Peace

Peace is there

There in the light

Don’t be afraid

As it’s beauty fades

Peace is not stagnant

It moves and breathes

With us, in us

We are made in peace

We have only to remember

Each Day

Each day

Begin again

Like new light on water

Every moment changing

But ever present

Ever present light like hope

May you see it

May you feel it

May you be it

May we all be it

Going forward

Each new day made anew for good works

Journeying to Possibility

A long road to Possibility has been my journey. While my upbringing was filled with love, it was also marked with struggles in perceptions with lots of stories of mixed messaging, mistruths, diversions, deceptions, demonstrations of disappointment and setbacks.

All my life it seems a deep sadness tried to get a fix on me. It didn’t feel like me, but what was it? Now I know I’m sensitive, intuitive, even many times psychically in tune with people I care about. I wish I’d known and understood at a younger age how this affected me, but I’m good with it now. I was sensitive especially to my mother and her issues and problems. (Of course this colored the story which seemed to write itself to the page in my novels.)

I know we do not exist separately. All of life is connected. No coincidences. Only mysteries and miracles.

I didn’t always believe in miracles. Not the kind we can access. They seemed to be doled our selectively if not randomly. I did not believe we could have them personally, even create them?

Why didn’t we talk of miracles

Let them into our minds, our words

Was it so hard to believe in possibilities?

Why didn’t we dare into the unspoken? Too sweet to savor and likely to sour?

Why didn’t we think something different could happen?

Why did it take so long to discover the truth: goodness grows in our garden hearts. We are the cultivators. Not that forces don’t press upon us, but we can mitigate damages. We can visualize positive outcomes even if we don’t know how to get to them!

Why couldn’t I persuade you to believe truths I was yet to know?

I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you up. I hadn’t yet risen. Maybe you bring me up now to where you are. Maybe you send glimpses of grandness…

Maybe it was you all along bringing me on your silent journey…I just didn’t understand the language…

So thankful for my life’s journeying to possibility and the surprising connections I find! Here’s a good one which happened along right after I wrote the above piece:

http://carolcassara.com/vision/

Do you believe in miracles? Tell me about the miracles you’ve experienced!

Somewhere Rainbows

Rainbows are made in light. The fleeting arc of color causes us to take notice, stop what we’re doing, wait and watch the shimmering show. Precious finite glimpses of gorgeousness. Rainbows are the stuff of misty dreams and hopes eternal.

 

 

I doubt my mother ever heard Eva Cassidy sing, but she would have loved this. She adored every version she ever heard of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

Mom was a dreamer, an artist. She loved sewing, painting, and so many more crafts! She could do anything! At least she tried! But she also struggled with years and years of physical ailments finally diagnosed as Lupus. Still, she was one of the lucky ones – she lived with it until her kidneys failed and a heart attack took her at the holidays fifteen years ago. She was 67. So unfair! Eva Cassidy was a gifted singer/songwriter. She died in 1996 of Melanoma. She was 33. Eva had less than half the years my mom had. More unfair!

So much of life – and death – is senseless, confusing, heart wrenching.

And yet, there are wonders: after darkness, there is light: after heartbreak, there are sweet memories; after the storm, there are rainbows.

I was sad after my mom passed. Even though I knew the loss was coming. Even though I didn’t want her to keep going through dialysis which she said was stealing her brain. After each session, she’d have most of a day of some normalcy when she could think and remember her feelings and what she wanted and actually do a thing or two. And then the toxins in her blood would build up and she’d be tired and it would be time for another session. There was no going back. But I wanted to keep her with me. I wanted to keep her soft hugs coming.

Looking back on a million memories of her, I smile. And I know she’s with us. After taking her ashes to her favorite beach, as we turned to leave, a double rainbow arced directly over our hotel.

Where do ideas come from?

Where do ideas come from? Many have said my writing is interesting. How do my ideas come?

They spring from my mind in strange ways!

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. Indigestion. Something I struggle with way too often. I turned on the television, went through the program guide. Stopped on a sappy Hallmark Christmas movie. There were many commercials. And the story was lame. But it crossed my mind suddenly, “Mom loved these movies!” And at that instant, in the movie, the characters started talking to a horse named George. My attention riveted. My mom’s name was Georgia.

I simply had to say, “Hi, mom!”

Eleven years ago during the holidays, as my mom lay dying, I held her hand and watched an old movie late into the night. I don’t know if I will ever remember the name of the movie. It might have been a western. Maybe it was in black and white. I talked to her a little. We waited it out – the end of the movie, the last of her breaths. The scenes in my mind have no color. Light was dimmed. Emotions were damped down, quiet like the sound on the television. The opposite of the holidays Mom loved.

It is with her blessing I can laugh at sappy holiday movies, and feel her with me. And what I take away is hope. I know there is continuity of life. I know spirit lives. Our lives are entwined beyond what we can explain. Love connects us across time and distance. Ideas are gifts.