Tonight I Dream Love

by Betty Badgett

It's evening, I clean up my desk, clock out and
Head Home.
I anticipate your presence.
I long for our usual conversation.
I don't mind that you ask me the same questions over and over.
I don't mind how you wait and anticipate my answers.
I don't mind because tonight I walk in the essence of love.

The bus is late, it always is, but tonight I'm in a bit of a
Hurry.
I long to see your face, feel your embrace and hear your voice.

I make one stop at the corner farmers' market, the tomatoes
Look red and ripe. I pick over a few until I hold in my hand
The perfect tomato. The salad has to be perfect.

My next stop is Cabana's wine and liquor depot.
I purchase your favorite wine Route One Cabernet.
Everything has to be perfect this evening.

I rush home and set the table for two.
Uncork the wine and pour two glasses.
I dim the overhead hood lights to set the mood.
I quickly glance through the cd collection to find just the right one.

After I take a warm shower and slip into my satin bathrobe
Waiting as I've done so many times before.
I listen for the turn of the key in the door.
I listen for footsteps coming through the kitchen.

I wait...

The salad is ready, the glass of wine poured, soft music
Emanates throughout the apartment.
Love is in the air.

I wait...

There's no sound of a car pulling up, no key turning in the lock
There never will be again.

Tonight, I can only dream of love.

Dickie

Dickie

by Roberta Lacey

Who would imagine so much excitement could be raised on our quiet street in Bayside, New York?

It was the day before Easter in 1934. Mother had been cleaning Dickie Bird’s cage and since the doors and window were all closed, she thought Dickie would be safe. He couldn’t get very far, even if he did slip through the tiny space Mom needed in order to replace fresh water and seed, plus clean paper to line the floor of the cage. Well, that was just the time I ran into the house, leaving the rear door ajar, being unaware of what was going on in the sunny front porch where Dickie resided. A flash of something yellow went by my head as I heard my mother’s voice call out to close the door tightly!! Oh, oh, too late, I thought. Only then did I become alarmed. My mother loved that little canary. He sang clearly and frequently most of the day. His early morning chirps became sweet whistles as the cloth covering of the cage was removed.

My sister and I ran out to see if we could retrieve him. As word got around, the neighborhood kids got into the hunt. Actually, we must have frightened Dickie when he saw us jumping to reach him as he sat on a slender tree branch. The higher we reached, the higher the bird flew. Being a canary, he didn’t fly very high, but was quick in avoiding our flailing arms as he elevated from bushes to small trees. The news reached the next street and those kids came to “catch” the bird. Sonny Kapsinsky was the only one of us who kept a cool head. He told us all to stay still and be quiet. He positioned himself next to the tree and could see the frantic bird hiding among the leaves as best he could. We finally remained silent and stood like statues. Sonny very slowly moved his arms inch by inch, higher and higher. He cupped both hands around the bird as Dickie was attempting to reach another branch. He proudly presented Dickie to my Mom, who was so very grateful and thanked him profusely. The “pall” was lifted from our home and little neighborhood when word got out that Mrs. Simms’ canary was safely returned. Sonny was the hero of the day.

The next day as we got ready to go to church, we were happy to hear Dickie bird singing his song and I’m sure he was glad to be back in his safe abode away from the noisy, frantic world outside. It was Easter and all was well.

It Rained Today

It Rained Today

Betty Badgett

It rained today. Walking from the hospital to my car, it became hard to know if the tears running down my face were real tears or drops of rain.

I always knew that this day would come, and I wondered what I would do and how I would be able to handle it.

My mother passed today. I was at her bedside when she took a deep breath and rolled her eyes upward. I held her hand in mine and leaned down and whispered in her ear, “It’s ok to go home now, Mom. I’ll be alright.”

She never looked at me, but slowly let her eyelids close, and her hand go limp. I can’t explain the feeling of holding on to someone when they are leaving this life and entering into eternity. I stood there at the bedside for what seemed like an hour. My feet were cemented to the cold checkered tiled floor. I couldn’t move.

Nurses and doctors walked by. A feeling of loneliness swept over me, lingering on my shoulders. What’s the next step? I thought to myself. Just wanted to cry and scream and ask the world to stop turning, and make time stand still. I had just lost my mother and a part of my heart.

My mother’s nurse and doctor tried to comfort me and asked if there was anyone they could call to be with me. I don’t remember what I said. They allowed me time to sit and be with my thoughts.

Finally gathering the courage to leave, I leaned over and kissed her forehead and said goodbye. Memories came back like a flood. I saw myself at ten, and then at fourteen. I remember graduation day. I remembered coming in from school and smelling chicken frying, and cake baking in the oven. That was just yesterday—how did I get to today?

I summoned the courage that my mother had taught me and knew that although I was entitled to grieve, I had to carry on and do what only I could do.

It’s been a month since that rainy day that came and went taking with it a large chunk of my heart and my being. I’ve gone on with my life, working, being a mother and wife, stopping now and then to remember this special woman who gave birth to me and taught me life lessons that I am using and teaching the next generation.

On any particularly difficult day when my heart hurts so much, I allow those feelings to fill my soul and I cry. I cry for the little girl who misses her mother. I cry for the woman who misses her best friend and life coach. I cry for the mother I am now, who has stepped into the shoes my mother wore.

After all the hours of crying and grieving and then coming to the realization that death is something we all have to go through. This life is temporary. This is our life class, where we learn the lessons and do the homework so that one day we’ll be prepared to move on and graduate and transition into eternity. Knowing that whenever that time comes, my mother will be waiting with open arms to welcome me into the kingdom, allows me to smile and go on with life.

My Life Song

My Life Song

Betty Badgett

You were my life’s song.

Each day, when I opened my eyes,

Whispered good morning and

Leaned in for a hug.

You smiled at me with a crooked

Boyish grin.

I smiled back, drinking in the

Essence of being your wife,

Your beloved.

Your open arms, warm, comfortable, familiar

The beating of your heart, in sync with

Mine, caused my spirit to soar, 

and my love to

Overflow.

Three years have passed since you went home.

I hear your voice, I feel your touch.

I can never forget, nor do I ever want to

You were, and always will be, my life song.

Sliding Down the Yak

SLIDING  DOWN  THE  YAK

Tibet, The Himalayas, Mt Kailas

by Pat Crosby

          Public Domain Photo Credit: http://www.urltarget.com/nepal-yak-tibetan-ox-last-animal-bear-transport-1.html

After five freezing days crossing the boulder-strewn Tibetan plateau - a once-upon-a-time ocean floor - now 15,000 feet above the current ocean floor - known as “The Roof of the World”, jostling with our caravan of Chinese drivers, jeeps, overloaded supply trucks carrying two weeks of supplies for 40 some people (including food, portable kitchen, tents, sleeping bags, oxygen, fuel for cooking and driving, spare truck and jeep parts (sure glad we had plenty of those), Sherpa porters and guides, we finally reached the sacred mountain - Mt Kailas - high in the Himalayas of western Tibet. 7 days journey so far out of rather tropical Kathmandu. 11,000 feet rise in altitude.

The five day holy ritual walk around the summit of the mountain - or ritual crawl if you are a Tibetan Buddhist - known as the  parikrama (circling the sacred mountain) is a climb from 15000 to 18,000 feet.

 

Public Domain Photo Credit: nepalguidetreks.com

The path rises at a 45 degree angle. It is rocky and steep. Pilgrims throw clothes, chunks of their hair - and occasionally their own bodies - overboard on this climb. These rituals represent leaving behind - letting die - some old aspect of oneself that one cannot keep if one intends to reach the summit of spiritual experience.

Already weakened and exhausted by the oxygen-starved altitude, the unrelenting bone-penetrating cold, nausea, dizziness and throwing up any attempted food in the last five days of the Tibetan plateau crossing (we can call this the Tibetan Plateau Crossing Diet - lose 20 pounds in 2 weeks), and the boulder strewn “path” -  actually ruts over shifting sand dunes with numerous jeep breakdowns - I hired a yak with driver - to ride up the 45 degree incline. Although not long, the rise was intense.

Yaks are big furry warm survival animal of the Himalayas - somewhat a mix of huge shaggy buffalo, don’t-tell-me-what-to-do donkey, and heavy-duty-survival-capable camel.

The yak can provide the human clan with fur, yurt (their round portable nomad house) covers, meat, milk, butter, transportation and copious excrement for cooking and fuel in the frigid treeless Tibetan terrain. These miracles of eco-efficiently manage to turn few and far-between stray tufts of dried grass scattered among the sand dunes and boulders -  amazingly - into all of the above.

And yaks provide essential milk and butter for the famous Butter Tea of the bitter cold wind-chilled Himalayas. Famously drunk by the Dalai Lama, served in monasteries, and the daily cultural survival beverage, tourists find it to be an acquired taste.. I found it to be like bone-heating substantial soup broth and grew to love it.

Public Domain Photo Credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bos_grunniens.JPG

Back to yak transportation.        

My translator/attendant negotiated the deal. He could speak five human languages (Mandarin, Tibetan, Nepalese, Hindi, and something else. Not sure if he was yak fluent.). And what a deal it was! A fortune in local currency - not so much in our money. I got hoisted onto the furry animal’s warm back. Did I mention there was no saddle - bareback! Nothing to hang on to. I clung to the shaggy mane as best I could - gripping as though my life depended on it. I was slumped prone along the beast's spine.

Getty yup! Well, not exactly. More like plod, plot. Hump bump. Plod plod. Oh no - I began to slide backwards. Slowly. Insurmountably. Definitely. Half inch by half inch. Gradually losing my grip. Trying denial first. Slip slip. Inch by inch. Gripping the hair of the beast harder - intensifying my will. Grip grip. Slip slip. Inches by inches. Going backward. Beast going forward.

Yak driver was nonchalantly talking to his fellow yak driver - both oblivious to we passengers sliding off the rump of their beasts. Slowly. Immeasurably. Definitely. Inch by inch. No grip to cinch.

Finally, a true spiritual experience. SURRENDER! I had to surrender that I was losing my grip, unceremoniously slipping backwards over the rump of the beast. No dignity. Who cared. No one. Just me and my soul - giving up any pretense that anything was under my control.

Inch by inch. Slip by slip. Over the tail.

Trying to grab the tail now. Animal beast could care less. Plod plod. Hump bump. Forward. Upward. Me backward. Backsliding. Rump hump.

Humpty dumpty. Over the edge. Losing the tail. Falling to the ground. HOLY ground it was.

I watched the rump of the ass slowly plod away from me. Plod, plod - up the sacred mountain path. Leaving me to look at the strewn belongings of the recently or

sometime-to-be departed.

Public domain photo credit: http://www.asia-insider-photos.com/tibetan-pictures.html

Death has no meaning here on Kailas. The most pious consider it the most auspicious place to lose one’s body. Just go over the edge. Lose your grip… drip drip…everyday concerns fall away ... down the mountain side into the sea of garbage of cast-off belongings. All this so the soul can fly free. Unencumbered. In the arms of grace, Lord Shiva, Mt Kailas - home of the Gods. Center of the universe. The Most Holy Place.

Creep creep. Hands and knees. Inch by Inch. Get a grip. Creep creep. Huffing and puffing. Panting. Inch by inch. Creep creep. Up the stony path. Ascending… inch by inch. I put my face down in exhaustion on the cold ice. More inch by inch. Get a grip. Creep creep. Up the path of the sacred mountain. What will greet me at the top?

Will I get to the top? Inch by inch. Creep creep. Hands and knees. Pant pant. Heard one of our party - a portly Indian man from tropical Mumbai (Bombay) - had a heart attack and Sherpa porters carried all of his heart attack heavy weight backward - retracing the path back to the starting place.

Maybe another lifetime before he can continue up the sacred mountain….?

Head hanging down. No energy to look up. Inch by inch. Hands and knees. Creep creep. Huff puff.

With extreme effort, I raise my head ever so slightly. What! The top! Pilgrims joyfully singing, waving prayer banners. Incense sticks circling in arati - the ancient waving of candles in celebration and love. Celebration of the light and achieving communion with the supreme.

In daze-ment, I see our tour guru - sitting on a boulder. His immaculate orange sanyasi monk robes pristine - as though they just came from the dry cleaners - neat and pressed.

He sat on the rock - like a beacon of “Yes You Can”. Big smile, Tender smile. Loving eyes.

My energy came flooding in. I arose, planted my earth legs firmly on top of my earth feet. Upright! At last! Hands waved in celebration! Joy! I can stand! At the top!

Having attained the summit of the sacred mountain,

prasad - blessed sweets - for everyone. How divine. God’s own celebration party.

Summiting was a grand adventure. What will the descent hold? Will it be anti-climatic?

~~~

Footnote: Since this Tibetan plateau travel adventure, the new government has built a paved road. The formerly 5 day caravan trek across rutted sand dunes is now an  8 hour  or less drive on paved road - according to a slew of youtube videos. So many adventures to miss! Sort of like if they build a chair lift to the top of Mt Everest.

LISTEN to a READING of this story by the author

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlD-WTY0Fqw

Copyright 2018 Pat Crosby. Creative Commons - non commercial

May be shared non-commercially with no fees or any form of remuneration charged

if reprinted in full with all credits and authorship given.

Contact author for any other uses and permissions.

More from author Pat Crosby’s blog

https://LightGrid.blogspot.com/

Sunset in Virginia

Betty Badgett

It’s four PM on a cold day in December. I’m sitting in my daughter’s dining room, surrounded by seven ceiling-to-floor windows. And a sliding glass door leading out to the upper deck, overlooking an acre of grass and barren trees.

The soft, warm, inviting yellow walls and the hardwood floors invite my muse to come in and take a seat at the long, black dining room table and get about the business of telling this story.

Having been recently widowed, my daughter and son-in-law urged me to come and be with them during this holiday season. I didn’t object. The thought of being alone in my home for the holiday with no family around made the decision an easy one.

This morning, I got up, showered, and sat down to enjoy a cup of decaffeinated coffee, brewed in their new Keurig. I heard a slight scratching sound at the door leading to the garage. I shuffled across the beautiful hardwood floors, with my soft, fluffy J C Penney slippers to find Dash, the family dog, standing at attention and looking me straight in the eye as though to say, “I’m ready to go out now.” I bent down and patted his furry head, and walked over to the side door and watched as he scurried out and headed in a hurried pace to the backyard to claim his favorite spot in the sun. Hence the name Dash!

I slowly shuffled back to my chair in the dining room, feeling relaxed and content as I watch Dash wander around in the grass and even lay on his back and kick up his legs as he found happiness for that moment in the sun. I let the warm coffee slowly ease it’s was to the back of my mouth and slide down my throat. Only coffee lovers can enjoy the experience of the taste of that first sip of favorite coffee as it touches the taste buds and then makes room for the next sip. I bask in the sun rays as they pour in through the windows that surround me. I feel God! I’m thankful for another day, and for being here at my daughter’s to enjoy family, even if just for the holidays.

My mother always said, “Be thankful for each day, no matter what it brings. Because tomorrow is not promised to you.” I filed that thought away in a corner of my mind and I try to remember it as often as I can, especially on days when I’m feeling low.

The day went quickly and now it’s evening. I’m back in my seat at the dining room table, and I’m watching the sun go down here in Virginia. I stare through the barren trees and I have a ringside seat to watch the day come to an end and nightfall descend. The final rays of sun are streaming straight through to where I am sitting. At this moment, I’m thankful for the gift of sight. A blind person cannot behold this miracle of God that I get to see every day. I just sit still in my black, leather, high back chair, and I take it all in.

My husband passed two years ago, and I placed my house on the market. Once it sells, I think Virginia is where I’ll make my new home. My family is here. I feel at home here, at peace with my surroundings.

My daughter and son-in-law have been filling me in on the history of Virginia. I don’t let them know, but they had me at “Mom, we want you to move here when the house sells.” One thing I’m enjoying is the weather. It’s winter, but it just started to get cold. There’s no sign of snow in the forecast and the sun has made an appearance every day since I’ve been here.

It’s overwhelming to think of packing up and moving from New York, where I’ve spent all of my life so far. Finding a new place and then putting down roots in another state scares me, yet there’s something exciting about getting a chance to start over and begin a new life in a new state. New places to go, new people to meet, new experiences to encounter.

As I sit here and stare out the window, watching the sun until it’s out of view, I reflect on the years that have gone by. I remember my wedding day, the birth of my daughter, and then seven years later, the birth of my son. I recall when we first got the news that my husband had colon cancer. I remember the long, hard, year-and-a-half we spent battling in the fight of our lives against this silent enemy. Two years ago the battle came to an end. I won’t say cancer won. To say that cancer won would give it too much power. We prayed day and night for a miracle, for healing, and that’s exactly what we got. God took his spirit home to be in paradise with him. He’s totally and wonderfully healed! Now I’m in the process of healing.

A longtime friend once said to me, “Betty, you’re not okay yet, but you are on your way to okay. And someday, you’ll look around and you’ll be there.” I believe those words, and as I sit here looking out the window, watching the orange hues left in the sky as the sun slowly leaves, and glancing at Dash, who’s again frolicking in the backyard, I know that I am on my way to okay as I sit here watching the sunset in Virginia.

The Work of Linda Bonney Olin

A Tale of Two Cornfields

Linda Bonney Olin

Green mendicants

acres of them huddle

thin, sharp arms raised

straight to heaven

begging alms from passing clouds.

One fat drop splashes and slides

to the cracking soil, only to be

snatched by hoodlum weeds.

Half a mile down the road

the ten percent

who always get the soaking rain

from a ten percent chance of showers

shrug supple green shoulders.

Arms drooping—not exhausted or weak

but relaxed, complacent—they pray,

“There but for the grace of God . . . ”

- - -

1. How long is the longest night?

How distant is the dawn?

It seems that time has ceased its flight

and hope for change is gone.

But wait! My God’s strong hand

rules over time and space!

At just the moment God has planned,

all things move into place!

2. How dark is the darkest day,

how black the shadow's gloom?

The richest colors fade to gray

when joy gives way to doom.

But wait! My God is light!

More vivid than the sun,

the face of Jesus Christ shines bright

with love for everyone!

3. How deep is the deepest fear?

How far can one soul fall?

The chasm’s edge is oh, so near,

so close to claiming all!

But wait! My God has wings!

The Spirit lifts me high

above the pit of fearsome things

to soar beyond the sky!

Note: "How Long Is The Longest Night" is a hymn by Bonney Olin in the musical setting DIADEMATA, which might be familiar to churchgoers as the tune of "Crown Him with Many Crowns."

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