When I prayed for a husband, I prayed. I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed. Gracie and I would cry together wondering how we were twenty -something years old with no potentials in the forecast. She lived in a cedar bungalow in the backyard of a well groomed house. The magnolia I would pass under, each visit would continue to greet me, as it changed with the season. The grass, without fail, faithfully would dampen my feet, as if to say, “You can’t control us, we will dampen your feet one way or another, whether it be dew or rain”.

Gracie’s place was like a fort; a fort amidst the Fort. It was a meeting place. It was a safe place, a place in which we could lay our burdens down. It was a framed structure of antique eloquence; a stain glass mirage of spoken wishes with fairy tale kisses. The ambiance was home. The music was fine elements of mood and classical savory. Fondu, song writing, and Elderflower Presse, these times were fond and life forming.

With the glow from candlelight and with the softness of wine induced splendor, jealousies would at times rise up like the incense burning on the stove. Was one favored? Was one more beautiful? Perhaps one desired more attention, while the other demanded it. Said to be the center of attention, I didn’t ask for it. I longed to be loved and appreciated. Deep down, I know I was, but misunderstood was a party favor I was often given. Outside of this life of familiarity and simple commonness, was another life of spirituality. My life friends these were, but on the other side of the Valley’s hills was the birthplace of my spiritual family. The family that would shape me, challenge me, and display for me; over and over again, the grace of God.

[Image credit: Ginette Callaway]



Again, I am reminded of Georgie. She had sparkled cold blue eyes. She was winter and wore it well. She embraced the season with purity and integrity. Her friendship meant well, I know it did, but 25 held a dark place in her heart. She needed to leave this scene. To get away. She had been too long and too many began to see her and her colors. They weren’t all put together like a promise, but a broken child, unleashed against the weasels, stoats, and ferrets. When she left, her books and memories stayed behind; all of them, tucked away unharmed, in a box in the attic. They are pieces of her in words, her words, her sayings, written by her favorites: Tolkien, Lewis, and Montgomery. Sadness belonged to my dear friend, but there was hopefulness, as well. A vessel lost at sea, lost in transition, lost in process. Community and communion, a longing and desire, she taught this well. In her heart, she could not rest. She could find no contentment. She could find no home.

An Ode to Georgie.


When Georgie said she rear-ended someone, the first thought that came across my mind was, “Again? Didn’t she just rear-end the girl with the porcelain skin just 2 weeks ago?” There was a heaviness about her, in more ways than one. She carried drama around her like her favorite shoulder bag. Annoying? Yes. Time consuming? Of course. Ridiculous? Always. But I loved her. She was my friend, my archetype, and the one that saved me from the glares and whispers that creeped about my 5”7 complicated frame which went hand in hand with my complex emotional state of mind.
We had known each other only a few days, but our friendship was instant. Timing was everything. It was the life preserver before the perfect storm struck. The love of my fractured life was disintegrating before my eyes and at the time he was the only thing I knew. I didn’t know love could feel so good, taste so real, and capture me wholly. Time seemed to not exist; however, it was everywhere, but nowhere to be found, especially when it ended. If only time could have stopped or ease the pain somehow, anything before the darkness hit, but it just didn’t work that way and nor will it ever.
Meeting Georgie, though, time came through in a positive. But here she was again, the result of another situation; another, only to be followed by a few many. Her mother was a concern, her father and step mom were a concern, there were concerns everywhere, and everywhere Georgie went, she took with her all the concerns of those around her.

Time keeps on ticking…

I have had no time whatsoever to make granola. This morning, because I am all out, I added chopped dried cranberries, a hand full of toasted pumpkin seeds, and a few chopped roasted and salted pecans to my flax flakes. It did the trick for now, but later today I will have the granola made. Last night we went to a cool little cajun restaurant in the city. We picked up sister Jojo and then Michelle. Michelle and I have been friends for over 15 years, which is crazy, because I sometimes feel as though I am still15, again, just sometimes, not always! 1 asked me the other day when she will be 21 and I told her in 16 years. Oh 21, it put a smile on my face, not because it was such a good year, in fact, I was miserably depressed then, but 21 seems so young…then I did the math of how old I will be in 16 years and I was hit with panic. I am getting old. Flashbacks to the dermatologist entered my mind, the cares of twenties, the worries of thirties, now forties? Perhaps mature seems a more fitted word, but it seems with every year comes new responsibilities. Maybe this is my issue. I sometimes feel so overly responsible as it is, to have more responsibilities placed on me, can I handle it? Well, I am not going to let it consume me. I am going to stay focused on the year I am now instead of the year I am not.
Here are a couple of shots from last night. Michelle had a hot Caribbean Chicken dish, I had jambalaya, Sean had a beef dish, and Jojo had ribs.