket. I still have the feeling, though, and when I connect with that there is nothing I cannot do. Package me in compassion and timeless agape love viewed from a bigger picture, a more perfect distance, and I am invincible in my efforts to adapt and make a difference in every new time of my life because, I did have the time of my life. Peace. Lynda.

A MINDFULNESS POEM ...June 26, 2009

I am a tender walk, honestly alone with the trees
becoming a bluish shimmer off the lagoon light over yonder,
now shifting thoughts.
I am the listener, awaiting a glint of truth in conversation
a talk of trust
becoming a layer beneath
each time, each talk.
I am musical tones, penetrating the touch of nature.
I am a container for renewal, exhilarated by the freedom of change
swooping, gliding through a blank consciousness
certain of connection.
I am heavy yet light.
I am becoming my dog, in the moment
creating space between
to rest
to respond
to bark my dream.
I am the music of a hug
Oh goody-goody
doo wap sha-boom!
I am my Mother’s hands
my Father’s last loving gaze.
I am surrounded by dirt
and will return
but not yet.
And when I do I will become Michael Jackson
knowing my passion lived
through the gauntlets of life.
I say to angry thoughts “Don’t bother me now… I’ve my joy to do!”
I am my silk blankie
sensuous, smoothness
all over.
Everything is okay.
I am happy to be alive.

Lynda KM Treger