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MomWriters' Second Birthday Anniversary Contest Winners 2000

MOMWRITERS
Double Scoop Third Birthday Celebration
Contest WINNERS!!!

~ Winning Poetry ~ ~Winning Essays ~

Kate intoned as she neatly side-stepped half-eaten cheese cube as it flew by her head. "For the poetry portion of MomWriters Double-Scoop Third Anniversary Contest . . . Honorable Mention (which by the way, comes with no prizes, only bragging rights) goes to Mother's Memories written by Bea Sheftel. This entry was one vote shy of tying with third place. Third Place goes to Birthday Buzz written by Michelle Turner, our own Otterbe. Someone run down to the dock and drag that girl back up here. Second Place goes to A MW's Life in Opening Lines written by Angie Ledbetter.

And, the winner of the first poetry contest MomWriters has held is Born to be a Writer written by the chick in charge of the prizes . . . . Carma Haley.

Congratulations, everyone. Thank you for taking the time to enter, read, vote and simply be part of MomWriters. We are all better for each and every member's roar, rant and question.

As Kate started to walk back to the clubhouse, a wave of loud protests rose behind her. "Oh, Great Maven of the Contests, what about the other stories and essays?" Kate caught a glimpse of Chelle's silly grin before she turned around.

"Those results are pending . . . I'll have them for you soon."
Kate Rauhauser-Smith

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The stunned gasps were followed quickly by the sounds of ohhhssss and aahhhhssssss . . . Angela, in a borrowed gown, shimmered like a starlet on Oscar night, her hair, my dear Lord, her hair! Simply breathtaking.

Not a few husbands and boyfriends received a smack that was only partially in fun for the way they looked just a bit too long, at the newest arrival to the party.

Unfortunately, all Angela could do was smile and wave as she'd lost her voice completely leading the demanding chant for Momwriters Golden Pen Awards earlier.

The room began to buzz again as conversation returned to the topic at hand. MomWriters was having one awesome birthday bash. The party was a hit. The cake, divine and the orchestra, well, let's just say it wasn't every group of musicians that could keep the Harley crowd as happy as the bubble gum crowd.

Angie Ledbetter still wore the gorgeous orchid corsage sent to her by a Vinny. Nikki sat in the corner muttering something about votes and pens and no one was quite sure but everyone was happy to see the tired list queen.

"You know," Michelle said in a vaguely conspiratorial tone, "Kate has those contest results and I think she's just being lazy." The Momwriters close to her shook their heads in agreement. "She was working on that first computer station in the reading room and I just bet the results are on that computer."

If this party had been drawn by Tex Avery, there would have been light bulbs and smoke all over the place as the plan was hatched. Fifteen minutes later a clandestine foray into that computer, foolishly left with journal entries up and open for all to read, found the answers.

"I've never faced this difficulty before," read the latest entry into the electronic journal.

"We should stop, guys. This is wrong," Heather said in a half-hearted attempt at the high ground. Six pairs of eyes turned, shame faced from the screen.

"You're right," Lisa said. "Journal entries are sacred. No woman would ever want someone else to read their journal."

"No woman would let it sit open on the top screen of a computer she wasn't sitting at," Chelle pointed out. They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, their satin and silk covered derrieres turned to the glowing box.

"OK, that's enough, who won?" Karen said with all the authority she could muster. The women returned to reading.

"I have an entry I can't identify the author for and it won second place. Do I wait to make sure the author is still a member? Do I announce the winners? Do I skip that entry? But it won . . . . I just have no clue."

Below these musings in the entry from the day before, the winning entries were listed: Honorable mention goes to My Song in Spring by Michelle Turner (Otterbe) Third place goes to April 18 by Mae Hochstetler. Second place goes to Bacon Saturday Morning by _____________ (missing in action).

First place goes to Red Velvet Cake written by a rookie, Kathi Hybarger (Swampkat)

The group tip toed away, giggling and congratulating themselves and never saw the hulking figure in the door way. "Can I help youse ladies?" Vinny's voice startled each one.

"No, thank you," answered a shaky GloryB. "We're fine, Mr. Marcelli. Have a nice night." The group scurried back to the party.

Happy Birthday, Momwriters. Love you all.
Kate Rauhauser-Smith

Winning Poetry

First Place Winner
"Born to be a Writer" by Carma Haley

Born to write, pen in hand,
"Write it down," my muse demands.
"But write in secret; mustn't tell.
My inner thoughts, my private cell.
I have to write, it hides the fear.
A true facade; an act I steer.
My thoughts on paper, feelings in pen,
With these words, my world I bend.
It's not a need, a wish or will,
It's a must that none can kill.
"Write these words," my muse will say.
I question not, only obey.
"Write of love, of life, of pain,
Of losing ground, of personal gain.
Write to cry, write to smile,
Write how it feels that final mile.
And so I write in secret's wake;
"To be," to write, my life at stake.
Now hold me tight, my muse, my friend.
With pen in hand, my life will end.

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Second Place Winner
"A MWs Life in Opening Lines" by Angie Ledbetter

“It was a dark and stormy night”
When lightening did blow out my ‘puter’s bytes.
“Once upon a midnight dreary”
I stared at my blank screen drained and weary.

"In the beginning was the Word,"
In Scripture, lingo, MS program third.
“A face devoid of love or grace”
T’was mine when winning essay was erased.

My muses’ help had been sublime.
"It was the best of times...the worst of times."
“The day broke gray and dull” for me,
“Adrift! A little boat adrift" at sea.

The crushing loss brought streaming tears.
“In my younger and more vulnerable years”
I might have said to self in woe,
“No more! ‘Get thee to a nunnery, go.’”

Yes, "All this happened, more or less."
The kids took advantage and made a mess.
"To be or not to be,” more ROARS?
Please don't say, “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’”

I beg doubt to leave me alone,
"Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!"
To words and thoughts I must give birth!
"The cold passed reluctantly from the earth.”

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Third Place Winner
"Birthday Buzz" by Michelle Turner, our own Otterbe

If I were a bumble bee
buzzing, buzzing
merrily
around the clubhouse I would fly
startling Momwriters as they
go by

All around the pond I'd go,
buzzing buzzing to and fro,
wishing I could be a part
of all the fun about to start.

Angela's there multitasking,
Linda Sure Would still is asking
for all the votes she can get,
Brette also won't give up, just yet.

Barb plays with the little ones,
while Linda Dupie holds back yawns.
she may be up early every day
but lack of sleep doth start to pay.

Jonette our friend must still rest
pond side with all the best
of everything that we can find
to make her healthy, we're so kind!

Then there's Nikki, our leader glorious,
who's name is certainly notorious
among the web sites listed for
writers who want more and more.

Carma chants and lights white candles,
and so efficiently handles
all the details of the schemes
that bring us such wonderful dreams.

Michelle Smith and Otterbe
are asking who wants to hug a tree,
trees are lovely, trees have soul
come and hug one so you know.

Balloons are hung along the porch
and on the pier a smorgasbord
of goodies, drinks and veggie dip,
for those trying to be fit.

Oh, I am a bumble bee,
buzzing, buzzing merrily,
around the clubhouse and the pond
Waiting for the Birthday songs.

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Honorable Mention
"Mother's Memories" written by Bea Sheftel

When you were two, I wanted
to capture the year for you.
The fountain of words
which poured from your lips,
a waterfall of sound.
You understood so much,
and wondered about it all.
I wanted to wrap you up
to preserve you in a glass ball,
mine forever at two.
You walked beside me, my little man,
crunching leaves beneath your feet,
splashing in rain puddles.
You laughed when snowflakes
tickled your tongue.
We watched the moon together
and shared stories with your teddy bears.
Each day was a discovery
of a world made new by you.
"Mommy, look!" heralded wondrous things;
a fallen leaf, a bird, a racing bug
were magic in your eyes.
You were my tender bud,
those many years ago
when you and I were the world,
and we were young together.

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Winning Essays

First Place Winner
Red Velvet Cake written by a rookie, Kathi Hybarger (Swampkat)

The youngest child is graduating from college in two days. There's a family gathering of historic proportion in my near future. This is as it should be. It is a time of passage and celebration. The youngest child has made few demands, despite her stature as the guest of honor. Just one simple request. The same simple request she makes on every birthday, holiday and moment of wishful thinking. She wants a red velvet cake. Why did it have to be a red velvet cake?

I am a fine little utility cook. I can feed a crowd with no complaints. I do main dishes and casseroles well. I can throw out a mean biscuit. It's the dessert section of the menu that trips me up. Oh, I can do the elementary stuff like brownies and cookies to everyone's satisfaction. I'm talking the serious confections. The ones that have 32 ingredients and take up two full pages of a cookbook. I don't go near yeast, I am highly suspicious of anything I have to punch and hide in a darkened closet. I can sift. I don't like it, but I can do it.

I made a Red Velvet Cake once, almost 13 years ago. I have gotten past the ensuing brutality and the trauma, my husband has not. He has a difficult time forgetting that the last red velvet cake cost darn near $2,000.00 and may still force the youngest child into therapy.

It was a balmy December day when I assembled all the necessary ingredients. I am not without the tools of the trade. I had one of those great big, do-it-all mixers but I rarely used it. There was usually at least one appendage missing, as it had been absconded with and used as a spare part on a long forgotten kid project. I had everything that I needed.

The two youngest of four children were fighting. I did not handle this well. I have one sibling, 12 years older, and I never really fought with him. I was younger, not stupid. My husband had long been on my case to let our kids resolve their differences on their own. I thought that idea stunk, but on this occasion I had acquiesced, with the provision that the first time anybody yelled for mama, I was jumping in the middle of it.

As I carefully added seven eggs, one at a time, and paused to scrape the sides of the bowl after each addition, the fight ebbed and flowed. I had meticulously measured and sifted. I had spent more time preparing the tube pan than I had buying an automobile. I put the cake in the oven and made the icing. It stiffened perfectly and I attributed that more to my deft hand than the presence of cream cheese and confectioners sugar in the recipe. Things were going very nicely. The verbal battle had stilled and I was bathed in a feeling of optimism.

My stove, at that time, was not entirely reliable. In order to prevent burning it had to be watched with a careful eye. At least the light in the oven worked, and through the glass door I could see that the cake had risen nicely. In the pastry world timing is everything, so the second the timer went off I removed the cake and placed it on a rack to cool. So far, so good. Exactly 10 minutes later I inverted the pan onto a plate of good china. It stood. It looked like a red velvet cake and smelled like a red velvet cake. Who cared what it tasted like? I had done it!

At that precise moment of glory, Armageddon broke out upstairs. Youngest child came flying down the stairs like a scalded dog, ran through the kitchen and made for the backyard, slamming the screen door behind her. Older child was a few steps behind. In an effort to make up ground, she stopped halfway down the stairs, grabbed the banister and hurled herself over before following her sister's trajectory, slamming the door behind her. I turned back to my cake. I had never actually witnessed a cake fall before. It just sort of sags down and inward, as if some unseen villain is sucking the life force out.

Mad does not begin to cover it. I found myself in a surreal peace. I remained calm. I went outside and physically drug the offending parties inside. I tossed one on the couch and the other on the love seat. " Not one word.", was all I said.

I returned to the kitchen and iced my three inch high cake. I did it with a loving hand as I crooned softly to its still withering form. I put a tablecloth on the table and placed the cake in the middle. I retrieved the children from the silent living room. I put them in chairs at opposite ends of the table. I went to the drawer where the heavy duty utensils are kept. I reached in and withdrew the meat cleaver. I was going for maximum effect and full presentation. I returned to the table and brought the cleaver over my head, aiming for the cake.

I do solemnly swear that I thought I had the cleaver. As it whizzed past my head I realized that I did not. With deadly force I brought a hatchet down on the unoffending table, completely missing the cake. It was an old table. It had belonged to my grandparents. While I did not disturb the integrity of the tabletop, I truly insulted the supporting beam underneath. It cracked and the table caved as I rescued the sliding cake. The children, to their credit, remained seated.

From the pantry I pulled out 2 TV trays. I placed them in front of the children. I set their trays with cloth napkins, glasses of milk, good china and silverware. I picked the cake up and halved it with my bare hands, giving each child a portion. I washed my hands and said two words as I left the room, "Eat it."

I was surprised that the only words spoken came from the younger child, "Well, this is going in the Mommy Dearest book."

The old table lies in state in the attic, replaced wordlessly by my husband. His comment, that perhaps the old oven had caused the cake to fall, cost him a new one.

The younger child is graduating from college. Her older sister is out of town. There is no longer a hatchet in the kitchen. I am ready to try this again.

Second Place Winner
"Bacon Saturday Morning" by ?

My Momma cooks sausages on Saturday mornings and pancakes and eggs and hash browns. But from my room, where the sun likes to come in and shine, all I can smell is the bacon. I hear it crackle and pop and sizzle.

Mmmm.

I smell the fat and the grease and the burnt. Mmmm. I can see myself, Cherry Walker, heading down the hall now. The start of another weekend. Momma stands over the stove wearing her favorite muumuu. Her hair is braided so nice and it looks so shiny, especially when the sun comes in through the cracks of the kitchen blinds.

"What you want to eat this morning, child?"

"I know I want bacon," I tell Momma, "and hash browns and eggs and some pancakes, but mostly bacon."

"I guess you can have all that, just remember there's six others that haven't eaten yet in this house. So leave some for them, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am," she hands me my plate and uses the leftover grease on her fingers as lotion for her elbows and knees. Her brown skin just glistens.

Breakfast is so good on Saturdays; better than any other day. What to do? What to do? Oh, I know. I could go outside. I could walk barefoot on the hot pavement trying to make a break for the cool of the
grass.

I could ask Mom if I could turn on the sprinkler just to sit on top of it. I could hunt down frogs in the fern bushes near the porch and put them in the old fish tank. But that never works, for some reason they always die because they won't eat the flies and worms we give them. I could go for a ride with Jack, my big brother. He'd take me in the station wagon all over town. He'd turn up the music real loud and tell funny jokes, then top it off with a trip to fast food and ice cream.

"Hold these while I drive, Cherry," he'd say as we'd head back home as fast as Jack can drive before the ice cream melts and the sodas get flat.

Or I could call my friend Kelly and she'd come down and play double-dutch with me in our pink jellies and we'd laugh as our braids bounce up and down on our heads. Her little brother would play with my little brothers and watch cartoons until Dad gets up and tells us it's time for them to go home.

I could do that. Or I could go inside my room and take out my pad and pencil and write a story. A story about adventures and heroes and funny stuff. I'd make little drawings on the side and sign all my stories with: "By Cherry Walker : World's Greatest Writer", and tape them up above my sister's bed where she still lies sleeping.

But then there's Momma. Momma in her purple, pink, and white muumuu with her hair braided. She smells like dough and peaches and always says how small her kitchen is. She wakes up early for me and goes to sleep late at night. Saturday, she says, is her long day. She opens the kitchen window, stretches, and wipes the sweat from her forehead. In our brown and yellow kitchen she hums "Dinah Won't You Blow Your Horn" and I come in to sing with her.

Momma's going to teach me how to scramble eggs this morning and flip pancakes and make hash browns and fry bacon.

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Third Place Winner
"April 18" by Mae Hochstetler

April 18, 1989:

"I’ve had enough of dangers and people on the streets, looking out for angels, just trying to find some peace..." the radio wails as I stand before the mirror, my skin lobster red from the shower, I scalded myself again. I do it several times a day, trying to wash the scars from the rape away as I hide from the world in the shower with the radio blaring. The steam covers the mirror. It’s better that way. I can’t see myself then. What became of the beautiful butterfly when she flew into the light? Scorched and ruined. I slide on a nightshirt and reach for what’s left of the painkillers, hoping they will kill me too.

Swiping the steamed mirror with my hand, I see through the condensation that the bruises are gone from my skin and now they are imbedded in my soul. Opening the vial, I look at the six white pills. I break down. The first time since I was a child, I cried real tears. The wetness is foreign to my cheeks.

"I can’t do this, God. I can’t surrender. All my life I’ve survived each ordeal and you know my dreams. I’ve got to rewrite that manuscript. I won’t let her win by tossing it in the trash, but I don’t have the energy to rewrite it yet. Help me, God, help me clear my head and quit dulling my senses. Send angels to help me keep the demons at bay until I can heal."

Tossing the pills down the toilet, I get dressed and leave the studio apartment on that drug-infested corner. With notebook in hand, I’m determined to be something. I’m going to be both a writer and a mom who loves her kids. Someday, when the right guy comes along. If he ever comes along. Please God, I’ve screwed up my life. I’m begging you to give me One More Try.

April 18, 1990:

"How can I help you? Please let me try to—I can heal the pain, won’t you let me inside?"

I stand before my dorm room mirror washing off what was left of the foundation and mascara. I met him, I think. I know he’s in a relationship with another girl on this small conservative campus, but he’s different, I just feel it.

Why can I tell him my secrets? I shouldn’t reveal such things and trust them to strangers. I hardly know him, and he’d never want anything to do with me. Besides, God, he’s got Donna. I’m just the lady from New York, who disguises herself in designer duds and coats of make-up. We met at the Passion play rehearsal. I’m Lady Procula, the wife of Pontius Pilate. Just like her, I’m flighty, vain, arrogant, with a real FINE attitude: F***ed up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical. Yep, that’s us, Lady Procula and me. God, I know I shouldn’t meet him after hours at the library, I just know that we’re going to get found out and we’ll become the object of campus gossip. He’s dating Donna, they hold hands and wear each other’s class rings, but he meets me at the library after hours to just talk. He’s special. Every bit of him. He doesn’t need me to ruin him. Maybe I need him to Heal the Pain.

April 18, 1995:

"…They won’t go when I go. And I’ll go, where I’ve longed, to go so long, away from tears--"

Standing at the mirror I saw the reflection of a woman I didn’t know. My blonde hair, once styled like Marilyn Monroe, is now straight, dull and dark in its natural color, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of my neck. Extenuating the puffiness of my face, my green eyes fade from the circles beneath them that even the foundation and concealer fails to cover. I buttoned the black shirt, button by button, covering up my fair skin, shutting my best feature inside of this cleric, while standing at the mirror and attaching the dreaded white plastic tab collar beneath it’s sewed seams. God, I’ve watched too many young men die this year at the AIDS hospice. I’ve recited the prayers of the sick more than I can count, dear Lord, and I don’t want to say them again. So much has changed, I’ve come so far in this life. I’m married, I got my bachelor’s degree, in seminary and filling my call to minister to the dying. But part of me is dying too. I feel it. This life isn’t what I want, God. I want from my career than holding the hands of the dying and praying for their souls. With each one who dies, a piece of me dies with him, as I relinquish the pains buried deep within my soul. I want babies, one for every day of the week. Let me walk away from my vocation, God. I promise to fill it in other means, just not in word and sacrament. I’ve been writing again, Lord. You know that. Every night when I come home from the hospice, I write until I fall asleep at the keyboard. I type through my streaming tears and agonizing sobs. I’ll teach the world to love the least of these through my words, but please God, please don’t forsake me when I leave seminary. Life as a minister isn’t for me. I want to be a mother. The church doesn’t want me if I won’t be a parish pastor and I know I’m called to the hospice, but I just can’t go back to watch another young life end from this plague. I’m rescinding my call and turning in my cleric. I sign the withdrawal papers though my professors beg me not to since I have so much potential to teach. The seminary, the church, the world, They Won’t Go When I Go.

April 18, 1997:

"Kindness in your eyes, I guess you heard me cry, you smiled at me like Jesus to a Child."

I’ve been crying for a week now. On and off, just sobbing tears of fear and joy. In January, I gave birth to our son. He’s beautiful, his eyes are bright and I adore him, but I’m not right. The stroke I suffered at delivery left me maimed. I can barely type let alone carry the baby at times. I push him in the stroller about the apartment so I won’t drop him. I have to quit my job. I have no choice. I’m pregnant with twins. How, God, how can I do this? I can barely take care of one. We’ve waited five years for babies, and now you give them to us all at once when I’m not well? Why are you doing this to me? I’m scared. I hate this high rise apartment. I smell pot in the halls. Please God, let them be healthy. Renew me, Oh Lord. Heal me and make me into a good mother. Maybe this is your way of forcing me to heal myself. I have no choice now, do I? I can’t sit and pity myself any longer when simple logic doesn’t make sense. I have to make muscles move because we’ll have three babies this year for Christmas. Three babies! For years I wanted a baby for Christmas, and this year I get my Christmas wish, threefold! Through my tears, I feel God smile at me like Jesus to a Child.

April 18, 2000:

"Don’t you think I’m looking older? But something good has happened to me, change is a stranger you will never know."

Three years later, standing in front of the mirror, my eyes swollen from the lack of sleep, we’re packed to move home to Ohio. Our new baby has a cold, and the three toddlers are confused, the only home they ever knew, this tiny two-bedroom apartment is a mass of cardboard boxes. What will it be like to live in Ohio again? What will it be like to be so close to those who make me crazy with their nagging and manipulations? Promise me, Lord, that you’ll get us there safe. That van, its engine, doesn’t sound right and the baby’s cold worries me. My Baby was sick whole way there, I prayed as we rode through the mountains of Pennsylvania that day. She sounds bad. This is my miracle, God. Our miracle, remember? The baby that wasn’t supposed to be is my most cherished possession on this convoy across the state. She’s so ill. Get her home to Ma. She’ll know what to do. Next day, while signing the lease to our house, we’re called back to Ma’s house. Take the baby to the hospital. She’s laboring to breathe. RSV. The baby and I spend three days together at the hospital as our health insurance runs out. No shower for mommy, no change of clothes. I’m tired. Family’s mad at inconvenience of the three toddlers and left me stranded at the hospital in retaliation. Our lives are still packed in boxes upon a moving truck, but my whole life lies there on that hospital bed. My miracle. Getting her well was all that mattered. The house could wait, and the family could deal with their grandchildren. A little grandparent duty won’t kill them. It really won’t. When you’re well, sweet baby, we’ll move into our house. Don’t worry, baby, Mommy’s stronger than when she left fifteen years ago. Older and wiser, Mommy’s in control.

April 18, 2001:

"It’s a cruel world, you’ve so much to prove, and heaven help the ones who wait for you."

Looking in the bathroom mirror, I watch him towel off in the shower behind me while I wash my face. Hints of gray tease his chestnut brown hair, as he tells me about his evening with the children. He’s given me the best ten years of my life, four beautiful children, and the love and acceptance to last me a lifetime. He’s my support system, my beloved and my best friend. I adore him, the only person who believes in the reality of my writing career when the rest of the family sees it as a joke. You’ve answered my prayers, God, all of them, and now the publisher likes my book. She really likes it. I’m ecstatic, but afraid to show it too much. I’m sitting where I’ve wanted to sit for the last 20 years. I’ve changed so much. I’ve grown and matured, blossoming past the beautiful stage, I’ve settled into happiness. I’m not a size nine any more, but I’m on my way down again. Dropping the pounds and shedding the inches of weight I gained twelve years ago so no man would ever find me attractive enough to hurt me again. My plan backfired. This one has always found me beautiful, seeing through my pain and into my soul, healing me from the inside out with his love. I’m more beautiful now than ever Life is good. Smiling at him through the mirror’s reflection, my beloved’s eyes tell me You Have Been Loved.

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Honorable Mention
"My Song in Spring" by Michelle Turner (Otterbe)

Spring is a time of renewal. It has been a time of many anniversaries for me, some good, some not. I lost my mother in the Spring. My daughter was born in the Spring. I graduated from a school that gave me a profession I followed most of my life in the Spring. I divorced my husband the first day of Spring and joined this list in the Spring. I got my first writing check in the Spring.

This time of year is my 'Soul Anniversary'. I call it that because I take time out every year during this season to evaluate my life and goals. All my really big decisions are made this time of year. It is a conscious effort on my part to make the best of the year before me.

It is good to take time with one's inner self regularly. Life is a celebration of our Journey. The journey is never easy for most of us. We have losses, we have victories, we sometimes can barely get through the day. No one has an easy time with life. We all experience our own hells and triumphs. The important thing is to listen to the music of our souls.

Each of us is unique. We have a purpose here that no one else can fulfill. In times of bitter disappointment and hurts I have drawn on that premise. I am the only one on this earth that can do my specific job. My writing helps me voice my emotions. It is more than what I do. It is what I am. With words and images I can let others know how I feel about life.

I can no more change how I feel than I could change the color of my skin or eyes. The beauty of what Creator has given me leaves me in awe. I have the choice of how I respond to this life. I choose to see it as a challenge, a never-ending story so to speak. Birthdays come, years pass, times takes me farther and farther on this road of life. The older I get, the more I realize how precious my particular gifts are.

Celebrating life in all its glory and misery is the greatest gift we can possibly give ourselves. Life in all its uncertainty is grand when we can follow our hearts calling. We cannot change what we are. I found peace, true peace of mind and ease of spirit when I stopped fighting my soul's music. I am happiest when jotting images down, writing a piece that makes my heart smile, struggling with just the right words. My music is in my writing, it makes me feel that I am following a path that was laid before me when I took that first breath.

So, each Spring, with hope renewed I look forward to making the most of what I have to share and give. It may not be much by some folk's standards. Nevertheless, it is my song, and only I can sing it.

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