Maybe you have heard his story. If not, you aren’t going to want to miss it. It’s one of those really, really, really special stories that gets you Uh! right there. You’ll likely be thinking about him the rest of the day, and that won’t be a bad thing. Not at all.

Zach, much to my disheartenment, is no longer living with us here on Earth. He’s been taken; to the Place I plan to go, just not yet. But he’s left something behind, a piece of him, something we can look at and hold, to remind us that Good People Do Happen.

Perhaps you’re a bit busy right now. That’s okay. So was I. When you have twenty minutes or so to spare — or carve away, yes, I know how it is! — from the humdrum, do watch this video. I won’t attempt to sum up; it would be like trying to explain what a snowflake looks like with you having never learned words such as: beautiful, white, delicate. 

Zach was fourteen when he learned he would die from terminal cancer. His story touched my heart, and I know it will touch yours, too.

Zach’s Story

*assumes you have watched the video*

How do you feel? I felt torn, if I am being honest.

On the one hand . . . well, you hear and read about the slugs and sleaze happening around the corner and on the other side, and soon enough you begin to think the world is made up of a sort of person solely bent on hurting and taking advantage of people.

The stories broadcasted and regurgitated are sordid ones, mostly about thieves, murderers, terrorists. It gets to me. I start to feel the weight of it, and so I turn off the news, I press play on the CD player in my car. I don’t want to hear it. I am not in denial — I know they’re out there — I am in defense. I must be. For in being a Mollusk Girl, if I listen to that muck too long, I start to absorb the perspective that all things Good have vacated this place. And it’s not true. It really isn’t It’s just that people are a hundred times more likely to spread the debauched and deplorable than they are to share the positive and inspirational. Why is that? beats me, only Heaven knows. But I got one. I caught with my rod, put it in my net, and I’m bringing it to you for supper. Go on now, if you haven’t already, and eat it!

Sometimes I forget how to live. Does that happen to you? I get stuck in between what Zach refers to as “the comfortable and the extreme.” Life sort of drags on for a while, and then something happens, and it’s go-go-go-wooooooo! Then it’s back to what you know, what you’re used to. Don’t get me wrong: I like what I am used to. I like knowing that, every day at 4:00 p.m. I will shut down the computer, change, head to the gym for an extremely physical workout, come home, shower, crawl into bed with a giant bowl of popcorn, Bella, and Michael, and cap off the day with a bit of fiction. This is good for me. Routine suits my lifestyle.

However . . .

it’s when life throws you a curveball and all you can do is grumble about it that comfortable becomes a problem. Life happens in the curveballs. It’s the good stuff you never saw coming. I know this now, having survived a depression I often wondered if it would kill me. Now I look forward to the bends, arcs, and drop-offs. They excite me, because I know that something unexpected is going to happen, and we need that if we are not to get stuck.

Life is a gift. It’s a SH*T load of hard work, but it IS a gift. God is patient with us. He knew when creating us He would be creating a stubborn, often un-malleable race of punks. But He wanted us, anyway, and thank Him for that.

So as I was saying . . . on the one hand it’s such a relief to meet people like Zach. Which is why it makes it so bolluxed and frustrating to lose people like Zach. I just want to ask “Why, Lord. Why did you have to take him. Can’t you see the numbers aren’t with us? If we are to battle the dark, well then, Lord, you must leave us some bit of Light.”

Zach is Light. There’s no questioning it. I never met him, but I feel as though I did, a little. I will remember his story, always. And that’s where maybe, possibly, perhaps I can understand. Maybe. That, in knowing Zach, and seeing how he determined to face-off with mortality, I will become the Light. I will spread it, and it will catch, and soon enough the world could be one GIANT Christmas tree, blinding the eyes of all who look upon it. We could, you know. We could do that. Zach proved it.

Last thing: Zach is my reminder that I have a responsibility to not just accept my life, but to change others’ lives by bringing joy and hope and love to them. I am capable of that. I have it in me, Zach did too, and so do you. We just have to share it.

Until next time . . .

~ Cara

~

Well, first thing’s first: I hope this post finds you well! Over the last few months it has been a struggle to keep up with all that goes on in my neck of the woods. Many of you will know that I was battling to find an answer to my curious, worrisome health issues.

Very briefly I will sum up what the doctors have figured out. Are you ready? Here it is: nothing. You heard right, they have no clue! Although I saw a grand total of eleven specialists, had over fifty different exams/tests performed, I am just as much as a mystery to them as I was the very first day. Two of my physicians have collectively agreed upon Fibromyalgia as my condition. I am still very new to this term and continue to do my research; and while it does seem like it could explain many of my symptoms, it isn’t a perfect fit. But other than Cinderella’s shoe, since when is anything a perfect fit?

For all of you who have been kind enough to check in and ask how I am doing, the answer is good! I appreciate each and every thought and prayer you lifted up in my name. God is doing powerful things in my life, and while I am not 100%, I trust His plans, and even more, trust the Good that will come of this. And if I had to — if I had to pick the one thing that has changed the most as a result of what’s happened to me, I would say it is this: no fear. For someone who was once detrimentally worried and anxious about plenty of things — most of which really were not worth it — I have been released from the vice fear kept on me. It’s amazing. I can hardly explain it with words; but of course you know I’ll try.

It’s like . . . Have you ever worn something very heavy or extremely tight fitting for a long period of time? Maybe a motorcycle helmet, ski boots, or perhaps carted around luggage that suddenly doesn’t feel worth its weight but you can’t dump it anywhere? Well, imagine you could. Imagine you’ve been dragging this hundred pound beast behind you for years. YEARS. And then suddenly . . . you weren’t. Someone came along, grabbed hold of the handle, and freed you from your burden. There you are — still a little achy and quite a bit tired from time spent in bondage — but you’re free. You can breathe, deeply. You’re tingly. Light. Effervescent even. That’s what it feels like no longer being afraid of what may or may not happen to me. Between that, and feeling well enough to be out and about, I am enjoying my life, immensely, in a way I never had before.

It’s great.

~

Onto more exciting things!

Cara got a new do. Chopped it all off, I did. And I’d say it suits me just fine; better than fine, actually. I feel . . . refreshed and sassy. However, I am just waiting for the day someone calls out from behind me, “Um, excuse me, Sir?” I’m already working on potential responses. So far I have, “How can I help you?” in my deepest alto.

Please feel free to leave your suggestions.

~

My angel — Mr. Husband avante-grade, Michael Olsen — surprised me with tickets to Wicked. Here are a few pictures from the event.

~ The Outfit

~ The Couple

~ The Witch

In short, it was one of THE best plays we’ve ever seen. If you have any reservations about seeing this production, I invite you to read my extensive review posted here:http://www.yelp.com/biz/segerstrom-center-for-the-arts-costa-mesa#hrid:eWotPOPvoOgs4_ZrvDcZoQ/src:self

Also, I wanted to let those of you who were staying tuned about the Random Acts Of Kindness know that we have passed out about half the cards so far. We are taking our time, keeping our eyes open for opportunities to make someone’s day brighter. For the most part we’ve distributed them to clerks and servers, explaining to them why and what we are attempting to do by spreading kindness. Though on one occasion I included one of the gift-cards in someone’s birthday card. Let me tell you — they were stoked! They couldn’t wait to pass on the love.

However, my most favorite encountering took place two Sundays ago, at church, with a man named Don.

After the service had ended, I was standing with friends, chatting, when an elderly man walked right up to me and asked, “Where’s your horse?” He was staring at my boots — brown, leather, with little buckles at the top. Truly, they do look like equestrian riding boots. I replied to him, in an equally placid voice, “Oh, my horse? He’s around back. I didn’t want to startle anyone.”

He smiled at me, twinkling eyes in a shriveled red face, and then he was off at the speed of turtle. I can’t explain it, but I liked his man immediately. I inquired about him, and this is what I learned: His name is Don and he is homeless. He is an 83 year-old, with polio in his right arm, currently living at the Motel 6, after his son-in-law bought his house out from under him, thus forcing him onto the streets. And each Sunday, come Hell or High-water, Don walks four blocks to Christ Presbyterian Church.

Someone mentioned that he once showed up for the service on the verge of fainting; face cherry red, panting heavily. Not a little flabbergasted, I asked my friend, “Well, does anyone offer to pick him up?”

I found Don standing on the grass, sipping black coffee from a styrofoam cup. I said, “Hi, would like a ride home?”

(If Cyranno de Bergerac and Johnny Carson had a child, it’s name would have been Don.) Don looked me up and down and replied, “My, you’re pretty! If I could, I would give you a thousand stars and lay them at your feet. I’d buy you boxes of Sees’ Chocolates — none of that cheap crap!”

We talked briefly, sharing our love for thrift-stores. We are kindred spirits, him and I.

Eventually Don — Shakespeare I named him shortly thereafter — accepted the ride, asking to be taken to Polly’s Diner, where he would have lunch at 3 o’clock — no sooner! After we dropped him off, Don entertaining us the entire drive, it was time to say goodbye and go meet up with our friends. So we did.

But Don stayed on my mind all day and all night. I would be thinking about something, and BAM! Don’s face would burst into the scene. Thoughts of him nibbled at me for a long while; until I had my mind made up.

Don’s Care-package

A little Easter fun . . . 

~

And last, but certainly not least: *cue the trumpets*

Here’s a sneak-peek at my second book!

Oh, I just love the artwork. Michael did a terrific job, didn’t he? How blessed am I to be married to a Psychologist and freelance graphic artist?! Not bad, Cara, not bad at all.

I don’t yet have a date set for when this book will be released. I still need to edit before I am wiling to let anyone else take a look at it. And then there is writing the synopsis, editing the synopsis, sending out a gazillion queries, enduring the rejection, and so on and so forth. Luckily I will have the releasing on my debut novel to keep me busy!

To read the Back of the Book blurb, and hear other important announcements, please follow me over to my brand spanking new AUTHOR BLOG!

Author Website: Cararosalieolsen.com

Also, if I haven’t already I would really like to connect with you on Facebook and Twitter.

Twitter: http://twitter.com/CaraR_Olsen

Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Cara-Rosalie-Olsen/596584450370533

That’s all I got for now. Please say hello when you have a moment, and let me know what’s been going on with you!

Reblogged from Rev. Evan Dolive:

~

Priscilla Lemonluck could feel a stranger sitting on her face. Its name, Consternation. The usually smooth swath between her black feathery eyebrows was puckery, too tight, and strained; her thick lips — voluntarily distorted to bespeak the emotions she harbored — hung heavy to the left. At the back of her two front teeth is where she rested her tongue, sliding it in and out of the sizable crevice she’d opted not to correct with the suggested four years of braces. It wasn’t the pain she feared (although Cooper Lyons, her best friend and three-houses-down-next-door neighbor, had mentioned more than once after a tightening that it was like having an angry barracuda, a chain-link fence, and a rubber slingshot living in your mouth all at once). Dreadful as all that sounded, Priscilla wouldn’t have minded the gruesome reconstruction of her mouth if what she wanted was to have teeth that looked like everyone else’s. She didn’t want that, though. Not even a little. And so, at the age of nine and three-quarters, Priscilla determined with arbitrary zeal that her teeth were off the table (at the tim she didn’t quite know what that meant, but on enough occasions had heard her father, Judge Lemonluck, use the phrase — this usually accompanied by an austere scowl or impassive hand — to understand it meant strictly and formidably NO) once and for all. These teeth of hers had personality and character — something that would surely be mitigated with reparative orthodontics.

This is neither here nor there, however. Priscilla fancied a real problem: missing socks.

An hour ago the last half of her final pair of socks had gone missing. Seated on the edge of her bed, Priscilla glanced down and wiggled her bare toes; each one had been painted a different shade of purple, starting from the smallest toe and darkest shade, eggplant, and gradually lightening to pellucid lavender. Were it June, July, or August, she might not have minded the cool, grainy hardwood pressing reassuringly at mound and heel. But it was not any of those summery months, unfortunately. And mid-march was a terrible time for socks to haul off and disappear.

It hadn’t happened all at once. No . . . socks are smarter than that, Priscilla contemplated, drumming her toes lambently into the floor. Socks are covert, clandestine, fiendish even; they knew that if the attrition rate was slow enough, a lost sock here and there wouldn’t matter much to the average over-extended, assiduously distracted human being, and then they would be free to do what socks liked to do most. Hide.

That wasn’t how it happened to Priscilla. After washing and drying her laundry — and she always saved her socks for last, because all things under Heaven had an order, and socks were not an exception — coming finally to the part where she would either roll, stack, or fold the socks depending on their length, purpose, and occasion, there she had inevitably reached for the final pair, only to discover it was too late. It’s brother — or sister — had gone missing.

Priscilla thought herself a reasonable person, and reasonable people knew that if they just waited long enough, lost things eventually turned up. Only in this particular case, they didn’t. It never happened. And so, one by one, her entire assortment of socks had vanished, much in same way people in the witness protection program do. And now there was nothing protecting her feet from the arctic temperatures Lemonluck Manor employed.

Growing up, Priscilla’s mother asseverated “the cold keeps one keen on her feet,” which Priscilla argued into the empty frigid air, was precisely the problem. A problem leaving her with no socks and one pair of her fleece-lined frog slippers that sang row-row-row your boat each time she gently made her way down the stairs as she passed her favorite painting of a watermill and bubbling stream. These were wonderful, songful companions to have, but along with being a reasonable person, Priscilla was also a sensible person, and she understood well and good that sensible people don’t wear their slippers all the time. The’d get worn out too quickly that way.

Oh, but now, she was without even one pair of matching socks.

Well, that was not entirely true; though this was an admission that called a shudder to Priscilla’s spine. It sat there on her sacrum for a moment, heavy and acrid, then began its fiery ascent toward the nape of her neck, coiling around her throat like a sunbathed python.

It was true: she did have one pair of socks remaining — but she refused to wear them. Priscilla would sooner walk barefoot down a street replete with broken glass, skip perilously through the overgrowth along the dog-park trail, or lose a toe to hyperthermia before wearing those despicable demonized things her Great Aunt Jocasta had given her three years prior, on her sixteenth birthday. And since Jocasta had been there in person to both celebrate the occasion and deliver the present, Priscilla had her work cut out as she peeled the turquoise tissue paper apart, it sealed together with a shiny gold medallion, and gazed upon the striped yellow and black glove-socks. They looked like hornets with a vendetta. Priscilla believed they would most certainly sting her if she allowed them anywhere near her feet. Not wanting to offend her Great Aunt, with much effort put forth Priscilla had managed a sallow-faced smile. Still, when she saw them, those wooly abominations that sought to separate and push all ten toes apart like rooster talons, Priscilla had vomited a little in her mouth. Thankfully she’d eaten a cream-cheese danish for lunch.

Priscilla would never forget the day she saw her best friend Cooper wearing those hideous torture devices.

It was Sunday, December twenty-seventh, two-thirty-seven in the afternoon (this she knew because, for Christmas, she had been given a Cat In The Hat wristwatch, and so taken with it, she was unable to cast her eye away for more than six to seven seconds). It was movie-marathon day. Effusively devoted Goldie Hawn fans, she and Cooper were scheduled to watch Death Becomes Her and eat Rolos until either they finished nine bags — their current record — or until chocolate and carmel started oozing from their ears (a highly anticipated event). Cooper had just opened the front door, smiling outlandishly to display the masticated Rolo draped across his incisor, when Priscilla glanced down and noticed what was on his feet. At first she could only stare, the way one does when spontaneously confronted with filth and mire beyond their immediate means of comprehension or tolerance. Her brain quickly elaborated the situation. She went wide-eyed and shrieked, and with all her strength stepped forward and punched Cooper in the left ear (she had been aiming for his nose) before running back home, trying not to trip as she gazed adoringly at her wristwatch.

Forcing toes into quarantine, in Priscilla’s opinion, was just as reprovable as those people who wore glasses for fashion rather than out of any need for ocular support. Her conviction remained that if she was to suffer with terrible eyesight, needing a different pair of glasses for nearly every occasion — reading, driving, computer-work, and even goggles for swimming — then at least she, and those suffering along with her, should be able to claim the small gratuity of idiosyncratic glasses. Because if someone didn’t draw the line somewhere, then who knew where this could lead: adorned canes and walkers assisting those without limp or gait impediments? Sparkly hearing aids strapped to perfectly good ears? Priscilla snorted. How both absurd and ridiculous. No, accommodating devices should be used and worn out of need first, vanity second. Her glasses, the ones she wore for daily tasks and such, were hot pink with tiny white palm trees strategically placed along the arms, drooped low across her cheeks, and in her opinion made her look like an erudite owl. Priscilla adored owls.

All this consideration led to her noticing a smudge on the right lens. She found a cloth in her left trouser pocket and after manufacturing a lungful of moistened air, rubbed circles on the right lens until it was pristine once more. The left was fine; she cleaned it anyway.

Once there weren’t any superficial obstacles to distort her visual field, she stuffed the cloth back into her pocket, rose from the bed, and turned around. What to do . . . Hands at her waist, Priscilla exhaled strongly enough to make her lips flap together, causing them to make the same sound a door stopper does when it’s been disrupted. Twelve socks total, each one estranged from its partner; an apparel atrocity, if she ever saw one.

Priscilla was not one to mope over a problem when there was something to be done about it. And even those times when there wasn’t something to be done, Priscilla always made sure to set a timer on her beloved wristwatch, allowing herself no more than six to ten minutes to feel incredibly sorry for herself. To ignore a heavy heart completely was like leaving the house while a pot of oil simmered on the stove. The house might not burn down right away, but eventually energy and substance would collide, leaving its victim charred and motionless like the grass that grows in the cracks under summer’s sun. Contrarily, to indulge a heavy heart without boundaries was rather like crawling into the pot and bringing the lid down over head. Priscilla had known someone once, a long, long time ago, who, so distraught after a haircut gone terribly wrong, went to that boiling place of melancholy and depression; and because she had neglected in setting a timer, she hadn’t known when it was time to come back and face the world. Time could be your friend, an ally, but it was very important to keep a close I (ahem, eye) on it.

First things first, Priscilla thought, accessing the sockle-debacle. Liking the sound of that in her mind, she said, “Sockle-debacle,” aloud, putting a strong emphasis on the middle consonants. From what she could see there were only three conclusive options available.

One: she could mix and match the socks. This would be the easiest solution, taking no time at all, and providing her six incongruous pairs. This would would suit her needs just fine, Priscilla contemplated, but only on the days she wore pants. What of the days she wanted to wear a skirt, shorts, or a dress? Of the two white socks remaining one effected sweet lacy ruffles and the had other vertical ribs. The others would protest their patterns, clashing with her plaid and paisley blouses. High-heels were out of the question, as walking in them forced Priscilla to walk like a robot. Or a zombie. Most sandals pinched her toes, and flip-flops left her with gross calluses on the bottoms of her feet.

Two: she could throw away the motley collection and purchase twelve new pairs of socks. Again, this was fairly simple, requiring only a small amount of money and time on her part.

And third: she could determine to reunite each and every last sock. Not that she wasn’t up for a challenge, but this, obviously, was the most complicated and precarious option. It could take hours, days, or even weeks before she located all of them, and even then there was no guarantee they would all turn up. It was risky business setting off in search of things that had little interest in being found.

Very softly Priscilla began to cry.

The delicate truth of the matter was that she herself had been feeling quite lost lately. She just didn’t want to admit it — especially not to herself. But where colors and shapes and sounds and textures had always presented themselves in perfect clarity for Priscilla, it was as if a haze had settled over her eyeballs. It was like trying to see her reflection in the mirror immediately after emerging from an extremely hot shower; the more she rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, the more watery and distorted everything became. She didn’t know how or when it had happened, and in fact it had taken her completely by surprise; so much so that when she woke one morning, it was not with a pliant stretch and auditioning yawn, but with her nightgown all twisted and bunched at her knees, and sore elbows.

All her life Priscilla was someone who surely and capably felt found. Maybe she didn’t always know where she was going or like where she ended up, but with each wrong turn or dead end there existed a discovery in learning something new about herself, having found another little piece of Priscilla to add to the slowly developing mosaic. Although she would definitely consider herself a thinker, she was not prone to questioning her ephemeral existence or spending too much time considering for what purpose she might have been placed on this planet. Neither was Priscilla a hedonist, the type of person to seek joys and avoid vivd sentience. Like everyone else she experienced her fair share of small problems and monumental crises. Occasionally she’d get stuck in the mud, wrestling with a slippery answer, but she always found her way out, eventually. Content . . . overall she had always been very content, that was it. So, she was quite embarrassed to say that throughout the past few weeks, more and more she had taken to setting the timer on her watch — using the full ten minutes to grieve; and each time the beeper signaled time was up, she’d wipe away her tears, unable to remember what, if anything, she had been grieving. Haze, just haze.

The first time Priscilla became aware that something strange was happening was the other morning while in the kitchen fixing herself breakfast — whole grain toast with orange marmalade, scrambled eggs, and ginger-raspberry tea. It was just after nine-fifteen when her mother, Lucille Lemonluck, entered the kitchen, still wearing her carnation pink robe and her dark hair swept into a neat bun.

“Good morning,” Priscilla had said. “I made coffee.”

Lucille, smiling as she found herself a clean mug from the cupboard, returned the greeting, then took one look at Priscilla’s breakfast, and with only curiosity, not judgement, said, “Haven’t you had toast and eggs the last four mornings?”

Priscilla paused, her eyes on her mother and teeth sunk into the viscous marmalade. She followed through with the bite without tasting much of anything. Her throat was especially dry when she answered, “Yes . . . I have.”

For most people, eating the same breakfast more than once a week, or even every day or every week, might not be that uncommon. Priscilla clearly understood that she was not most people. She wasn’t even least people. And a duplicate breakfast rarely if ever presented itself in any given week. But it was not only that; she hadn’t even noticed! After that, she began to realize other things; for example, how lately she was prone to starting then abandoning projects. This, too, was highly abnormal, as Priscilla prided herself on seeing things through. Right now there was a medicine cabinet half organized, a photo collage prepped, and Sophie, the manor’s Tabby was walking around somewhere with two perfectly groomed paws. Most bizarre of all was that she hadn’t seen or spoken to Cooper in days. Since the age of six the two could never go more than a day, two at most, before that insatiable need to be with the person who knew you best, and loved you at your worst, gnawed at your bones until satiated. There were several voicemails on her phone asking her to call him back, and her intention was to call him back, but for no conscious reason at all she hadn’t. She couldn’t even say she had been busy, she just . . . hadn’t. This abnormal gap in communication left Priscilla with a selcouth feeling, one she couldn’t completely identify.

And finally, two days ago, on her way home from culinary class, Priscilla didn’t stop by Abshire’s Patisserie to pick up the ready-and-waiting-mint-chip-frosting-red-velvet cupcake, a treat that she not only looked forward to all week long, but was impressionably solidified with a timer set to go off at precisely three-fifty-two, two minutes after class let out. She had heard the beeping like always, pressed the tiny serrated button to shut it off, and set off in the right direction, but when she came to Plymouth and Marigold, she continued past Abshire’s without so much as glance in the window adorned with frosted white fancy victorian lettering. She had, however, paused before rounding the corner. Someone might have seen her and called out her name, but it was a bellow lost in the wind.

Priscilla wiped her eyes using the edge of her too long-sleeve shirt and smoothed her pelt of black hair behind her ears. Then she hiccuped. As she looked down at the predicament still awaiting a decision, she felt something like a gentle finger prodding her heart. Then her ears grew very warm, the ways ears do when someone’s mouth is very close and whispering into them. Priscilla was slightly astonished to hear a voice speak from within, a voice that sounded exactly like her own, only more sure of herself. Like an antennae searching for optimum reception, Priscilla’s head oscillated on her shoulders. All too soon the warmth subsided and so did the voice.

Priscilla stood stock still for a moment, considering the things she had just been told. Could it be possible? Or was this more wishful thinking than anything else? In what sort of world were missing socks linked to a person’s wellbeing? Priscilla, all her life, believed in anomalies and arcane wonders, those occurrences that stupefied some and disquieted most to a vexed state of perplexment. She learned without ever having to learn that the unexplainable tended to really bother people; even when the outcome benefited the recipient, still a conclusive answer, something tangible remained the focus, rather than the great act or miracle or event that had just bejoyed them. These people, Priscilla determined by observation, were usually the type of people who neglected to return their shopping cart to their posts, left their trashcans on the curb well past collecting day, and made concerted efforts to read books only on the Bestseller list.

After such a long time in silence, Priscilla’s whisper sounded like a holler. “I’m going to find the socks,” she said. “All of them.” And maybe in doing so, the pieces of herself lost somewhere along the way would find their way home. A smile that began in her chest reached up and touched her lips. She was excited, hopeful, and maybe even a little frightened . . . but the good, expectant kind.

She nodded her head once and turned, leaving her bedroom and the twelve socks, her mind already on her destination. She would start in the attic and work her way down to the wine cellar. And who knows? she thought — and here the tips of her fingers began to tingle — maybe something else, not lost exactly, but certainly in need of finding, would instead find her.

~ The End.

Or . . . is it?

It was my one year anniversary.

You registered on WordPress.com 1 years ago!

Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging!

I sort of just sat there for a moment, staring at the screen but not really seeing it. And I stayed that way — reflecting — for a while, Briefly I contemplated drafting up a post, then in the end decided against it. You know how some mornings are like that: you wake up, see the task at hand and think, “Oh, geez, I just don’t have the energy for this.” And then a different day, with a different set of moods and feelings changes your entire outlook, in which you fix your eyes upon the exact same task and see not a challenge or a burden, but an assignment drawing your inclinations outward. I do love how life works that way.

So, for any of you who’d like to take a gander at my first post ever, here it be:

http://thislittlelight516.wordpress.com/2011/12/28/hello-world/

If not, I take no offense whatsoever . . . though you will not be receiving the delicious virtual white-chocolate macadamia not cookies I baked this morning. Ball’s in your court.

If you happened to read The Fruit Tree, you’ll remember me saying that I was planning to conglomerate with the thousands and thousands of people banding together to share kindness to perfect strangers, all in the effort to spread love and generosity in the wake of abject tragedy. Yes, I was planning on doing something, but I hadn’t yet, and so these were only my good intentions.

However, a few evenings ago, myself, and the man I call Husband trekked to our neighborhood Albertsons, this being the incipient of our project. And though by now, after months and years of weekly grocery shopping, we would have passed by this designated area a number of times, unaffected, that night the plastic menagerie rife with gift cards looked a little different to me. Think of that moment in the movie when the guy sitting at the coffee shop, drowning his sorrows in caffeine and stale biscotti, looks up and sees the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on; and you know how her hair is suddenly impervious to gravity, lifting elegantly away from both shoulders and neck to cascade like windblown silk amid a lilac summer breeze; how her entire being seems to glow. Yeah, it was kinda like that.

Cue the angelic choir!

After we had made our selections, purchased $260 worth of food, dessert, coffee, music, and cinema, it was time to git bizzy.

The Loot

First, we printed off of 26 of these pre-made cards. Link provided here: 563584_4680194556241_249931601_n.jpg

Then, with a certain solemn quietus, I set about writing each name, 20 children and 6 adults, praying as I went along that their souls would inexplicably know they were being remembered, and would never be forgotten.

Here I am working so fast that Michael couldn’t even get a still shot of me.

And here I am again, gone a little cooky, I’d say.

That’s it. We haven’t yet dispensed the gift cards, though I am very, very, very much looking forward to doing so; a little nervous, too, if I am being honest. Naturally an extrovert, yes . . . Still, approaching a stranger — especially those already suspicious of anyone claiming to impart good with out slimy ulterior motives — is just a smidgen daunting. But: no guts, no glory, right?

So how about you? What’s your plan? I hope if you are intending to do something good, those intentions materialize into something tangible and memorable. And if so, I would love to hear about them.

Before I sign off for the day, I did want to say one last thing. Thank you. Thank you each and every one of you who have introduced yourself and decided to follow along; for taking an interest in this girl over here doing her best to be Light and Good in a world plenteous with waxing shadows. I am honored to have met you, to know you, to have made some incredibly valuable friendships, and to have witnessed and commented on the colorful plethora of wonderful, funny, creative, adventurous things you have done. I look forward to continuing these relationships and peeking in your window every so often. Please continue to peek in mine, too, and heck, just climb on in if you like. I’ll be sure to keep things unlocked.

Happy New Year’s, everyone. I pray this year knows you intimately.

~ Cara

Kindness.

This is true, isn’t it? Kindness is a very big thing. So big, that if we were to take all the stadiums and all the arenas, or any of the venues meant to hold things, I doubt we would even come close to fitting the entirety of palpable and obscure kindness within its bounds. Such as with the amount of molecules in the air or ocean, it cannot be measured. Well, sure, one with a facile mathematical brilliance might concoct an equation, something like this: If the gram molecular weight of H2O is 1+1+16, this equaling 18 grams per mole, the grams of ocean water: (1.3*10^9 cubic km)(10^9 cubic m / 1 cubic km)(10^6 cubic cm/1 cubic m)(1 gram of water/1 cubic cm of water) = 1.3*10^24 grams. And if we divide that by 18 to get 7.2*10^22 moles of water, we can assume that (6.02*10^23 molecules/mole) (7.2*10^22 moles) = 4.3*10^46 molecules of water in the oceans.

You follow that? Yeah, me neither, stay with me, though.

This is a very well construed equation, though inherently flawed. For one, we would have to assume that all the oceans are pure water; neither does this equation take into consideration that the molecular level is always changing, always fluctuating. Shall we measure the rain? The heat in which moisture is absorbed? Some will try perhaps, but I think it’s best if we comprehend kindness as one of those properties without brim or border, without edge or brink, an inexhaustible resource, very much like Light and Good.

Ridiculously complicated source: http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/220062#ixzz2FiQqiDh6

It is my opinion that our character is defined not by the things we say, but by the things we do. Over the years I have learned my lesson — the hard way, of course — to not tell people I will “be here” or “do this” or “can help” unless I am one hundred percent sure I will in fact do and be those things; for a man or a woman’s word is only as good as its reputation; and should the content of your repertoire begin to take on that of an elaborate excuse reel, word will spread that your word ain’t so reliable. And so I take heed.

With myself, however, I don’t maintain the same venerable track record. I intend to. The desire does stem from a pure place. But one thing leads to another and . . . poof. My intentions are gone with the wind, taking along with them the dashing Clark Gable.

“Life is short and if you’re looking for extension, you had best do well. ‘Cause there’s good deeds and then there’s good intentions. They are as far apart as Heaven and Hell.” ~ Ben Harper.

Wise words, Ben, wise words in”deed”  . . . sorry, I couldn’t resist a little play on words there. Here’s a few more well stated words, spoken by another great man.

So if I am only so good as what I am doing, this means I actually need to do things. Let us be reminded of what is not doing things:

~ Planning to write a book is not the same thing as writing a book.

~ Pledging to volunteer once a week is not the same as volunteering weekly.

~ Making a solemn oath to eat better and exercise more, is not the same as changing your diet and fitness regiment.

~ Signing up for a cooking class, music class, or dance class is not the same as going to class. (Again, I learned this one the hard way when I let a Groupon expire. So much for my dreams of becoming the modern day Ginger Rogers . . . )

You see how easy it is, though? How easy it is to want to do good things, great things, simple things, while actually doing nothing at all? The heart means well, it does, but it must always be led by the hands and feet.

So how do we change this about ourselves? Good question, Cara, sadly I do not have the answer. Well, I have it for you, of course, because I am you, and I know how your mind works, but for anyone else reading this, the answer will differ. Only slightly, though; because however and whatever you need to do to get there, to actually arriving at action, to doing the things you say you’re going to do, I believe the first step is starting small. Leaping is fun, who doesn’t like to leap, right? But often times it turns out to be a leap to nowhere, or somewhere overwhelming, and then you’re back to square one. And square really isn’t so much fun at all really . . . So let’s start small, shall we?

This is cute. Being the germaphobe I am, though, and it being peak flu-season, I do caution you in sharing your popsicles. Otherwise, share away!

Getting serious: I read something this morning that left me both inspired and moved. In  light of recent events, people all over the word have taken to responding to tragedy and depravity with love and kindness. This is incredibly important. This should not be overlooked or sluffed aside as “another vain effort to do something good yet ineffectual.” Don’t miss it on account of being numb or disgusted with society, please. If you do, you risk depriving yourself witness to the greatest beauty ever conceived, not to mention being a part of it.

We

Are

Meant

To

Do

Good.

But we don’t always, do we . . . My heart, it still hurts. I think of those 26 innocent, precious lives . . . I think of what and who they might have been and done, how their voice might have changed our world. And I cry. I rage. I marvel. I doubt. I feel so many things, it’s as if I am a snow globe and my insides have been shaken up to that point where you can’t really see anything just yet, not with everything chaotic and awhirl.

I cannot change what has happened, and I cannot effect the past with my anger and woe. But I absolutely can do something about the future. For at a certain point, once everything settles, the snow particles land peacefully, I am left with one thing, one extremely valuable possession: Choice. This is mine, all mine, and I can choose to stay outraged, to remain abhorred by the evil that exists in our world, or . . . I can deem to do something about it, starting small, starting with me.

As I mentioned above, people are uniting in kindness. To honor the lives of those taken in the Connecticut shooting, so many have responded with their choice to love; they are spreading that love, that kindness to complete strangers, thereupon encouraging them to pay it forward. A friend of mine posted on Facebook that, while she was out shopping, a little girl approached her, handing her a $25 gift-card to Applebees, and with it the name and age of one of the victims from Sandy Hook Elementary. It also had a note attached, which read, “26 Random Acts of Kindness, one for each child. You are number 6!” The little girl then dashed away, but not before asking my friend to make sure to pay kindness forward.

Are you not inspired to do the same? I am. Immediately I was lit from the inside, determined to not let this glorious beneficence flicker out. Here’s where it gets tricky. I am inspired, I am moved, I am touched, but none of that means diddily squat if I don’t do something about it. So I will. And just to prove how serious I am, I plan to post pictures of my Acts of Kindness.

There’s a millions ways you can participate. You can simply leave anonymous notes and gifts on desks, cars, doorsteps and whatnot, or, like the little girl, you can alter someone’s day by handing them a gift they neither earned nor deserved. The kindness you impart doesn’t need to be expensive; in fact, it doesn’t need to cost a thing. Here is a link that will guide you to 26 things you can do to bless someone. Only, whatever you do, do be sure to make it clear why you have done so. Let people know that in spite of devastation and gross iniquity, when you could and understandably so choose hate, instead you are choosing love.

You have chosen kindness.

http://www.al.com/living/index.ssf/2012/12/26_random_acts_of_kindness_one.html

In the dark we can remain where we are, huddled against a wall, scared and helpless. Or we can get up, and search until we find the Light.

I’ll leave you with these parting words. My hope is, that like a catchy song you can’t get out your head as much as you’d like to, these words root themselves in your brain, to where one day they will have grown into such gorgeous overladen trees, blossoming with sweet kindness cherries and succulent kindness peaches, bursting with kindness apples, kindness oranges, and kindness bananas, that others cannot help but be affected by your fruity disposition.

Happy Friday, my friends. May you know kindness and extend it at every opportunity.

Love,

Cara

Kim, over at silentlyheardonce.wordpress.com, surprised me a week or so ago by presenting me with this very unexpected award. Kim writes lovely poetry, born of a passionate soul. She writes honestly and openly, sharing her thoughts without fear. Also, she supports her followers by consistently re-blogging their material. Her blog is one I enjoy on many occasion. Just do it. Go visit her, and tell her I said hello, please.

When I say I don’t feel worthy of accepting this award, it is not an act of self-deprecation, but truly a sense of genuine unworthiness. This is because, as of late, I have neither engaged in blogging, nor have I been diligent in reading very many blogs. Some of you will know my plate is a bit full right now, and some days I have just enough energy to smile and remind myself that God is Good. He is Good and His will is divine.

That said, I am astoundingly honored, Kim, so thank you!

From the creators of the award:

The ‘rules’ for this award are simple:

1 Select the blog(s) you think deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award.

2 Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen – there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required – and ‘present’ them with their award.

3 Please include a link back to this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award –http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-awards/blog-of-the-year-2012-award/ and include these ‘rules’ in your post (please don’t alter the rules or the badges!).

4 Let the blog(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the ‘rules’ with them.

5 You can now also join our Facebook group – click ‘like’ on this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award Facebook group and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience.

6 As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…!

You will find all of the info plus the Awards with 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6 stars upon them here

You ALL bless me. I hope you know this. I don’t have the time or energy to write up blurbs for all 269 of you, or else I would. So I chose only a few blogs, and for specific reasons; each one takes time to invest in me as a person, whether it be here on the blog of other avenues of social media, and also because each one possess a gift that, when all the components are brought together, make up the entirety of all the things I love.

http://blessyourhippieheart.wordpress.com

~ Lori is the soft the stuff, the sweet middle layer, the in-between of what we humans call “life.” Like me, she doesn’t blog regularly, but when she does, it’s always worth reading. She delights and blesses, just by being the incredible woman God created her to be. I am honored to know this woman, and even more grateful that she loves me.

http://arbitraryambrosia.com

~ Amber’s blog is a favorite un-guilty pleasure of mine. She is a woman in the know of the most fashionable and posh. There, she shares her passion for music, clothes, and thrift-shop treasures, and of course her enviable visits to all sorts of fabulous locals. Personally, I think Amber should work for Anthropologie. Just sayin’. More than that, though, Amber is a good person; you know, the kind of person that, when she says she is “sorry to hear that” or “hopes you feel better,” she sincerely means it. She is golden and true.

http://revelationsinwriting.wordpress.com

~ Shannon is my daily read. I may not always comment, but in her daily — yes, daily! She is a superstar! Not to mention a mother of twins! — writings I find both the words and courage to praise Him wherever my emotions might be in that moment. Rather than sugar-coating that sometimes life simply and plainly sucks, she delights and rejoices in the fact that we have a Savior who does not! Her posts are that meaningful rub on the back you used to get before heading out the door for school: the unspoken announcement that, no matter what, Good would be waiting when you arrived home.

http://gloriarichard.wordpress.com

~ Gloria cracks me up. I cannot make it through one of her posts without a series of small giggles of loud proclamations of assent. Gloria understands that we writers are crazy, and sometimes the only thing we can do about it, is write about the craziness. Insightful, intelligent, and witty, I find this woman to be.

http://georgeweaver.wordpress.com

~  George is an aged soul. True, she is a grandmother, but that is not at all what I mean. Likely she’s been this way since she escaped the clutches of her mother’s womb. George is authentic, hilarious, and smart — three things I admire and aspire to be. I think she’s too hard on herself. I think she doesn’t know exactly how special she is. With that camera in hand she possesses the ability to capture elegance and ugly, making the two indistinguishable. With her words she moves emotions like piano keys. George, you’re pretty cool.

http://blissfuladventurer.wordpress.com

~ Michael. Oh, Michael! Was there ever a man with more personality? The answer — case you don’t know it already — is NO. We hardly chat any more, however I couldn’t resist adding him to my list because his “stuff” is just that good. His pictures, oh my, oh my, they are lovely, let me tell you. And the writing matches the photography in both quality and quintessence. He is blissful, and he is a good man to Juliette.

http://karistaskitchen.com

~ Karista makes theee most mouthwatering dishes I have yet to discover. Rarely do I try to replicate one, but lucky for me my husband is an excellent chef, and just recently he attempted her recipe for turkey-pumpkin enchiladas and it turned out famously! Currently she has a recipe for Bleu Cheese and Bacon Stuffed Medjool Dates.

Da-da-da-da-da-dats all, folks!

Have a wonderful Friday, my friends! Love to you all!

~ Cara

Just a thought that’s been roaming around this ever-tumultous mind.

Speaking of which . . . the other day, while administering needles into my naked bum, my acupuncturist says to me, “You must slow down. Your brain is always three steps ahead of your body.” Out loud, I murmured a noncommittal assent and pledged to try and downshift more often; however, in my three-steps-ahead-mind, I thought, “Lady, you have no idea.” (I think she heard me, though, because the next needle went deeeep.)

Do you relate? Is this you, too? Or do you fall in the other category? Body before brain, takes it as it comes, falls asleep the second cheek meets pillow. If this is you, congratulations and I apologize; because this post is not so much for you; however, take heart in knowing that you are likely a less complicated, well-rounded, stable individual. I invite you to enjoy this little blurp about us crazy people who think and think and think, and then take a moment to think about why on earth we are thinking so darn much.

Oh, if I could turn it off I would, believe me. But, this is how God made me and so I must accept even those traits I sometimes wish I could exchange for finer qualities — this is, essentially, what I mean about not feeling whole. When we constantly wish our character away, it’s as if we slap ourselves in the face. This mutilation happens during self-deprecation and intense self-analyzation. Stop these things. Right now; they are no good for you. Recognize the times, places, and people you are with when these thoughts occur and obliterate them. Not the actual people themselves, of course, because that’s a felony in most states. You could wind up in a penitentiary, or worse, solitary confinement, and that is quite counterproductive to the task at hand, yes?

But let’s talk about that for a minute. People, that is; the ones who, perhaps unknowingly, are responsible for these “episodes” I call them. And I call them that because they truly display and act much in the same way a seizure behaves, needing only the tiniest bit of fodder and spark to succeed in igniting a maelstrom of doubt, insecurity, and sometimes even a confusing self-loathing.

These are people, they are the ones we can never seem to impress, or worse, are repulsed by our endeavor to impress. Either we are pathetic, or they are apathetic, and both will most certainly drive a person to the precipice of insanity. In fact, I’ve visited enough times now that I’ve decided to purchase real-estate and am shortly on my way toward equity.

No. but seriously, try as I might to prepare myself, I cannot seem to avoid an episode every now and then, and usually they occur around the same people, or in the same situations, where therein lie some duplicitous allure or twisted magnetism in which I am reeled, like a fish to the rusted hook. This is because, within us all, exists the innate desire to please, to meet approval, to dazzle and charm, or to simply . . . be liked. Deny this if you feel it necessary, but it is true. Our humanity is strung up on a clothesline, where flailing things and study objects, simultaneously, flap and remain secure. I’m drawing an image here, stay with me.

We are better and wiser for acknowledging this truth; a precarious awareness is shades lighter than dim ignorance.

So, think of your insides as a wardrobe — your feelings, your thoughts, everything that makes you you exposed for the world to see. Again, this is for those of us that, quite literally it would seem, wear our hearts on our sleeves. So there we are, strung up by clothespins, anchored to a foundation both sturdy and firm. There are variables, however, unexpected ones: a gale-force wind, rapacious hands that yank and tear, scorching heat. These things we must endure along the way, but can we not protect ourselves?

Well, I believe that differs for each individual. I, for one, am one of those masochistic souls who cannot help but try one . . . more . . . time. The outcome, I know, is already determined, and Einstein’s words ring loudly in my ear: “The definition of stupidity is doing the same exact thing and expecting a different result.” I know this. I know all of this, but I cannot stop. I blame my thinker. You see, it’s my thinker that tells me maybe this time I’ll win ‘em over, maybe this time they’ll come aware of that irresistible magnanimity I possess and want to know me, even if just a little. It’s a trap. And it’s one I both set and trip.

Why? Why do we do this?

To be completely honest, I am not entirely sure. I’ll have to think about it. (Did you catch that?)

For me, it’s usually three-fold: it begins with setting up goals and expectations, absurd ones mind you. Some consideration is put into how that person or peoples might be best won over. Then finally, it’s execution time. The double-entendre is well-suited for the scene, because, really I only execute myself when trying to be anything other than who I am. Taming my crude not-at-the-table humor, sharing scintillating excerpts of the world’s most interesting ongoings, or even just the simple act of speaking less — all these contrived motions separate me, drive a wedge between body and soul. The worse part: it never works. Not really. By all outward appearances it may seem as though you’ve sustained a victory, but then again you did so by being less of you, and how is that winning? This realization hurts only a little more than the moment the lie pointed its finger at you.

Hopefully I haven’t lost you . . . when I sat down to write today, I hadn’t thought about what I wanted to say. I am flying off the cuff here, my brain both interpreting and understanding this conundrum, presently.

What I’ve learned is that not all poisons don labels alerting consumers of their potential fatality. Some poisons wear smiles. Others smell very, very good. Sometimes, though we claim to only want to look, just a peek; and it is in that fleeting glimpse we collide with our ruin.

Know this: everything, all that is ever important will always confide in your heart long before your body or brain begins make sense of it. It is both map and compass.

The human heart. Ah, of this subject I am fascinated to no end. Its beauty, its power, its limitless capacity for courage, love, hope, passion. Oh, how I wish I could make you understand. I wish I could make me understand! Sometimes I wish I could curl around the center of me and just hold on and never let go . . .

This I do know; no heart is created equal. If you’ve ever seen a labyrinth you will know what I am saying. Our hearts our mazes, leading us to undisclosed destinations, guiding us half-sighted toward that which fills us, toward wholeness. And to be anything, anything but you, is a devastation beyond bearing. Heedless hands did not indifferently piece you together. You were made, fearfully and wonderfully, the only you to ever be you. Your unique ability to love is the seed from which you grow. Bury that seed, and you invite death’s pan and broom to your doorstep.

I suspect the day we — I — discover how important we are, is the day we need not search for meaning any longer. We will have uncovered His secret.

May your ears hear unspoken truths and comprehend complex simplicities.

Happy Saturday to you,

~ Cara

Worse things fall like snowflakes;

dozens of them, like crystallized art descending down a stanza made of midnight

and moon, each one different and unique, landing softly on exposed flesh.

Cold kisses imbue reality into my bones;

like a tattoo, almost.

A blizzard upon and among me, wrapping me, delicately.

The softness of each shock, twitch, and tingle takes my breath

away; into a place where fears echo back to ears dripping

whispers;

promising whispers, sharing cruel words of never, not soon, not any time again.

I feel that;

the naked honesty that relief does not wait around the corner, that tomorrow does not

bring brighter days, and most of all that the beginning of the end only marks the turn of the cul-de-sac.

Even if I could run, there would be nowhere to go.

I am trapped in here; a prisoner

feasting on tears and prayers, and one last plea, to please hear . . . me.

Hope changes clothes almost every hour.

A vagabond with unkempt hair and a stench that travels, that buys

into lies

because they’re easier to digest.

I don’t like this hope;

so I turn away and search for the others.

They band together, form a stalwart fleet of macedon and cottony mountain.

Racing toward them, my knees quake and shoulder blades burn, but I beg my soul

to overtake my body;

bring me

breathless and weeping to the feet of Salvation and Grace;

so that I might rest, if only to brought to the End of the world, where my body is finally

stripped away and I emerge; the real me; the girl

who laughs with her eyes and her mouth at the same time.

Who looks around

at the world and its humans, and thinks up scenarios, playing with people in her mind;

possibly taking them to her books, where she can look and wonder, make him

vulnerable,

make her complex, intertwine their worlds like a lanyard of licorice and sorghum.

But these worse things continue to fall, faster and heavier, making all that creativity feel like a snare;

a pack of singing sirens reminding of all that I used to be.

I used to be beautiful.

I used to be alluring.

I used to smile in secret, for no reason at all.

I used to be strong.

I used to be clever.

I used to listen, really listen, and that was my favorite of all.

i used to think that miracles weren’t things, but people

just being themselves; forgetting to be perfect long enough to let something in

side.

Now I am absorbed with myself. I can’t

think while my head screams, while fingers reach up behind me and poke my ribs, startling

me when I only want to live.

I want to live!

A living nightmare is all I find, and this takes a toll

on everyone.

It seems to me all that’s left is to decide:

I can be startled and afraid, acknowledge each and every limitation,

Or . . .

I can survive, like this;

live one more day and see what happens.

There’s this saying: “whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Call me contumacious, but I’ve always thought that whatever doesn’t kill you

makes

you

harder.

Sugar coating life is all well and good until it rains, and the gutters flood with sweet, filthy waste.

The truth is,

the heart’s response to pain and misery is to clam and close, to pull the veil down

and swing the shield around.

.

.

.

I’ve never liked shields.

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”
― Lao Tzu

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”
― Mahatma Gandhi, All Men are Brothers: Autobiographical Reflections

“Courage isn’t having the strength to go on – it is going on when you don’t have strength.”
― Napoleon Bonaparte

There is great wisdom in each of these proverbs; however, it’s this last one I find eminently relevant.

Probably there is not one of us who hasn’t at one time felt the crushing blow of failing health, broken relationships, dreams that refuse to be caught, or simply that turmoil that coincides with being a human that feels things.

We have the gratuitous luxury of not knowing what will happen each day after we wake. If I were to count my blessings — which, isn’t such a bad idea, in fact — I would count premonition dysfunction as a biggie. I don’t know want to know. Ever. Good or bad, I want to be surprised; that way I can remain always in a state of hopeful anticipation.

Here I impart my own proverb: Hope is like putting on a bullet-proof vest. It won’t keep you from incurring the bullets, but it could save your life.

Trials force us to look ourselves in the eye, something I don’t think we do often enough; we’re much too busy looking everyone else in the eye, to stop and take a moment to reflect on our own state of being. And if we do do this — yes, I heard that that, too — it’s usually with a deprecating glower or critical glance. Go out into the streets; look to the left, and there you will find an abundance of arrogance. Look to the right, and you encounter copious insecurity. But between these juxtapositions there will be a small outlet, a thin path most people will overlook; but it is there you will find the enigmas. You’ll recognize them by their smiles; that’s where life’s secrets are hidden or revealed. Mine are.

But I don’t admit lineage among this group; even someone like me, assiduously assessing my most minute thoughts and actions, can become impervious to how life is affecting me, how it’s shaping this malleable soul. But as I’ve already mentioned, trials force us to; they leave no other options. It’s as if a brood of obnoxious relatives suddenly pull up to the curb of your residence, slam down the parking break, attach “the boot,” and refuse to be on their way until you have fed, washed, and reconciled yourself to the fact that they exist, even if you preferred they didn’t. In short: it sucks.

But — and it is a very BIG but; think Latina — it is in confronting your trials that you are given the opportunity to not only show the measure of your strength, but grow that strength and persevere. Think of yourself as a budding flower: you need certain things to thrive, yes? Water, sunlight, the photosynthesis process, soil rich in nutrients. And at first your survival is tenuous; you must be tended to with protective hands and a watchful eye; but at a certain point those hands actually hinder your growth, start to choke your vitality. It’s imperative that you have vacillating temperatures to bear up under. And in doing so, you will either crumple and fade, or you will find a way to endure, to survive, stretching and elongating your roots, claw your way itinerant through oblique terrain, until you’ve located a source capable of saving you. When you do, if you can find a way to hang on, cast your grip — you will more than likely have a newfound understanding and respect — a healthy respect — for the person you arrived to. This is a very good thing, but not so easy in the moment.

An acquaintance of mine, a very bright, thoughtful young lady, brought to my attention a compelling thought placed upon her heart. As I read her e-mail this morning — this in response to my recent status update regarding my health — I was both heartened that gifts like hers exist, especially in one so young, and also I was struck by an impulsion of my own, one I must share with her in return. You see, she had encouraged me to “not be blinded by my current condition, to stay strong.” Before emailing her back, I decided I needed to think about this. And so I considered strength and courage, and what both mean to me. 

In the end, I thanked her for sharing her heart with me, as well as the encouragement, and then left her with these words: “I urge you only to be cautious of using the words “stay strong” to one undergoing unimaginable pain, and also to be careful of misinterpreting the denial of struggle and sorrow for strength. Weakness does not rest in tears or pleas for help. My continuing to ask for prayer is how I manage to stay strong. Rather than sink into a depression — which, has been tempting on occasion — I seek the comfort of those who know me, love me, and support me during what has, most assuredly, been the most frustratingly arduous ordeal I have ever endured. Though I cannot know for certain when and if my pain will ever come to a happy conclusion, each day I get up, drink my coffee, work on my novel, exercise, and spend time with my loved ones. I am living! Praise be to God for this.”

I have two feet. So do you I would imagine. My left foot is just slightly larger than my right. Finding shoes . . . oh, it’s not always fun, you see; because they don’t always fit. And while it would certainly be conducive to my comfort, shoe stores do not offer their customers a perfectly sized pair of shoes — they offer one size, to fit both feet.

You and I, we are not made of the same stuff. If we think of ourselves as continually bubbling cauldrons, where new ingredients are tossed in at each turn life brings us to, we can visualize how different we are from another. Though we each are born with a heart, soul, and mind, there are countless scents and flavors to consider. Depending on how these minutia have molded you, will determine how you taste life. And consequently how you swallow it and digest it. For someone to offer words or suggestions, or even worse, implications that suggest that weakness or self-pity, to another going through an experience that you yourself have yet to experience — and like I said, even then it remains a moot-point — is to court arrogance and levitate toward supremacy. I am not omniscient. I do not know how you feel pain. I do not know you cope. I only know how I do those things, and truly, this is the only person I am accountable to, under God.

So, all this to say, perhaps before you offer words, offer your arms first. A hug is incredibly special you see . . . with it, you speak softly, but are heard distinctly. A person, much like uncooked food, must be prepped before attempting to grill or bake it. If you expect a steak, chicken, or a piece of fish to turn out well and flavorful without first having taken the time to season it, you will only succeed in yielding a lackluster piece of meat, worthy only to the home’s family pet.

Words . . . they. are. so. powerful. What you say with your mouth will always, every single time, leave an impression on the human heart. You are not so much what you eat, but what you say and do. Words: be wise with them.

And to all of you, I wish you a wonderful weekend,

~ Cara