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6

I need a blog entry so I've decided to interview myself. The questions and answers are off the top of my head. I'll do 5 questions.

Question: Faith, what have you done this week to improve your quality of life?

Answer: Wow. That's tough. Off the top of my head I'd say I have worked on better accepting the amputation this week. I've been doing some encouraging reading and feel a little more hopeful about things.

Question: What have you done in the past week as an act of self kindness?

Answer: I've let go of my mistakes. When mistakes have been made I've quieted the cruel, crushing voice in my head that shames me. The nicest thing I can do for me is to speak to myself kindly.

Question: What do you think about Dr L, the surgeon?

Answer: I find him intriguing but he makes me nervous. I can't tell if he's angry. I have a need to please him and follow instructions for my foot 'just so'. I don't want to disappoint him. I always forget what he looks like until I see him. There's a great deal of trust in him concerning my foot. There's a need to put up a wall between me and him. I'd say I'm all over the map with him. The man cut off my toes, I assure you my feelings are complex.

Question: Are you going to date again, do you have someone in mind?

Answer: Yes. I've been thinking about dating again. There's no one in mind at the moment.

Question: Why do you want to date?

Answer: I want the fairy tale. I want to get old with someone. I want to sit on the porch and watch the birds, read together, have tea together and be happy. I want to be past youthfulness, past childbearing years and more settled in who I am. I want him to be past the crazy years, working through midlife crisis and settled in who he is. I hope I can find him.

After answering these questions there's one thing that stands out, I'm future oriented. I think a lot about what I want and how I want to feel. Also, I think a lot. Lol

Things I'm grateful for this week 

  1. I think it's super cool that Dr L is treating the amputation site with medical honey.
  2. I've been moved to the rehab section of the nursing center which is much more lively and very much what I need to stay on the healing path.
  3. I had a lavender and hemp foot soak on the left foot. It was great.
  4. I can reach down to my feet and put on my own socks. I only put a sock on the left for now.
  5. I am back to transferring myself from the wheelchair to the restroom on my own. I'm back to being able to get dressed on my own. It feels good!
  6. The nurse finally gave me a razor to shave my mustache. I was 2 whiskers away from changing my name to Steve. Thank goodness for razors.

Faith

2

Its your voice I'm listening for
The gentle tone that brushes against the walls of my mind
Sweeping away conclusions drawn
And patterns formed
When I was left on my own
Inside my head,
Behind this desperate divide.

It's your voice my heart yearns to hear
Tuned to deep vibrations that spell out promises you will not fail to keep. ...continue reading "Listen"

Rose Marie Doll I have a little one who was born in a small division of Indiana called Rosedale Hills. She was born in a home where art, music, love and laughter fill the rooms. The scent of joy is roses. The feel of care is as smooth as cream as its poured into what will become sweet ice cream. It is a home of peace with an environment conducive to growth.

This is Rose Marie, a hand stitched, hand painted, African-American ornamental rag doll. She's about 12 inches from head to toe and wears little white undies and little black shoes.

I know what you're thinking. I've seen her before. She sold last week. Only part of this is accurate. Let me explain.

Rose Marie was born here at Sundrip in Rosedale Hills and was ready for her new home. Her bags were packed and her heart was set for the road ahead but there was a snag in her adoption so she sits very sad, on my lap, holding my hand.

Rose Marie

Rose Marie: Why not me?
Faith, doll maker: It's not you sweetie. It's just that life got in the way and she wasn't able to adopt you. Her circumstances changed. It's not you.
Rose Marie: The other girls got adopted, she said.
Faith: I know. Those circumstances were different. The two mothers who adopted them had all their ducks in a row, they were ready and sure but the person who was to adopt you wasn't able to get her ducks lined up. It was her ducks out of quack, not a flaw in you. You're perfect. You're perfect with those beautiful, soulful eyes. You're beautiful with your soft hair and smooth brown skin. Little one, you are beautiful in your dress with gold trim and the handmade pendant around your adorned dress. There is no flaw in you, no flaw.
Rose Marie: Will someone else adopt me?
Faith: As sure as the sun rises, you will be adopted.
Rose Marie: Will they have problem ducks too that don't like to line up right?
Faith: Next time we will be much more careful about people with rebel, lunatic ducks. We'll make curtain the arrangement is more secure so that you don't get your hopes up or have your heart broken.

Rose Marie laid her head on my chest, squeezed my hand and said, "I didn't mean to make it sound like I don't like living with you."
Oh honey, I know. It's just that you want a home of your own. You deserve it and it'll happen. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but it'll happen.

And so Marie wrapped her plush arms around my neck and squeezed tight. "I love you very much" she said. "I know baby doll. You have so much love to give, that's what makes you special."

Moral of the story. 1) Ducks can be thugs and rebels. 2) One must be patient for their heart's desire to be filled.

Rose Marie is up for adoption. She likes long naps, a good book, hugs and holding hands. At this time she's in hug therapy and being treated for Post Traumatic Duck Disorder. She's progressing but would prefer a home with no ducks.

You may purchase Rose Marie the ornamental doll for the administrative fee of $29.00. This covers shipping to the United States. International shipping varies. I refund all international shipping over $1.00. Please contact me at SundripJournals@gmail.com to adopt little Rose Marie. Please don't send money until we have confirmed that Rosie is still available. I accept PayPal and will soon place her in Etsy. They have their own administrative fees so there will be a slight increase when purchasing from Etsy. It is best and secure to use PayPal.

Thank you for your consideration.

Faith
doll maker, doll lover...

1

I've sworn off photos but I stare at the ones burned in my mind
as if they will come alive
and hand feed me spoonfuls of hope and blind desire
for you to see the tiny light in my eyes that beckons your heart.
Let me penetrate.
Let me enchant the strings of your million man orchestra
and play long for the faceless, for the strays.
Then let me know what it means to soldier on
and what it means to let you die in me.
Let me go.

Robert

1

Strange Sisters - Young Children in the Sun Well, that was heavy. I felt relieved after writing that story. Reading over it I'm able to see how close I stuck to reality. I'll put this to bed after I process why I said there's a reflection of me in each character in the story Tea for Christopher.

Content: Physical abuse of a young child. Processing the previous entry. No sexual abuse mentioned or discussed.

Christopher
I'm primarily Christopher in the story who tries to manage the unmanageable. I had Christopher leave home just the way I did, an unplanned exit on a night of routine abuse. I couldn't do it another night, not another second. I left Feb 2, 1992 at 10:30 pm and I never went back home. I went to a hotel that evening then got up to go to work. I never went back home.
Just like with Christopher, I did watch my little brother beaten with a dowel rod. Just like in the story, he was held down with one hand by my mother and beaten with a dowel rod until he was no longer even screaming. I walked away and left him with that monster. A few days later he was removed from our home by Child Protective Services. I felt so broken by that loss.
It is safe to say, the story Tea for Christopher was triggered by what happened the other night outside my window.

Ruby, the mother
It's interesting that the mother wasn't given a name until about the middle of the story. I realized I kept calling her 'his mother'. I didn't think too hard about a name for her but I immediately rejected Diamond. Now, the name Ruby seems appropriate only because of the color.
Why am I the mother in the story? I see how much my life revolved around creating situations that would appease my abuser while ignoring myself and my needs. An abused child is always at the beck and call of the abuser, there is no time for anything else.
I never told her, but I apologized in my heart for being a bad daughter. Though my mother left us repeatedly (a few days tops) there was a constant threat of being sent to the orphanage where my grandfather grew up. She was neglectful in criminal ways. Abandonment issues are still a huge problem for me. ...continue reading "Thoughts on Tea for Christopher"

My style is to just write and only correct spelling once I've completed it. Even the names of characters are made up as I go. I write until I feel I've released enough.

Content: After reading through it, I realized I'm all the characters, all of them, without exception. The story includes domestic violence, child abuse, the death of a child, blood from an accidental cut on the hand, physical violence towards a male teenage child. No sexual abuse is discussed in this quick write. Spaces are added to distinguish one speaker from another. I used a phrase taken from congressional hearings but left out all other sarcasm or humor.

"Christopher, your father will be here any minute, please set the table. Get his tea cups, please." Christopher rolls his eyes and says, "He''ll be here just a minute?"
"Not now, just finish setting the table, please."

He sighed heavily but very carefully pulled down four small, black Japanese cups with a red flower he couldn't identify. He sat them beside four square black plates and utensils he just figured out how to use. He's frustrated.... no, offended. His father will be home soon so his parents can begin their ritual of pretending to be happy. In the blink of an eye the tide will change from a perfect brew to boiling lava spilling from his mouth burning his mother to the core. She lets him and she won't stick up for her son. Her whole world is a man who comes home angrier each night and stays only to start another war. He leaves the carnage on the floor and goes out for the night.

Christopher's mother begins to bring the meal out to the table but upon seeing the settings she gasps and drops the platter. "Why would you do that? Why are you so cruel to me?"
Christopher feels the weight of what he's done and turns his head away from her. "Do it right and quickly!" she demands, but he's firm in his resolve.
"No. The table is set. You wanted a family dinner and I've set the table for us all."

By the end of her teenage son's sentence she has become a quivering ball of tears. "Why? Why would you do this? I just wanted a nice night for once. Help me clean this mess. Help me get this off the floor before he gets here." Christopher's eyes begin to well with tears, his breath is heavier and his heart has moved to his throat, but he leans next to his mother whose tears now mix with the ruined dish. He cleans the broken glass from the floor. Mother is still crying, heartbroken that she won't get it right, again. She can't seem to do anything right. She's a failure, a disappointment, again. As she hears the same old argument of worthlessness, she notices that Christopher's hand is bleeding. He continued to pick up the pieces one by one, leaving drops behind as a witness to his loyalty, to his love and exasperation for the woman he calls mother.

His mother grabbed his hand and looked at him, "You're bleeding. Honey, you're bleeding. Don't you see?" He dropped his head and shook it in disbelief that she for once saw that he too bleeds. "Christopher, what are you doing, go wash your hands, you're hurt." Christopher pulls back and continues to pick up tiny shards of glass. He pauses and says, "You never make special tea for me."
"What? What are you talking about?" She's confused. I mean my goodness, her husband is going to walk in the house and they'll both be on the floor cleaning up her hundredth failure of the day. Her mind is cluttered, she tries to prioritize. Clean this up, get something else, get a reason for the delay and stay calm.

Christopher places the last of the glass on top of the pile of broken pieces. His hand drips a steady stream and shocks his mother back to the person standing right in front of her. She says nothing this time. Still crying she looks at him bewildered then holds his hand, wiping the blood away with her dress, the one she put on for her husband who will come through that door any minute. She wipes away the blood, but can't stop his steady stream of tears. "What's going on with you? What's all this about? Tell me." ...continue reading "Creative Writing – Tea for Christopher"

1

what I require.
gentle words, soft hands, moss under my feet,
rocks to turn in my palms and run over my fingers.
water to flow and fish to fly
the purr of the cat
and a pillow that doesn't reveal my prayers.


Fish in the air

Fish wish to fly.
They spread their wings in a watery sky.
They dance and dive like sparrows,
hold heat under their wings as an eagle, and
Circle like a crow.
To their dismay, grounded they remain like a laughing, senseless ostrich.

fma

April 21st, 2019 3:20 am EST

That look in your eye and the throbbing vein tells me you're crazy and
you'll find a reason to split my back while you search for the mind you lost.
You're going to break me if it's the last thing you do,
it's all you do.

Blood runs down the streets, in the sewage system, in the pipes, the water fountains, the duck pond.
The wind has again broken my cheap umbrella, turned it inside out
leaving me exposed to red that falls with thunder claps and
warnings from the sky that it's about to get a whole lot worse.
I skip through puddles like when I was a little girl afraid of everything, risking nothing.
Cars pass by and splash blood puddles on my face.
The shock of the heat renders me motionless, only for a moment,
then I walk again
trying to shake off what the sky keeps replacing.

The forecast for tomorrow; O negative with a chance of guilt and shame,
Dowel rods, throbbing veins and a long, long time under your reign.

Robert
October 3, 2016 - 7:13pm EST

Mother, I'm not quite ready to face confrontation.
i just want to see beautiful art that gets my blood flowing more than any pharmaceutical can.
i'm not quite ready to talk about death, loss and anger placed in boxes i've buried across the land.
a physician of the mind can't empty my goblet of sour wine or
sleep in the bed i made.

i want to run
from you.
i want to fracture, bend backwards a little more,
break, fall to pieces.
...continue reading "I’m Not Quite Ready"

Wake her. I can't wake her.
A trance so simple to employ has held her captive these many years.
Wake her. I can't wake her.
Smelling salts, the promise of every good apple,
a song pleasant to the ears,
a hand soft on her face.
I have pledged my life
to pour out water that will move stones
down the mountain of doubt and
build for her a tower where the best sunsets will be captured in her eyes.
I have promised,
still she sleeps.

The Girl Who Lost Her Bird 6 - available
"The Girl Who Lost Her Bird"

The Girl Who Lost Her Bird is in the Art Journal Originals gallery in my Etsy shop. She is also available on Redbubble as a print.

Robert
September 21, 2016

 

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