Tears

To me, tears are not a language.

Tears come from a place, where language is insufficient.

Language crumbles, under the pressure, of the depths of the oceans of my heart.

Tears are fearless…falling, where no language dare compare.

If this is true…why does crying seem to bring to me, a feeling of stupidity & weakness?

The battles that I fight with myself, are by far, the most exhausting…

I miss you...

Bumble bees are pretty things, trees that whisper & a bird that sings.

Mountains topped with sparkly snow, red lady bugs & cheeks aglow.

Little kisses & secret wishes, sugar cookies on delicate dishes.

Little girls with two pig tails, wooded paths & flowery trails.

Warm mittens made with love, a fire place & a roof above.

Smell of earth in spring, a wild bouquet & a diamond ring.

Cricket’s call in darkest night, prickly pine cones & a humming bird’s flight.

Brightly colored lollipops, chocolate drops & cold cans of soda pop.

Hidden everywhere, are treasures to enjoy…things to smile about.

Everything I see, was meant to be shared with you.

I miss you...

Lyrics~Favorite things

I LOVE MARIA...


Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favorite things

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Once upon a time...Part 2~AC

Uhm... Before we continue talking, I think there's something I should
tell you.


I find myself taking quite a liking to you.

In fact, I can't seem to stop writing you, neither do I wish to; and
your emails are the first thing I look for in the morning when I wake up.

Honestly, I'm not really sure how to proceed.

I look for a capability of abstract thought. I look for life on the inside; someone who thinks a great deal more than she says to people around her.

All I'm saying here is that to me, you look like an opera-loving,
hamburger-liking, down-to-earth curious kind of a girl, and I don't mind at all.

I must say I had a great time talking to you last night.

And when I talked to you, I realized that this is the first time that I'm actually speaking, one on one, with a 100% American woman.

And if maybe you had closets full of shoes, but, the more we talked, the better I felt about it.

If the voice is all wrong, that is such a deal-breaker for me, for instance. Maybe it's my musical ear, I don't know. But I liked yours.

I'm shaking my head in disbelief. It's surreal. And yet - correct me if I'm wrong - there seems to be a plan underlying everything here. This feels like yet another step - albeit a rather annoying one - in whatever spiritual path we're on...



And yet, I do miss you... Actually, I'm not sure what to do with myself now that we keep this radio silence.

I think you have an excellent knack for turning my heart into mush.

I hope the 13th will go as planned... there are things to say.

I try to see the world through your eyes a little. My only regret is that I am able to do so little for you. Incidentally, I miss you.

Many times I've been on walks in the darkness of cold and dreary evenings, looking into people's lit-up kitchens and living rooms, wondering what it would be like to be inside, having a family, in the warmth and coziness of such beautiful homes. I see flowers in the windows, a person here and there behind pretty, neat curtains, and my heart grows sick, yearning for a place to call home.

I've had this thought in my mind all day -
that I find your soul to be amazingly beautiful; and I dearly, dearly hope, that the Little Match Girl inside of you will find all her dreams to come true. I know how she feels.

Thus, here we stand. This is new ground, admittingly, where I haven't trodden before. The grass seems fresh.




Tipperary has become symbolic of love, hope, the dream of sharing my life with someone, whatever you call it. To look someone deeply in the eyes and run my fingers through her hair; listening to the soft, still breathing of someone near...

What did you really mean with that August Rush symphony -
because when I listened to it I had the most extraordinary feeling of being connected to your heart.

I'll be waiting for your letter...

Well, here is a pretty, casual, down-to-earth American girl who seems to be deeply spiritual, loves opera, hamburgers and office supplies, who is a republican and owns a rifle, and yet is an incurable romantic, writing poetry, painting, who reads 19th century literature for love of the language…

Hey, on a side note... You said something about "try cross the ocean and see what happens then" ... what do you think about that?



P.S. I’m not in love with Sandra Bullock.

Color Struck

Recently, I’ve added two new colors to my list of favorites. They are “Falu red” & what I have determined is a sort of golden mustard yellow, which I have lovingly named, "Simply Swedish Yellow.” These charming discoveries happened during my first trip to Sweden, this past January & February. It is the first trip of many, I believe. Sweden has totally captured my heart, made an indelible impression upon my soul & I’ll just not be able to stay away.


While in Sweden, so many that I had an occasion to speak with would invariably ask, “What do you observe that is different here, than in the States?” Since color is on my mind, I'm going to skip over the differences in culture, people, politics & religion...if you don't mind. And to me, the landscape of Sweden seemed very similar to parts of Northern New England. There were trees, rocks & water, just like in Maine, Rhode Island, New Hampshire & even Vermont. However, esthetically the colors used in architecture are very different there. The three most prevalent colors are white, red & yellow. Light blue was also readily seen, but not nearly as often as the previous three.


In the United States, things seem somehow to be brighter or bolder in color. The white is whiter, the yellow looks like a rubber duck & the red…well, its just bright red. In Sweden, I noticed that the same tones were being used in especially the red hue. The kind of yellow used, was pretty much standard too. Here in the USA, we must want to be noticed more. Our colors stand out just like our highway billboards, which are also almost non-existent in Sweden.
While talking about these observations, I was told about the copper mine at Falun in Dalarna, Sweden. This copper was used in mixtures for the painting of buildings. It has apparently influenced more than just the financing of wars during the 17th century. I’m not entirely sure why, but the fact that a copper mine, would actually influence the color of Sweden’s architecture, even to this day, fascinates me to no end! This mine was in operation from possibly the 10th century, right up until 1992. Now it's been preserved as The Great Copper Mountain Unesco world heritage site, as well as a museum.

Further fascinating, is that there’s even a recipe for this paint that was changed through the years, but was solidified in the 1920’s…very cool.



Wiki states, “… Swedish Falu rödfärg is the name of a Swedish, deep red paint well known for its use on wooden cottages and barns. The paint originated from the copper mine at Falun in Dalarna, Sweden. The traditional colour remains popular today due to its effectiveness in preserving wood. The earliest evidence of its use dates from the 16th century. During the 17th century Falu red was commonly used on smaller wooden mansions, where it was intended to imitate buildings with brick facing. Except in bigger cities like Stockholm and Gothenburg, and in the far south of Sweden, wood was the dominating building material. In the Swedish cities and towns, buildings were often painted with the Falu red until the early 19th century, when the authorities began to oppose the paint. At this point in time more and more wooden buildings in urban areas were either painted in lighter colours (e.g. yellow, white) or sided with stucco. The number of buildings made of bricks (with stucco) also increased. However the Falu red saw a surge in popularity in the countryside during the 19th century, when also poorer farmers and crofters began to paint their houses. Falu red is still widely used in the Swedish countryside. The actual colour may be different depending on how much the oxide is burnt, ranging from almost black to a bright, light red. Different tones of red have been popular at different times.”




The specific Falu red certainly was prevalent, but the yellow was equally delightful & unique. Although, I really didn’t convince any native Swede, that the color was “Swedish,” trust me, it was & it was everywhere. One of the benefits to having a countryside dotted with yellow houses, is that it gives the illusion of spots of sun here & there. There doesn’t seem to be enough sun to go around, at least in the winter months. In Sweden, any extra sun, even something just resembling the color, is a good thing. After pondering why I was attracted to the pretty yellow houses, I realized that I’ve always been admiring yellow houses. For years now, I’ve said, to no one in particular, “I really like yellow houses.” As of yet, I’ve heard no reply. Hmm…oh well. So, after years of mental input, with viewing countless numbers of yellow hues & since my trip, I have quantified the exact color yellow house I prefer…”Simply Swedish Yellow.” It’s a beautiful thing.



Really, there isn’t much more on the topic of Swedish yellow to tell. All it boils down to is that, I love it & someday I’d like to live a yellow house. Umm...with 2 cats & lots of little lights in the windows (that's another story, possibly soon).

I am not brave.

This is how the dictionary defines the word “brave”: having or showing courage, especially when facing danger, difficulty, or pain.

This…is not me; not now, not ever. I do not have courage or even show it. I inwardly cower in the face of danger, difficulty or pain. However, I don’t show my cowardice, but rather, I hide it & very well. You cannot consider yourself to be brave, if you are scared to look weak. You cannot call yourself brave, if you think the next storm might end you. You cannot declare how very brave you are, when you know, in yourself…there is no strength to fight. I do not stand up & fight. I only keep walking. That isn’t bravery, it’s simply…movement.

So many people, over so many years, have called me brave. I just smile & keep walking… This is who I am. I am the one who keeps walking, but not in bravery. No, I move forward with determination.

This is how the dictionary defines the word “determined”: feeling or showing firmness or a fixed purpose. This is something I can, in good conscience, admit to. I am determined, yes.

Year after year, step after step, blow after blow, storm after storm, mountain after mountain…I still believe in an intention; a purpose greater than my own living. I believe in reasons. I believe in callings. I believe in looking past myself. I am not an island & I do not live for myself.

I can see the forest, not just the trees & I wonder…is this is why I am not brave? A tree is friendly, but an entire forest…that’s a lot to contend with. It gets dark, lonely & scary. I’d rather climb up a tree, than walk through a forest…any day. It takes more strength to climb to the top of a tree & it can easily be done alone. However, walking through a forest alone, takes less strength, but far more courage. So, when I come to the edge, sometimes I miss the trees completely & only see the long, dark winding path that I must take &…I feel no bravery…just determination.

I know that I must move forward, but I am not brave.

My Secret Garden

Inside myself, I live unaccompanied by interested parties. It’s alright…I listen to myself & I hear myself. I recognize myself (mostly). So, yeah…I’m one of those people who talks to themselves too. It’s never out loud though, well, almost never. It is with lucidity of mind, that I comprehend…I am perhaps the only one who listens to me or understands me...with conceivably few exceptions. In fact, so often I feel as though, I’m the only one on the planet. It isn’t because I can’t see others or appreciate them. I believe I’ve spent my entire life refining the art of understanding…of listening to others. It’s just that it has by no means really felt reciprocal, at least not often or with very many. To me, it’s disingenuous to ask a person, “How are you?”…while passing by them in the store. I know it’s just a thing you say, but I don’t say it, not unless I fully intend to stay right there until I’ve actually heard how they are.


This is one of the explanations as to why I love operas. It isn’t the entire reason, but when an aria is playing, I feel like my inside has finally escaped into the atmosphere…finally, finally…there is a creditable exhibit somewhere, other than on the inside, which tells of my devotion to passion. It’s a liberating of the profundity of my feelings! It’s as if someone ripped pages from my heart & wrote music to the lyrics. My personal thoughts & emotions somehow become, all at once, tangible. There are certain pieces of classical music, which I cannot listen to without crying. I resolve, when I hear them, I will not, but inevitably...tears. The conclusion of Nessun dorma, for example…forget it…I’m just not in control. It’s not even the significance of lyrics. Many times, I’m ignorant of the words behind the compositions. It’s just the notes themselves converging, weaving in & out of each other so precisely & swelling collectively until it becomes too much to bear.


I’ve often wondered what I would do without music. Even after hours spent pondering that, I really don’t know…it’s simply inconceivable. My heart becomes completely betrothed…it gets swept away & taken to heights that couldn’t be duplicated by any other means. My very identity gets entangled in the fibers of the music & will not separate itself until the last note has completely faded. This becomes an issue for those who are with me & don’t understand that you do not disrupt someone, just as they are finishing their last sentence. Likewise, when a song that is doing it’s very best, to illustrate the depths of my soul is wrapping up…please, I’m not going to interrupt. It matters little what else is going on around me.


One of the ways that I administer the freeing of those ever flowing thoughts, is writing. On occasion, it feels as though, there is this mighty, rushing, river inside of me, the sound of which at times, grows to be so loud, that I have no choice but to distribute it. Writing allows that flood gate to open, just enough to save me from overflowing at the most inconvenient times. No, I’m not going to elaborate, just trust me…it’s more profitable to write. Many times, this is my tool of choice to convey very sentimental things, private things, things which I find my mouth just cannot keep up with. I know how to embrace those I love with the written word & yet it's at best a failure, with far too many limits.

Who I truly am, the one who lives passionately & with abandon, doesn't want just everyone traipsing around through that innermost sanctum. It's a place that resembles, "The Secret Garden." It needs to be respected & appreciated for the uniqueness of each thought, as though they were flowers. It makes me cautious to bring other people there, because it causes some to look away with disdain & lack of understanding. That garden can be untamed at times & not grow according to the standard of most, who would enter with the desire to haphazardly prune away, with little regard to what is being plucked & destroyed. Experience has taught me to shrink back, wear the key to the gate around my neck & never speak of the location.


There’s this scene in, “You’ve Got Mail,” where Joe Fox (=Tom Hanks) has just started to share something from his heart & his fiancée interrupts him with something crass, like…”Oh no! I’m out of Tic-Tacs!” What was he going to say? Well, he went on to say it, but I really never consider that part…because I’m wiping away tears & thinking things like, “Pearls before swine” & other such judgments. Someone who cares more for a *mint*, than her soon to be husband’s heart-felt thoughts, just needs serious help…if not already beyond it. Sadly, I’ve been there with him, though. There’s a variety of person who seems to always ask, “What do you think?”…but, they haven’t a sincere bone in their body. You barely get out, “Well, I thin….k,” before they’ve gone on to give yet another opinion, to which they will be overjoyed, to see you shaking your head in agreement to. These oblivious creatures are so consumed with their own matchless ideas, so set on forging ahead, in almost an “all-knowing” way…that you’re basically reduced to a smiling piece of wall paper. I guess, “yes men” fits too, but…I’m a woman, so…
Yeah…pass the Tic-Tacs.


So, when a genuine article kind of person comes along, & in point of fact, desires to hear from that cavern of depth, the well of emotion & feelings…hmm. My muscles (the ones used to haul the bucket up by pulley) just haven’t been exercised enough to quite get that bucket all the way to the top. It seems like I can only get so far & then I have to let the bucket fall back down. I know given time, I can build up the strength to reach down & retrieve those thoughts at will. However, training is required for such a skill. What’s excellent though, is that muscles have a memory & once that aspiration is reached, it’s always there to fall back on.


And one more thing – desire - without it, failure is imminent. So, since I spend a lot of time talking to myself & listening to myself, I’m fully at liberty to say, “I have the desire. I have the desire to bring the inner world of thoughts, dreams, ambitions, feelings, ideas, hopes, aspirations, imaginings & the overpowering depth of love up & out until it collides with the outside of me.”

When she who writes, comes together with the one who smiles…I’m hoping a melody will result that brings with it, an ability to create happiness for those who choose to listen.