Friday, July 29, 2011

Ten Things That Make Me Smile

Simplicity for simplicity's sake

Birthday dinners (yesterday was my husband's birthday)


Veggie Tales

Non-lick envelopes

Relief after a heavy sneezing session

People asking if you're ok

Masking Tape for garage sales

Grapefruit juice and how it makes me pucker

Finding that one, special book in a bookstore that you were meant to take home with you

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Ten Things That Make Me Smile

Birthdays (my hubby's)

Little accordions

Finding a sunset and watching the whole thing

Stealing a hug, a kiss, and a nose rub

Friendship, even when it hurts

Got MRI reports


Pictures of joys


The moment the AC blows cool air on a hot day after getting into my hot car.

And an image that makes me smile:

Monday, July 25, 2011

Ten Things That Make Me Smile


Rosary beads when they click

Tortilla chips

Bills paid on time

Fuzzy socks

A good book mark

Typing after trimming my fingernails. Feeling the keyboard is a good thing :-)

Kind words

The Hairbrush song from VeggieTales

Carved canes and walking sticks

Monday, July 18, 2011

Hands: A Preview

I am of the earth but I do not remember being a part of it, for I awoke one day as a block of clay, as I am now. I am happy to be a block of clay. I am whole. I am solid. I am firm. I know what I am, and I am content with my lot. I have been dug out of the earth to breathe the air and exist in the dark, quiet room.

Light floods my eyes. It is the first time I have seen. His hands are on me, taking me to a place do not know, and I am afraid. I cannot keep my eyes open, for there is too much light at first. At first.

At first, I panic.

"Where are you taking me, Hands?"

His hands do not speak. Instead, they hold me.

We travel together to a different place. It is another one I do not know. It is dimmer here. It is fresh here. It is clean here, but it smells of me. Of clay.

I am afraid.

"Hands, what is this place?"

His hands do not speak.

I am being violated now. His hands touch me. Everywhere. Water bathes me, and I am slimy, filthy, and not myself. I am being handled, smoothed, and cut.

"Hands, please don't do this."

His hands do not speak.

"Oh, no. No. Not the wire. Do not cut me with the wire. I will do whatever you ask, Hands, but please do not cut me again with that horrible wire."

His hands do not speak.

I am cut into pieces with the wire until I am but a fraction of what I once was. I hate the Hands for hurting me.


His hands take me to the center of the room. I am again violated. I am spun until I am so dizzy that I cannot focus on anything.

"Hands, why are you doing this to me?"

Rather than being solid and firm, I am now hollowed out. His hands have touched every part of me, and I am sure the Hands are finished abusing me.

"Hands, what is that metal thing?"

His hands do not speak.

Unlike the wire, this metal does not slice through me completely, but it might as well. His Hands dig the metal into the outside of me, the entire outside of me, until I can stand it no longer.

"Hands, please don't do this any longer. This metal..."

I pause because he is hurting me so badly with the metal that I have a difficult time speaking.

"This metal that you dig into my sides is unbearable. I do not bleed, for I am Clay, but if I could bleed from this, I would surely have no blood left from all that you are doing to me. Why are you digging these hurtful scars into my sides? Don't you care that you're hurting me?"

His Hands speak. "Patience. I am almost finished with this part."

I cry out, unable to take anymore. His hands have a voice, yet he has been silent as I have begged him to stop hurting me? How could the Hands listen to me and say nothing all this time?

"With this part? Hands, tell me. Please tell me that you don't mean to hurt me any longer." There cannot be another part. I cannot bear there to be another part. I don't understand how the Hands can willfully continue to hurt me. I hate his Hands for hurting me.


His Hands finish with the metal scarring tool. They now paint me from top to bottom and then also on the inside where I have been hollowed. The brush tickles while it is inside my hollowed part. When it is on the outside and painting many colors onto my sides, I do not feel the brush. When the paint seeps into where I have fresh scars, I cry out. The paint burns me.

"Hands, please stop painting. Don't you realize how badly I am hurting? If you understood, surely you wouldn't continue to do these things to me."

His hands do not speak.

"Why aren't you answering me, Hands? I'm speaking to you. I know you can hear me and that you can answer me."
I hate the Hands for hurting me, but I hate them more for staying silent when I know they can speak and at least explain why they are hurting me.

His hands dip a new brush into another color and continue painting me. One of the Hands holds onto and caresses me lightly inside, where I am hollowed. Where the Hand holds me, the paint smudges a little. The other one of the Hands holds the brush and paints the new color on my outside.

His Hands are finished with the brush and paint. Finally, I am finished.

But I am wrong. I am far from finished.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Ten Things That Make Me Smile

Not having to dip feathers into ink in order to be able to write

Remembering that there are things I can do that one day I may not be able to do

The scent of gunpowder after fireworks explode


Severing ties to people who behave routinely in negative ways

Playing favorites. My hubby is my favorite for sure :-)

The shiver after eating unsweetened grapefruit

Wondering what a handwriting expert would say about my script

Hot air balloons

Finger puppets