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Breaking Cycles

Life is a wheel

As I sit here now I realize how true that statement is. We are at one time children living our lives with little idea of what to expect because we have never lived before. 

We don’t know what’s supposed to be now or what’s supposed to be next. 

We live wanting guidance but at the same time not wanting anyone to tell us what to do because we think we know when we know nothing, not really. 

We know we are here and we know we are small 

We know we have to follow directions and do it right so the big people won’t get mad at us and give us less directions allowing us a little more freedom, freedom we crave to keep the wheel turning if we ever want to get to be the big people giving the little people directions, and we want that so bad when we are little people don’t we?

I remember being the little person and I was not a fan. I always wanted to be the big person, the one to give the directions. I think it’s because I have too may bad memories about being the little person, the vulnerable one, the one without power taking bad directions that I could not deviate from.

When I became the big person I almost became the dictator, before the dream that is. the dream where my son was begging for my help because my mom was threatening to hit him. 

How I cried after that dream. 

How I changed. 

I broke the cycle in so many pieces it can never be put back together. 

I pulverized it and crushed it into so much dust that its molecules could never be reconstructed. 

I took myself and rebuilt myself. It was not easy, I’d been scattered. 

As I found the pieces I sewed them together with golden thread, the good moments.

I sewed all my broken pieces, it took years but I and built a better me, a stronger version infused with the little person and wrote my own directions. 

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I have so many questions. How can you still have so many questions at my age I don’t know. Sometimes it seems to me that I should have it all figured out by this time. At 48 you would think we would have it all together yet I have seen younger people have it way more together than I seem to. Seems generations have changed so much in every way that I can hardly keep up. Don’t get me wrong I have done much in my life and very few things that I actually regret. I’ve been married, raised a family, expressed myself artistically and enjoyed many good things. I survived kidney disease and had a kidney transplant which has given me a new lease on life and for all of these things I am mighty grateful. Still. I don’t feel that I am exactly where I would like to be. Many times I have heard or read:

Where you are is where you’re supposed to be, right now.

I don’t know if that’s always accurate but I certainly hope so. I hope there is some divine guidance helping all of us through this journey with a good destination in mind because I am awfully close to the midlife crisis stage. The point where you don’t know which way is up because you’re not as far in life as you figured you should be. You begin to question where you’re going and why you haven’t gotten there yet. The biggest questions being:

What is my purpose? 

Am I doing it right?

Am I the only person feeling this way about my life?

I know that I’m not but at moments like this you certainly feel as if you are. You feel as if you’re on a course you yourself are blind to. Just floating along with the tide hoping to find something good as you go about your daily life. At times you feel you’re just about to get a glimpse of something wonderful but then you loose sight of it for reasons unknown or perhaps because you’re afraid to see. Many times we are more fearful of moving and changing than staying stuck. W feel safe stuck. These are the things that I think of randomly as I get older. The questions I am trying to answer within myself. It is no small feat but I do believe we all have this journey to take and questions to answer but no matter how long it takes us to answer them I also believe we will all get there in time.

Happy journey!

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A series of prompts… If someone gave you a book and you realized it was a book about your life, would you read it till the end?

I was sitting in the living room with my very intelligent daughter when she asked me this brilliant question. Sometimes I look at her and I’m so proud of the young lady she’s becoming and also proud that I’ve had something to do with it.


After the initial shock off the question I decided to give it some serious thought. Would I want to know how my whole life is to be played out right there in black and white? Facts on paper. Life and death and how?

My answer I would have to say is no.

I would not want to read about my whole life on paper before I have had a chance to live it. I would not want to know when i would be getting sick or how or when I would draw my last breath. I also would not want to know when or if I would lose a loved one. If dialysis has taught me anything it’s to love and live in the now. Nothing is guaranteed. No day is promised.


Can you imagine the kind of stress you would be under just knowing and waiting for the tragedies that might befall you? I mean I’m certain there would be enormous joys as well in your life but isn’t the greatest joy in the surprise of it all? What is the sense of living if you know everything coming your way? Still, it’s quite a poignant question so…

I ask you, would you read your story to the last page? Riddle me that.

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Reading Is Fundamental

I have an almost tragic love of books. My love began when I was about thirteen but I still have it, it has never left me. It has become a thirty year old flu. My collections began with paperback novels sold by the library for a dime to twenty five cents. The really good books were fifty cents. I packed my bed drawers and windows with all types of interesting characters. My love of reading grew with each word. With every book I read I became the dreamer, a believer of the impossible. The greatest adventure was born. Twenty eight years later I am still in love with literature. Nothing makes me happier than opening a brand new book, the soft whisper of the pages or the smell of newly printed pages. Because of this I began writing myself. My love of self expression through the written word grew from my love of reading. A poet from Shakespeare and Keats. So much has changed now. With kindles, nooks and iPads having a library at your fingertips is the easiest thing to do. I myself, between all of my gadgets must have at least 150 books easily at my disposal to read anywhere anytime. I can read anyone anywhere I choose from the slimmest library there is, my iPad. Miller, Bukowski, nin, rice, Angelou, king, Coelho are all there just waiting on me to choose. Brilliant works of words begging to enrich the mind no matter where I am. Still nothing beats the feeling of a raw open book in your hands, the weight of it. Best feeling ever! I love it. Reading enhances everything I do. It awakens the mind another persons thoughts. It makes you more creative and perceptive to your own life experiences, you see things differently and in much more resounding color. I am a product of that which I have read. My library is full of experiences I have and want to have. Few things can challenge the feel of a good book that can take you into its pages. You travel with its characters. They become old friends and you love them as family. How many times have we not cried when someone dear to us in a novel dies or goes through tragedy? We become an extended family forgetting the fiction of it all and we think of them well after we have put their stories down. We keep the books looking through them at times wondering what ever happened to him or her, are they happy? I hope so. At such moments I never think of myself as silly for such are the marks of a good book. They leave scars in your mind and soul. The love of books for me is one that once you have it, remains like a pair of well worn jeans that you can’t do without. You slip them on whenever you want to feel good and comfortable in your own skin. When I thank God at night, my eyes, although imperfect are among the first things I am thankful for. They have opened to me worlds of wonder. I see clearer every day.
Reading is fundamental. Truer words have never been written.


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Fatherless Daughter… An excerpt from my book “Growin up Heights”


Being that fathers day is a few weeks away, as always I have begun to think what this time of the year does to me and how it affects me. How no matter how hard I try to ignore it my mind refuses to be silent. Anything revolving around occasions where fathers are involved always tend to get to me in some way or another. Weddings, graduations, holidays and all those other days where a little girl wants or needs a dad. A child never heals from not having a father, don’t let anyone lead you to believe otherwise. Although that child may function just fine and mature into a balanced adult, that balance is always slightly tilted.
I know, I’m a fatherless daughter. A man may have help create me but no man raised me. That I owe to my single mother.
The effects of not having a father are many. Some positive and quite a few, negative. I can recollect the day I realized that I did not have a dad clearly, and until that day I did not realize how much I truly missed it. I was about eleven years old when the realization hit me like a cold fist to the belly.
I was at the park and a little girl fell and her father came to the rescue. He picked her up cleaned off her wounds and kissed her. He made her feel all better and the look on her face was priceless with awe and admiration. I was mesmerized by their interaction. How much he loved her and she him. It was brought home to me that I had never had a dad to do that for me. At such a young age I knew that I had no hero. That realization has affected my whole life and always will. This bears no mark on the fact that I had a good and responsible mother or that despite the lack I grew up well,with an education and a good upbringing. This is simply a testimony that as a daughter to an irresponsible man it has wounded me deeply as the woman I am and the girl I was.
Every occasion having to do with having a dad there has been a cause of pain for me. Never having a fathers attention on regular days let alone pivotal moments only reminds me that there’s a father who could have been there but never was. Not because he died or was indisposed but because he chose not to be there. I think that is the most distressing part to any child who’s irrelevant in their fathers life. The feeling of not only abandonment but the one of disregard. To know someone took part in your creation yet feels no love or need of you. The anger grows like a weed in you because although this person doesn’t care, you will never know why or what caused them, in you, to be so unloving toward one of their own.
As a daughter I wondered why he didn’t want to be my father. What did I do? Did he know I wanted a dad? Did he care that he was missing all the moments of my life. Does he know or care how much he hurt that little girl, that young woman this woman now. The truth is that I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. The truth is that even at 42 I ask them still to a resounding silence.
The effects have been numerous. Having no dad creates gaping wounds in a girl child’s soul. Every time you see a girl with her dad it has a way of setting fire to the dry embers of your fallen memories. I can go ages without thinking about it. I am blessed in many ways yet on days like fathers day, yet when I see weddings taking place or when I simply sit on a bench at the park and watch a dad console his daughter I think. Where is he now? Do I ever cross his mind? Does he care whether I’m sick or healthy or am I still only a fatherless daughter. I don’t think I’ll ever really know. Perhaps one day I will stop asking, and the silence will be mutual.