The Universe, Red Cardinals, and I don't Love Ya!!!!!!!!

*warning: do not read if you are not open minded or do not have a sense of humor, some of the following may be offensive to your religion, or faith*

The universe, red cardinals

and I don’t love ya!!!

Freshly washed hair

Towel on head

Muted Sounds

Nature in pastel colored hymns

Birds, soft piano notes

Wind swishes a hug around my turbaned head

Spilled coffee

Towel is gone now

Hair still wet, I am cold now

Birds, shrilling loudly

Storm came through last night, blew man sized

Tree limbs down across the lane

I wish my towel back

Metal from the chair, my arm rest,

Hurts my elbow

We needed the rain. My Mom would say, “Thank you Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” She never really says “Thank God.” She does say “Thank the Universe.” I think it makes her feel safer, like including everything that is and ever was, but is afraid to commit to the word God. She said this morning she had an epiphany, that God is really the Sun. I told her, “Mom that is just Pagan belief. Like in Mother Earth, and Everything.” She said, “No, I really think it is not a he or she and that God is really the sun.”  Her saying that is like we are back living in the age of hieroglyphs or cave paintings and grunting our words like Morse cord. She is sincere. She is very aware, and in tuned with things, but sometimes way out there. But I like her that way. I was talking to her on the phone when a red cardinal flew towards her window and almost hit it. She was excited because she thinks her mother, my Grandmother sends a sign from Heaven, or wherever, The Universe, (my mom would say) because she has passed on, she sends a sign that is a red cardinal, because she loved birds, and cardinals especially. So that was my Mawmaw saying “Hello”, and getting into our conversation. She, my Mom, tried to leave a message on my Facebook page but wasn’t sure if it was my page or someone else. I don’t know why it’s confusing. I wonder if it’s more that her body has only so much give left in it and she gets tired, or frustrated, or her body hurts, and maybe she loses patience. Her body does hurt. She has fibromyalgia, which is a strange disease, or disorder, or thing that means her body gets tired, and hurts all over, and her brain gets foggy. Mine does too but it’s a different thing. 

I consider myself a Christian Agnostic. There. I am outed. I have said and you have read it here. I think I can be both, I know I can be because I am. I cannot commit to being ‘born again’ if it means I cannot be in a place where my Mom is when I die. I love her too much for that. Or my other pagan friends. Or family members. I feel that I can be Christian because I do have Jesus in my heart. I talk to him all the time and God too. But I don’t know about all the other religions, and I don’t want to condemn them because they haven’t said a phrase to make them go to a Heaven instead they go to a place and suffer for eternity. I know God is the ultimate judge, but there is too many inconsistencies with the ‘born again’ Christian religion, and it makes me feel like I am boxed in. And that others are boxed out. I do believe in Jesus, I love him, I think he was a funky hippie guy, He was an illusionist, and magician, and he just loved everybody. But here’s the way out there thing I’m thinking, don’t judge me for it, it’s just a thought. What if Jesus was everywhere at all times, if time is simultaneous and he was Buddha, and he was some other God also in another time, and another place, and her too, why not? But the agnostic part means simply I do not know. I will not know until I die, and hopefully I will know then. I wish to remember, if we do go at it again in another life, trying to be our most ultimate selves, the best of humanity, sort of karma-ish but without the bad stuff. The bad stuff just swallowing back into itself like a black hole, no eye for an eye. I don’t like that. I don’t believe in a Devil. I do believe in hell, but of the personal kind, the one here on Earth, the disorders, and diseased minds, This blog entry wasn’t supposed to be about heavy stuff, and religion, but it goes where it goes. So don’t bible thump me, don’t throw stones, or paint a scarlet letter on me, don’t  turn me to ash, don’t hate or judge me because I am real, and I am sincere, and I don’t wish anyone harm. I wish there wasn’t hate. But there is, and I will expound on that later, in fact that is part of, or some part of how all of this relates.

I am outside

No longer Alone

My youngest comes out

With her dimpled smile

And ready mind

She stables me

Not like an animal

Puts the blanket on me

Fluffs up the pillows

 Tells me she loves me

Before I have a chance to tell her first

This is what she says, my eight year old

Daughter, Raimey,

“Mom. Did you know that thirty ants can carry a whole watermelon? The whole watermelon. One L. Not two. And they have to be really strong ants, really strong.”

I say back to her, “And what else do you know?”

She replies, “Eighty hairs fall off the human head every day. When you brush. Or sometimes when you’re running sometimes the hairs can fall off. And when you are brushing, but you have to find a good brush. A smooth brush. But they can take a lot of hair out of your head. You can see it in the brush. I learned that from TV, because sometimes TV can make your brain rotten, but sometimes commercials can make you learn stuff.”

“What Stuff?” I ask.

She says back,

“Somewhere in L.A., I don’t know where that is, but like there’s this Friends For Change thing and what that means is that everybody is running and doing races, trying to get active, and go on big hamster wheels from strong boy parents who build them, they run about twenty seconds, I guess. You don’t want to change your style. You want to change by being active, run, throw a Frisbee, play football, it’s hard to describe. To be healthy.”  

Then she whispers to me in my ear,

“I see a red bird. I love red birds.”

Maybe she is her great grandmother’s daughter. Or rather like her I mean, because she is. And what things do we inherently get from our genetics? Can it be likes, and dislikes, and personal pet-peeves, or the way we walk, or laugh? Even if we have never met that person that is in our gene pool? I think so.

She tells me more of what she knows, my daughter, Raimey,

“Ladybugs. Their colors. Most of the colors that are seen are orange sometimes, and red. Usually red. Orange because they have been in the sun too long and they’ll dry out.”

I asked her what else she knows.

She said, “A whole lot, but just not much.”

She also said that she can whistle but her older sister cannot.
 I told her that I can whistle and my older sister can’t either. And she’s 47.

She, my daughter, Raimey, can also pick up a whole jug of milk just with her pinky finger, and that baffles her. She wonders why she can do that.

My oldest son

First born with sixteen years

Of Life behind him

Heads out to his first job today

Breaking down a deck

Has to find a crowbar and hammer

But does not know what a crowbar is

The heat is almost unbearable

A black hat to wear to keep the sun off

His face, I find for him

He turns it backwards

Wants to spray paint it all black

Thinks it will be sick, like a trucker hat

Brings Axe body spray in case he stinks

After he works

His Dad, just awoken

Tells him that is stupid

Give him a hug, I say back

They hug, half way

With a pat, and one shoulder

Not committing to the actual hug

The full body kind

I see you; I love you, just as you are

Kind of hug

I don’t like to be patted when I’m hugged. I don’t turn away first. I am aware of the comfort level of the person I hug. I remember my first hug with a friend I had just met, when we moved here to North Carolina. Amy Wallace. She and I are both sensitive, empathetic people. Both also very loving, and aware of the other person we are with, connected I guess. We had spent time together and were leaving, and saying goodbye and both wanted to hug each other but we both didn’t know if the other would be comfortable with that. And so we did. And we laughed. And it was awkward, but not. I full body hug her now of course, we’ve been friends for goodness, how long, ten years I guess. Maybe eight. She would know. A long time. I full body hug anyone I hug. I don’t pat. Please don’t pat me either. Also, what I really want to say here, and I really want you to hear, if anyone out there is reading this. Please don’t ever write, or text, or say in any form of communication there is to me, “Love Ya.” I hate that. I was banned from saying hate as a child by my Mom. I don’t know why. It’s negative, or it shuts down possibilities for growth, for change, for open thinking. But I really and truly hate someone saying “Love Ya.” It’s noncommittal. It means I love you but I’m not going to say I love you because I feel awkward, or I want to be informal, or I just like you, or I will not go all the way and actually say, “I love you.” It can be said to anyone, and it means nothing. To me anyway. So please, please, please, if you, my friend, or family member are reading this. Please don’t say “love ya” to me.

Please either do the xxxx’s and oooo’s thing or go all the way and say you love me. You. Not Ya. Thank you.

And I love you, dear reader, if you have read all the way to the end of this. If not, that’s okay. This blog is a purging of my thoughts, and a way to quiet the endless internal dialogue. I give myself permission, my brain to move, and be active, and then it’s time for my body to do the same.

 So goodbye.

 And ….

“I LOVE YOU.”

MY Eulogy (and the turkey buzzard)

My Eulogy

Early morning.

Not so early, around 9 am.

Still early for me, for my brain and body to be in sync.

I have to run to the store for contraband.

It will not hurt any others, only myself.

More on that later.

 I ask the kids, “What do you want from the store?”

My two girls respond, “Yoo-hoos please!”

The drinks will have high fructose corn syrup, and coloring, and flavoring, and possibly only an ounce of milk in them from abused and mistreated cows.

My third child is not awake, but I know what he will want.

Gatorade. Or possibly Powerade.

Both are bad, and chock full of electrolytes, and salt, and I don’t know what else because I haven’t read the label, but I know it’s only good for someone who has either ran a marathon, or 5k, or is a construction worker in the heat of summer.

Someone that has sweated a lot.

I will get the blue color. Blue because it is probably everyone’s favorite color, though I have not googled that or polled anyone.

The second most favorite color I think is green.

(Tell me dear reader if your favorite color is neither, I’d love to know.)

Blue for the sky. Green for Spring, for growth, money, for the land to finally have color after a black, white, and gray winter, the snow being white.

Snow which we don’t have here, Coastal NC, except the last two years we have had enough flurries to cover the ground.

This year, and last have had extreme weather conditions, no matter what Season.

The tsunamis, tornados, flooding, drought. Did I miss anything?

 Right now it is the drought.

We and most of the eastern part of the states are in a drought.

Might be more, but I haven’t watched the news in a really long time.

I just don’t.

Too many channels, too many controls to work either satellite or cable, and kids hoarding the TV and gorging out on it like it’s a mind fest, but not in a good way.

 I wonder if it kills their brain cells to watch such stupid things.

No rain.

When it should be raining every afternoon. Just a sprinkle even.

The meteorologists say for our area, I hear it on the radio, because as I said I don’t watch TV, they say we have a 30% chance of rain each day.

Them with their superior degrees and years of pointing at the blue screen which to us looks like a map.

They know that 30% covers their bumpkins.

They, those meteorologists, haven’t the foggiest. (Isn’t that a good pun?)

They have no idea because the grass is brown when it should be a vibrant green.

Even the crabgrass is pissed off.

You know how hard it is to kill. I will not let my husband kill it with chemicals because everything will be brown.

We had only three wishes this year with the wish flowers.

The dandelions.

The yellow weed flowers that a lot of people hate because they can take over their nice green pampered lawn. They multiply and populate like crazy when you blow their seeds. There were not a lot of them this year, which tells you that it’s so dry that our whole eco system is really confused.

So, I wet my hair.

In some form of obedience.

But it’s too short. Looks wrong. Parting in no particular way.

Wet on top of my plain unmade up face.

The lines are there.

The skin with scars from the early years of hormones and popping.

Discolored ‘melasma’ I am told, above my lip a brown splotching.

From the sun the dermatologist says.

But I haven’t been in the sun.

 I feel like a woman who has a mustache made of brown colored squares above her lip, fading together to give emphasis that is unsightly.

 I am told, by friends, that it is hardly noticeable.

This can be kindness on their part.

Or it can be me staring at my very magnified, lighted mirror, staring at all the blemishes, and marks, and eyebrows.

I don’t own a scale. I will not. Because then I will be hyper focused on my weight.

My clothes fit fine.

 I have big clavicles, shoulder bones.

They jut out. Small breasted.

I am exactly the weight I need to be.

Hyper focused.

I do that a lot, with different things.

“Don’t bite your nails,” my ten your old daughter says.

“Don’t suck your thumb”, I reply back to her.

I am not biting them, I am chewing at the dry skin cuticles.

I am outside.

Different birds are chirping, cicadas buzzing their loud beat, windchimes softly singing in the gentle breeze. Thunder rumbling way out in the distance, hardly heard, but I hear it, and I know that it is a farce. It has no promise for my grass, or flowers.

The wind blows harder, blowing this sheet that I am hand writing on.

The pink plastic flamingo is dancing side to side. His name is Fred. The girls love him. My sixteen year old said not to buy him, that it is a redneck thing to go in the yard.

So Fred has his own place among the pink flowers in the back yard.

I still want a troll, but in the stores they are expensive and made of colored plastic.

I saw my first basement when I was nineteen. Where I lived there was no way to construct a house with a basement, we were at water level, in Louisiana. Still is.

I wet my hair down, threw on a pair of jeans and t-shirt with a cotton running bra, because I cannot find my good one in the 6 baskets full of clean laundry.

Nor do I want to start looking.

It only frustrates me and gets me angry.

Didn’t brush my teeth. Gross, I know.

Old white t-shirt, flip flops.

Got into the car. My big yellow car.

Drove down my long driveway, stopped at the end of it, looked left, right, then turned left when the way was clear, onto the road.

Less than a mile down there was a turkey buzzard chewing on the contrails of something foreign, which lived once.

Maybe a cat, a raccoon, parts of a deer.

Decomposed and only bits left.

The turkey buzzard. with his bubbly red pockmarked face, and beady eyes,

Hated because he survives on the death of others. But created to do so,

As many others animals do. Hated because he is so ugly.

I swerved into the other lane.

I missed the oncoming truck, that was coming my way quickly.

Both of us going about 60 miles an hour.

It would’ve been a head on collision.

Not good. Bad. Bad as in dead. Deadly bad.

My life did not flash as they say in front of me.

But I did think of what others might say at my funeral.

They would say,

“She would never hurt a soul, not even kill a fly.”

Or a turkey buzzard feasting on the dead.

In my Eulogy

I would like people to say:

Raelyn Jean Sellers Oliver ………

She was an avid four leaf clover finder at one time in her life.

When the waitress asked what she wanted, she said, “Tuna,”

Instead of "turkey" and got very upset when served.

It was hard for her to pay bills on time, and remember appointments, and balance the checkbook.

She got nervous when the phone rang, or if someone was knocking at the door.

She talked to the local Jehovah Witnesses on her front porch for four years before she had the courage to tell them that she had her own religion and to please not come back.

She wanted an Austrian crystal round ball to hang in every window of the house, for rainbows to appear when the sunlight would shine through.

She wanted long hair, but didn't have the patience to grow it.

The sound of the vacuum, and the smell of gasoline gave her a sense of peace.

She wanted to be better at her photography, but didn't have the patience to read the manual.

Just to capture a water drop from the sink, or some child's eye that is focused above so intently, their eye sparkling, a mirror to others.

She wanted to be able to catch that with her camera.

She made a difference in this world, even though she didn't believe she did as she lived.
She was beautiful but didn't know it.

She wanted peace in the home, and peace in the world.

She forgot things. She forgot a lot of things.

But she never forgot a friend, or a family member.

They were always there in the back of her mind, even if she didn’t pick up the phone or take the time to call or visit.

Her friends and family. those she loved most,

they were part of her heart, and she was part of theirs.

So as she has gone on to a higher place,

parts of her will remain in the hearts of those she loved, and those that loved her.

And she wants you to know that every person, and every animal, has a purpose.

crocodiles, flies, hawks, and YES,

even the turkey buzzard.

..... i drink from the sink

i don't know how to make my way around this blog thing. i can't find a search thing. my background is blah. there are so many out there that are way way way more digitally crafty than moi. why is there not an easier way? how can i hook up w/ other bloggers like myself? and what would like myself mean? confused, hence the name of the blog for one thing. and i did it to myself. i wrote the, "for one thing," in a sentence, like now i am commited to writing a whole list, which in fact i had no intention of doing in the first place. and guess what? there is no second place, or third, or fourth. like me? what would that be? silly, annoyed right because the phone rang and i answered "hello?", and i heard nothing so i hung up and it's ringing again. i don't like the phone ringing. it interrupts whatever i'm doing, which right now is writing what kind of person i am. which is...what?! right now my hair is too short. it doesn't define me. i am beyond being vain because i'm too old to care, or try to be something i'm not, which is sexy. i'm earthy. but i still wish i had the patience to grow my hair out long. i think that would be more me. i have trouble with using the words then, and than. i have no trouble with your or you're. i get that. if my hair was long it would represent me better, it would say that i am not trying to be anything, i am just. my short hair says either "I don't care anymore," or "I'm trendy", which I am very much not. i like jeans and a t-shirt. The American and possibly world-wide acceptable form of dress. I will get no readers from this, and maybe that is okay because I am intimidated by the amount of extraordinary talented blogs there are out there. i just want to be heard i think. even if i have nothing to say. that validation of being or feeling small, like your existence is neither finite or infinite, as if it you may or may not be here and life goes on. i am not that type of person to think such poor me things. spontaneous. that's me. spur of the moment, let's do this thing kind of person. I blog therefore I am. How many times has that one been used before. We all want to be heard or seen, for our existence to matter, to have some significance beyond, in my case, being a child-bearer, and having my lineage go on, even if it's in my married name. i want to make a difference of course. i'm not sure what kind of difference, obviously a good one. who will find me when they press the next blog link? am i even on there? cherries. fish bait. fish bait that is of the squishy plastic blue glitter kind. just to feel it between my fingers and smell the plastic. my trash is overflowing. my cup, not so much. i keep having to feel it. that might be because the bubbles from the diet coke keep taking up space at the top. i know it is unhealthy. i know it destroys your bones. the carbonation i think. and the artificial sweetener. i use the new green kind of packets for my coffee. what's the name? i'm going to have to get up off of this chair to go and see what it is named, even though i use it every day. there is a curse against me regarding buying and operating, and keeping functional- coffee pots. i have tried the glass carafe. broke it. the metal carafe, stopped worked. the coffee machine without a carafe, no luck there either, stopped working within 6 months. is it the well water? i drink from the sink. i don't know what hidden particles and minerals are in there, but i know they turn the bath tub orange. i have a claw foot tub. the porcelain gets warm as the water rises. it takes a while to fill up. why would minerals in a well kill a coffee pot? what hidden evils are in there? am i drinking it? has it caused my past year of weird symptomatic body issues? i haven't taken as many pain pills today as i usually do. i am not a druggie. i appreciate being pain free, however. it is a nicer existence. something to do with the thyroid. i will not know until july 26. i have done nothing today. i created a poem, and outed myself as having ADD, and i feel stupid now. like no one needs to know that. no one needs to know where your inspiration comes from. or why you are so creative, and artsy. i prefer the word artsy over arty. arty sounds like a cartoon character's name. no one will read this. my eyeglasses are broken. one, what is it called, ear piece i think broke off in a hotel one day while on vacation. i don't know where the ear piece is now. i have a string tied to it. my 10 year old daughter fixed it for me. its sideways but still functional. they have watched tv all day. i should feel guilty. but i tell myself that it is okay. but i want to make my body fly just as my mind does. i want to be SuperWoman with her really long brown hair and her cape that she can toss for emphasis. people would listen. they would see. not people really, my children. i used to be a better mother when they were younger. they played with toys. i made things with them. they are older now and just as content to sit in front of the television. i am not a good Mom. not in that way. I need to be better. i am inconsistent. do you see that sometimes I capitalize the i and sometimes I don't? details. i notice them. i don't know why others don't, or aren't as bothered by them as i am. don't tap your fingers repetitively, please. my mom hated us to drag our feet. it was a sign of disrespect somehow. i'm not sure how. is it because the feet draggers don't take the time to actually pick their feet up as they walk, which implies laziness, and furthermore the meaning "i don't have to do what you say but i will, and as i will, i will drag my feet." it's like the saying goes, "drag your feet." it means take too long to do something. but what if too long means it will be a better thing, a superior outcome, instead of just slapping something together. in a timeframe. we all have different time frames. my husband will be home soon. he will see that i have done nothing. i am in my pajamas. but i did take a bath. i will tell him i am wearing these pajamas because the cotton is very soft and tissue thin, and gives where i need it to. i will be telling the truth. bubbles. they pop and then all is lost. but its in that second that they are round and rainbows are captured within that is so spectacularly beautiful. i wish for a macro lens. i wish for osmosis, so that i can put someone's talent in book form under my pillow as i sleep and i can do wondrous things, like capture the water as it drops from the sink. i told you already. i drink from the sink.

The ADHD Brain (An Allegory Poem)

Misfired Faeries

Unable to fly, their wings painful

In Purity, the whole spectrum

A miniscule universe carefully painted

On each petal sized wing

The normal person

Cannot see, nor comprehend how hard they try

They are not believed in

Misfired faeries

Unable to fly, time and time again

They try

 Make it halfway, their wings fail

Flat, stale, and forgotten

They fall short

Wings flutter sadly, slowly, then fast again

But nothing propels them upward

Misfired, like a Fourth of July firework

Lit with excitement, anticipation, glowing at first

Then nothing, stuttering out

How can you know how delicate they are

The words do not come

If you were to believe in them, I would tell you

Their plight is a long one, a life time

Every flutter of the way is stronger than any other

They try harder, each an Olympian feat

Yet without any medals

They are not like you

With your mind that completes each thought of

A sentence, each word flying out of your mouth

Without effort

If they could talk, it would be disjointed

Like their broken flight, cloudy language

Every syllable backwards, or with the wrong letter, or word

If you believed in them, I would tell you

They have wings like any other, but they were made

In a different way, to stay on the ground,

But not still

The misfired Faeries

Do not know yet that they

Are the balance

That life

 is a circle that they complete

Staying on the ground to help others lift off,

To make a new way to fly

A completely new way, so far

Unthought-of



A Birth Blessing

This was a poem I wrote for my friend Erin who is expecting, in fact she has less than two weeks until her due date. I don't know if you've ever attended a 'birth blessing' but if you haven't, its a really awesome thing. It is all about pampering the mother, and connection, and positive energy. We henna painted a design she chose on her belly, made a crown of flowers for her to wear, washed and massaged her legs, feet, arms, neck, and head. We brought a bead for each one of our children and strung it together as a necklace for her to wear. We were all tied together with red string around our left wrists and then cut apart. We gave her an item to focus on, or use when she is in labor. Someone brought a plain old gray rock with black sharpie marker words written on it: "You Rock". All of us were given a candle to light when she goes into labor. Did I mention she will have this baby at home with a midwife and doula? Yes, she is just cool like that. And pretty amazing. But anyway, I had not written in a really long time, any poetry, so I wanted to post it here. We were also asked to bring something written for inspiration, or something of meaning, that's why I wrote the poem. Tell me what you think.

A Birth Blessing

Bountiful,

Her body grows

To make space

Others see

That there is more

Of her

Tissues, particles, pieces

Little molecules dancing around

Coming together

In the center, as if

She

Is the celebration

The Maypole

A beating heart

Two beautiful hands

Neither masculine nor feminine

Veins intertwined, pulsating

A history only the body knows

Hands ready to receive, to clutch

Tiny doll like fingers of wonder

Strong capable arms

With a story to tell as well

Strength, a birth right

But earned

Through an internal war, and years

Of battle until the white flag

Went up, and with that

Acceptance,

And finally love

Within and without

Connection

Love that has no boundaries

Limitless, she gives

To her friends, family, children,

And the next one to be

Embraces

Life with her whole being,

She gives more

Than she has to

And the way she laughs

Head thrown back

Smiles in silence

With her eyes

She walks with her head

And mind

Before her body

Can even catch up

She is right armed and hip ready

In a child’s minute

To pick up the pieces

Mend hearts

Make each moment right

And each child whole

Emerging

One within

Will soon be

Ready for holding

To be held close

At her bosom

To be stroked on the cheek

And soft fuzzy head

Fingers held while nursed

And loved to being

A bountiful, embraced connection

An emerging love

This is her scrubbing her belly before

the henna belly tattoo was painted on