The Art of Life

I know this amazing photographer.

I wish I could adequately put into words the beauty she captures in every picture she takes.

She captures life as it happens. 

She is able to turn a burned down building into an amazing backdrop.

She captures childhood as it should be: tantrums, snotty faces, babies eating dandelions (and the result thereof).

Her pictures aren't posed; they are frozen pieces of time.

She is able to take the passion and emotion of two people in love and show it for the world to see.

The innocent surprise of a baby,

the wonderful newness of an infant's belly,

the excitement and elation of pregnancy,

 and two brothers fighting in the tub

and turn them all into works of art begging to be displayed.

She is not the photographer who uses cheap props and standard poses.

She does not take the typical shots that everyone else calls photography.

She takes the mundane and turns it into something monumental.

Everyday becomes exceptional when she is behind the lens.

She is not a trained professional, she is an artistic genius.

Hers is an art that amazes; art that is so beautiful it brings a smile to your face and a longing in your heart. Her talent is the art of life.

 

   

Saved by a Flight Attendant

This post is a lot more serious than any of the others. But it is also the most important so far. My mom is one of my best friends. That being said, she is also the teenage daughter I don't have. She is the child I worry about, the child I pray for. She is the constant dreamer that I advise and try to guide to make the right decisions. My attempts at keeping her grounded don't always work, and it often seems that letting her dream is best. She has been through a lot in life and sometimes pursuing those far fetched unrealistic dreams is the best way to cope with the nightmares that plague you. Let me explain.
My mother has never had an easy life. She married at fifteen. She had my brother at sixteen and had me at eighteen. She had no formal education, only her GED. She babysat for money while raising us so that she could buy the special things we couldn't have otherwise afforded on my dad's enlisted salary. Tupperware pieces were things she indulged in when she could afford to splurge. She sewed the latest fashions rather than buying them at the store as a way to save money.  Thrift stores were the place to go to get the things she couldn't make. She sang in church, she cooked for us, she let us stay home from school even when we weren't sick, she let us have coffee so we could feel grown up, and she played countless games of scrabble and dominoes with us. She was an artist and a storyteller. She wasn't perfect but she tried. She was young in age, young at heart, and a dreamer who reached for the stars. Even if they were close stars that might not seem so fabulous or bright, they were her stars and she reached for them. I remember these things because they affected who I became later in life; they shaped who I am today.
When my parents divorced, she left with my aunt and her husband to build what she thought would be a better life for us all. She was being the dreamer that she has always been and reaching for the stars. But as life often turns out, things went sour. She wound up working two jobs to support herself, my aunt, my uncle, and my young cousin. They lived in shabby hotels, they ate what they could afford, and when they couldn't afford it they didn't eat.They washed clothes by hand because they had no washing machine or money to go to a laundromat. She was the dreamer who was fed the promise of a better tomorrow after today. She was malnourished and overworked and her body suffered because of it. Then my uncle began beating them. He started with my aunt when my mom was at work. My aunt hid the bruises from my mom and explained the ones she couldn' t hide as accidents. Eventually he moved on to my mom as well. His violence and abuse left scars that will forever haunt them both. Fractured skulls, broken ribs, dislocated shoulders, nerve damage...all left to heal without medical attention. For anyone who doesn't know: without proper care, these injuries don't heal.
They were both too frightened to leave and didn't know how they could. He controlled the car. He controlled the phone. He threatened to take away my cousin so that my aunt would never see him. He told them that if one left he would do horrible things to the other. He was a maniacal freak that controlled everything and punished disobedience. Eventually my aunt left under the premise of a well paying job and promised to return. My mom stayed to care for my cousin. She was a virtual prisoner.
 My mom finally escaped from my uncle in an airport in Puerto Rico with the assistance of a flight attendant in a restroom. My mom convinced him that my aunt (his wife) would be there and they were to pick her up at the gate inside. She knew that she had to get away from him this time and that it had to be a public place. My mother had no money and no plane ticket. She had been severely beaten recently and could barely walk. People were staring and when she doubled over in pain, he sent her to the bathroom to clean up. She begged a lady inside the restroom to help her, telling her how scared she was that he would kill her next time. The woman escorted my mom out of the bathroom and she was ushered over to security personnel. That was the end. She was not able to take my cousin with her because she was not his biological mother. This woman in the restroom saved my mom's life and I owe her a debt of gratitude.
My mom wound up in a battered women's shelter and finally got back in touch with me. I hadn't spoken to her in five years. I was completely unaware of the things that had happened to her. She wanted to see me and she missed me terribly. The woman that met me at the greyhound bus station was a broken shell. She was fragile, aged, and defeated. Years of abuse and hunger had taken a toll on her. A scar ran across her face. Her teeth were stained and broken. Her body ached from repeated breaks. She was a frightened animal that had been beaten too many times. She was homeless and everything she owned was in the bags she carried with her. She had saved up money to travel by bus back to where I lived and had no money even for food. I bought her shampoo and soaps. I bought her food and snacks. I gave her hugs and told her about my life since we had last spoken. I was angry at her for leaving. I was angry that she never called. I ranted and yelled. Then I took a breath and listened. I was 18.
The pictures she showed me that were taken as evidence at the shelter she stayed at after leaving Puerto Rico were shocking. Her face was swollen and purple. She was almost unrecognizable. A bandage covered part of her head and a deep red scar slashed across her cheek. Years later the image from that photograph is still burned in my head. My mom is a small woman. She is about five foot four and one hundred pounds. The monster that did this to her was twice her weight. If she had been forced to stay any longer there is no doubt in my mind that he would have eventually killed her.
 Sharing what she went through was painful to her but I am glad she did. Our relationship healed and I matured. By conveying her story to me, she enabled me to recognize the abusive relationship I was in. She helped me leave that destructive relationship before permanent damage was done.
I won't give all the details of what she suffered because it is her story to tell.  I hope she will someday use her talent for writing engaging things to tell the entire story so she can finally heal inside. If she chooses not to, that is her decision. I have only shared some of what happened. I am sharing a brief introduction to her story so that others know that there is always a way out; so that they know that what starts out as hitting you "to sober you up" or yanking you by your hair to stop you from leaving an argument when you turn your back and walk away is  not okay. Neither is telling you how worthless you are or "accidentally" slamming a door into your head for trying to leave. A man that kills your pet in anger or uses another car to run you off the road just to talk to you is not the actions of intense love. It is abuse. Apologies do not mean change. Abusive people do not change. No person, no matter what they look like,  how smart they are, or what they have done in their life that they regret, deserves to be treated that way. That was my story and it would have been worse if not for my mother's courage in sharing her own painful experience. The reality of what happened to her helped me to realize what was already happening to me.
No matter what an abuser claims, there are people who can help. There are shelters. There are laws to protect you. There are others out there who will love you. There are others who have suffered too and can listen to your story and heal with you. 
Most importantly, if you see someone who looks like they are in danger or who asks for your assistance and you are able, seek help for them. It will only take a little effort and time on your part and you may be the one that saves their life.

"Evil"

So I am the one referred to as "Evil".  I am the sounding board; the creative consultant. The beta reader. I am afforded the privilege of reading all of the delicious details first.  I get to hear how things may turn out and I get to enjoy the ride that goes along with reading a book that is in the process of being written.
This author is fantastic. In person she is fun and sunshiney. Yes, that is a legitimate adjective- at least in my world. As a writer, she takes all of that personality and mixes it with creativity to produce stories worth reading. I enjoy reading, and frankly there are a lot of books out there that are just NOT worth while. Unsatisfying endings, overuse of favored words, and wording that doesn't even begin to make sense ("not unkindly" anyone?) Hers do not fall into this category by any means. She has the talent of adding just the right amount of sarcasm and dry humor to a tough situation to make it relatable. Her characters maintain their own voice and become real to the reader.
As creative consultant, I am privy to the fact that there have been many times she has suffered what every writer surely dreads; writers block. She has conveyed her thoughts of abandoning plots altogether. For me this would be unthinkable because once involved with the characters of a book I must know how things turn out. I like to take credit as being one of the ones that encourages her to keep writing.  It's probably just all the begging I do for the lives and sake of the characters to come to a conclusion. I emphasize to her how I must know what happens to these people she has created that have taken on their own real lives.
Or maybe it's the nagging I do.
"How's David?"
"How's Edmund?"
"Did you send me a chapter?"
"Isaiah is so freaking awesome. What's happening to him right now?"
Either way, she writes on and I count that a victory. My prize is having the privilege of reading what happens before everyone else. Muwahaha! Yes, that's my evil laugh. In the words of Keith Urban "Who wouldn't wanna be me?" I'm sure other quotes could go here, but the song has been absolutely stuck in my head for a couple days and it fits, so I'll just go with that.
 It can be agonizing waiting on chapters. I wait patiently. Okay... impatiently. When the chapter finally arrives in my inbox, I blaze through it as the world around me fades into a background blur. Sometimes my laptop feels like it might catch fire because I read through the chapter so fast. I soak up the details and my mind follows where she leads.  A lot of times I have already heard what could happen and what will happen. Then I get the chapter and it exceeds my expectations. Sometimes she changes it up completely and throws twists and turns that would make the most avid roller coaster rider a bit loopy. Numerous times I've been caught in a " Wow! I did not see that coming!" moment. Then I reread it so I can give her my well thought out opinion. If it's two in the morning my ramblings may not be that well thought out, but she never complains!
I have recently been informed that you can get paid to do this job. Who knew? Apparently not me!
I guess I should go ahead and clarify that I have not been paid to write this post. I just think her stories are that good! She's a fresh take on the typical literary releases that you see strewn about in book stores. When her books are finally released I highly recommend reading them. For now, I am one of the few chosen ones who gets that privilege. Muwahaha!

Go here. http://redmybooksandlosetenpounds.blogspot.com/ Check her out.

Actually....

Actually.

 It is a completely overused word. A recent trip home for an extended period of time brought to my attention the fact that I overuse this word. Having the fact pointed out to me, I scrambled to find other words to say in place of this favored one. Veritably? Forsooth anyone?
My attempt to eliminate this word from use in conversations brought to my attention how often this word is, in fact, overused...by almost everyone. It borders on epidemic. Everywhere I listened, someone was saying "actually". Having given it  thought (not a lot of thought - I'm way too busy to ponder it extensively), I have come to the conclusion that there are a couple of reasons this word is so frequently uttered in conversation. I believe that it lies in the fact that so many people speak figuratively (see example 1) and with the use of exaggerations (see example 2).
Example 1: "He jumped off the bridge after living here for so long with no prospect of a transfer."=He was upset and disappointed after living here so long and finding out that he was not going to be transferred to another location. 
Example 2: "It was like 115 degrees here yesterday."=It was fairly hot here yesterday)

When they want to draw attention to the fact that they are speaking quite literally and without exaggeration they must point it out with the word "actually".
Example 1: "He jumped off the bridge after living here so long with no prospect of a transfer. No, he actually jumped off the bridge."
Example 2: "It was like 115 degrees here yesterday. There were actually heat advisory warnings because the temperature was so high."

Furthermore, when correcting the ignorance of another person, actually draws attention to the "I'm right" and "you're wrong". For example, when the local realtor told us that (this town) was such a great place to live and raise a family and my response, after living here, is "Actually, (this place) is not a good place to live or raise a family given the high population of completely inconsiderate, uneducated idiots."

Just in case anybody was actually wondering.

A few things I have recently learned

I don't post often. My life is too busy to post daily, weekly, or even monthly. But in light some newly acquired perspective, I felt the need to share.

1. The TSA pat down is not that bad. It was kind of like a weird public massage from a uniformed person you don't know. Yes it's a little invasive, but nothing extreme. I experienced it recently when my glucose sensor/insulin pump set off the metal detector. They had me in the isolation area as they indicated they needed a "female assist". Having read the stories of others about their experiences, I was dreading it. I didn't want to be groped by some authority figure with absolute power over me. The agent gave me the option of a private screening, which I declined. I figured if I was gonna be violated, better have some witnesses. The TSA agent was very professional. She got my bags for me, directed me to a seating area, and explained exactly what would happen. Seriously, it was no big deal. Quick and painless.

2. Even if you are gone for two years, your dog will still love you and lick your face when you come visit. She will snuggle up to you and wag her tail and bark and play. She will lay on you and, when you give her a sweaty dirty shirt that you ran in so she can remember you, she will lay on it and use it as a "blankie" until you return again. Hopefully you will return.


 3. Shortness of breath can indicate a drug allergy. Don't dismiss it. I've been walking around for a week not being able to breathe good despite being a runner. People were starting to wonder what the heck was wrong. Panic attack? Anxiety? Ketoacidosis? Nope. Medication allergy. Thanks mom for figuring that one out. Yesterday was the last dose I took....I'm still trying to catch my breath today.


4. Sometimes it's good to just slow down and listen. My recent trip back home put me in touch with some old friends as well as some new faces. The thing that stood out the most was people's need to talk. I visited with an older woman who's husband is sick with COPD and refuses to carry and use his oxygen tank. I've known them both for years. I heard her worries for him, the fear of losing him. I visited with another woman who had recently lost her husband. It was our first meeting. Her words about not being able to say goodbye to him stuck the most and made me want to call my loved ones immediately; to not let a moment pass by because you never know what the future holds. I visited with a young woman and her new baby. Her husband, who already has a dangerous job in a public safety position, is leaving soon for an Afghanistan deployment with his reserve unit. He will miss his baby's first year of life. She worries for him daily when he leaves for work, and now he is leaving for a year; going to a foreign country. She conveyed how she cried for days after she found out. Her voice was shaking as she talked about getting a web cam and moving in with her parents back home while he is away. Her story is not hers alone, but hearing it sheds a personal light on it. Hearing the anxiety and worries of all these other people, their grief, their life story really puts things into perspective. I couldn't do anything to help any of them, but listening to them let them get it all out. You know what transcends all of this? Love.

5. When I'm away from home number one I miss it. I miss red clay, John Deere tractors, country music, boiled peanuts, running into everyone you know out in town, passerby waves, family dinners, and an abundance of churches. My list goes on and on...except the gnats. I don't miss them so much. When I'm away from home number two, I miss it. The most amazing man in the world, great friends who can relate to being away from home number 1, dry heat, productive runs, "my" church...This list also goes on and on. Neither home is perfect, but they are still home. Yes, home is where the heart is and mine is in two places (apparently). It is where I once was and where I am now. It is where family is and where friends are. Home number one will always be the one I go back to; it's where all of my old memories reside. It is where I started life; it is my past. Home number two is that place that moves around and changes; it is the important one because it is where my present and future are. Never mind the house, that is not home. In fact, it's for sale..but that's another post completely.

Southern by the Grace of God

Recently I have come to have a profound appreciation for southern hospitality and small town living. Let me explain....I moved here from a town where you can't go out in public without seeing at least five people you know. Of these people you see, you probably know who they are related to, what they do for a living, the names and ages of their kids/grand kids, and what team they support in college football. There is comfort in that. It is like having an extended family close by. It also gives people a sense of accountability for their actions. If you are rude or offensive everyone will know about it soon enough...and in a small town that is to be avoided. The saying is that in a small town, "even if you don't know what you are doing- everyone else does". It is true. I "gar-un-tee" it.
I like the familiarity of small town living. I like the feeling of knowing where the people I come into contact with go to church....and the fact that they go to church. That doesn't make them perfect. But I like to know that they have a belief system. It is nice to go to visit with an older couple and know that you are gonna be treated to the local news, the local politics, the local gossip, something to drink( non alcoholic!), and something fresh out of the garden to take home and enjoy. When you go to the grocery store or the local Wal-mart, the person waiting on you in line greets you with a smile and a "how're y'all duin?" and then goes on to ask about your family and life in general....or to tell you about their family. Even if they don't go that far, you at least get a genuine smile. The person taking your order at the local Starbucks knows what drink you order every time...and if you order one for your husband she knows that one too. The manager of the local grocery store greets you with a smile and asks how your day is going...and if he can help you in any way. He is genuine and sincere. When people pass you by in a car, they give a respectful nod if you are a stranger and a wave if they know you..or if they think they know you. The local elementary school is a safe place where children don't have to worry about gangs. It is a public school where the principal knows your parents and has the authority to spank you if you misbehave.
This town is in the Bible Belt. The biggest section of the very small phone book in my town is the church section. I like that too. When life is truly hard, the community works together to help those in need. I saw people from this town raise money for families who lost everything in fires, help the family of a mother who had been diagnosed with cancer that needed medical treatment, and buy Christmas presents for children who would otherwise have had nothing. I witnessed a group of college students and able bodied adults help a woman and her three children move everything they owned into a moving truck so that she could rejoin her husband at his new job on the other side of the country (because they couldn't afford to do it any other way). They even cooked her breakfast that morning and drove her kids to school. Southern hospitality at its finest. Christianity in action. It's the Bible Belt for a reason. Yes, I know all of these people....and where they go to church...and where they work...and who they are related to...and what college football team they like...If I were still at home I would probably see at least four of them at Wal-mart.
This all goes back to the accountability aspect...people in small towns are not perfect. Not even close to perfect. They definitely gossip. If you are rude or offensive...people will know. You will be an outcast of society. Helping others and being polite makes life more tolerable...even enjoyable. After all, when everyone you meet is somehow connected to someone else, you realize that you are part of that big family. It's what we do in the South. People often think of southerners as no brained rednecks.....I say they haven't lived in my town. They haven't met my family. My family would agree.
Flash forward to this current city. The place that I am currently in has neither southern hospitality nor the comfort of small town living. Population wise, it is a lot bigger than the last place I lived in. It is a place where the residents are largely transient. Rudeness abounds. Take for example a recent excursion to Wal-mart. As I was perusing the merchandise, a young woman came over to where I was standing. She did not say excuse me...not in any language. She reached across in front of me and grabbed for something behind the area in which I was standing. She could have easily walked up behind me to grab the item. She could have said excuse me. She could have waited. Instead she opted for rudeness. And she is not alone. For any of you not certain- this is rude. Bumping into a person and not saying excuse me or apologizing is also rude. As is jumping in line in front of a person who is quite obviously in front of you. Never mind throwing your trash out the window onto the street rather than putting it into the garbage, or putting your shopping cart behind someone else's vehicle rather than returning it to the clearly marked and ever abundant cart collection areas. Giving dirty looks to your customer at the grocery store and not saying a word to them in the way of a greeting or farewell is rude. Parking in front of the house you are renting to someone and eyeballing them as they run/jog around the neighborhood without so much as a nod or a wave is right up there with all the other blatantly rude behaviors I have encountered here.....and its a little creepy too. And lest I forget, being an adult and knocking into small children without any regard for their safety tops the list and borders on deserving of an "ass whoopin' ".
Small town life is not perfect. But it sure beats the rudeness that abounds in a larger, more populated, transient area. Yes, there is often the feeling of nothing to do and nowhere to go in small towns but that stuff is truly overrated. I am now in a place that has nothing to do coupled with an absence of the comfort that comes from life in a small town.
Those of us from this small town revel in its smallness. We like the fact that we know all the local business owners and their families. We like the fact that roads are named after local families. We like that we know the parents of the kids in our classes at school. We like the lack of gang tags in neighborhoods. We like knowing where you go to church and who else goes there with you. We have seen city life from afar (and personally-up close) and wouldn't trade it for anything. I have lived all around the world, but have found only one place I call home thus far.There is a saying known to many. It is "(fill in to personalize) by birth; Southern by the grace of God." I finally understand that statement. And I absolutely embrace it.