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Archive for June, 2012

A Happy Post

I realize that my last post was a little melancholy, but sometimes that’s just the way of the world. Onward and upward we go. You must push past the sad and reflect upon all the things that make you happy. Below you will find my current top 10 list. Well, top 11 really as my daughters will always be number one on my list.

1. Zoe and Piper- seriously…have you met them? They are the best!

2. cooking for my family (extended family as well)- especially with all the yummies from the Farmer’s Market

3. listening to a song and really hearing the lyrics- there is a difference between listening and hearing

4. music blaring in my ears as I run/ride my bike- super therapy

5. pretty dresses -they make me feel pretty

6. coffee- this doesn’t really need an explanation

7. snuggles- they come in all shapes and sizes 🙂

8. peanut butter cups….or peanut butter chocolate ice cream…..mmmmmm

9. grown up time-it took me a long time to realize how much I needed time to be with/talk to people who call me Amy, not just mommy

10. my job- this may sound a little wacky, but at this point in my life it is exactly where I belong!

11. writing- poetry, my WIPs, and blogging

Ohhhh make it 12! Headbands make me happy too.

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Everyone is afraid of something. I’m afraid of water I can’t see the bottom of, driving over bridges, public speaking etc. Even those who proclaim to be fearless have baggage that haunts them at the most inopportune times. Somewhere in the depths of your soul lay the secret fears that cause an ache in your chest. It’s the fears caused by that residual pain of said baggage that burn the most.

I’m afraid of something happening to one of my children. I compensate for this fear by being overly protective at times. Strike that…I am overly protective most of the time. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again- I’m a fierce momma tiger. Mess with one of my cubs and you and I are gonna have issues. You don’t want an issue with me, it’s not pretty.

On another level, I’m afraid of being rejected based on the content of my thoughts, therefore I don’t speak up at times, and shyness overcomes me. Most of my heavy duty baggage is packed to the brim, overflowing with rejection of all types. It gets hard to accept that there could be any other result than rejection after being not good enough one too many times. Sometimes you don’t even need to hear the words not good enough to know that it’s true, you feel it.

My main character in Free Fall just had her heart shattered, which is actually a positive thing. She thought she was heartless, incapable of feeling anything ever again. Her free fall turned into a certain miss. A crash and burn. A pain so striking that it hurts her to breathe. How does one go from a numb and unfeeling soul to complete and utter heartbreak? The answer is simple, yet complicated. The answer is love. Don’t worry boys and girls, she’s one tough cookie. You can read her story one day soon. I’m almost sold on the whole e-publishing thing.

PS- No one is worthless unless they choose to be. Don’t let anyone make you feel not good enough. Here’s a pretty song for ya.

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Below you will find a looking glass into the world of a lost soul named Charlie. She’s about to embark on a path of no return; a thrilling, fierce and heartbreaking free fall.

Ann Smith is the best kind of friend; she tells it how it was no matter how much the truth hurts. And let’s be honest, sometimes the truth burns clean through one side of the soul and out the other. Other times it isn’t as quick, instead it leaves scars reminiscent of cigarette burns all over the heart until eventually there isn’t any space left for healing. If there isn’t any clean tissue to move forward with all you have left is bitterness. And anger. And eventually, hatred.

Verbal word vomit had recently become a problem of mine. My theory is that it stems from years of keeping it bottled, the cork airtight, leaving no room for the truth to rear its ugly head at me. These days, all you have to do is get one little glass of wine in me for the deluge to begin.  What I couldn’t say out loud, not even to Anne, and barely even acknowledge to myself is that I am lost, suffocating in my own skin.

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This is a place of enchantment. It entices you to lose yourself within its beauty. The air is heavy; thick with magic. The earth in this simple garden bleeds the history of spirits who’ve walked these same paths before.  It’s almost too much for a person to experience alone. I’m afraid to blink, for if I do, the magic might dissipate into thin air, and never have existed at all. A person could lose hours of their life just breathing it all in.

I was so enamored with this small part of the earth I claimed as my own magic garden that I almost failed to notice the man perched silently on the stone steps. He appeared to be watching me, laughter caught in his teeth. Red heat splintered its way across my face in embarrassment, and then anger at the blatant intrusion.  I didn’t want to share my new found magical spot with anyone, let alone a stranger in this foreign land. This is supposed to be my time, my path of self-discovery.

“Hello.” The man’s musical voice set my neurons ablaze. Every bit of anger melted away as quick and hot desire forced its way in. I found myself wanting to feast upon the ripeness of his red, wind burned lips. The world lost all sense of reason from that moment on. There is no rational explanation for a complete stranger making me want things I don’t have the vocabulary to describe.

“Hi.” I squeaked back at him, my eyes darting all around to make sure he was really speaking to me. I was merely a speck of nothingness next to the aura of raw beauty he exuded.  There’s no way the lips formed on those lips could be directed towards me. I lost all sense of ownership of the magic. It was he who belonged in its beauty, not me.

“I’m glad someone else stumbled into this garden. I hadn’t planned on spending so much time here. It has a way of drawing you in, some invisible magic perhaps?”

He must be a telepath. Or I spoke aloud instead of merely thinking the same thing only moments ago. I stood rock still, ignoring the now painful desire that had made its home in my loins.

“It’s the way I can feel the air. The way it smells. The green. Can you feel it?” He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he spoke.

How could I not feel it? There couldn’t possibly be enough air for both of us to share. Ripples of sweat formed themselves under my arms and dripped down the backs of my knees despite the crisp air sending its breeze rustling the trees, blowing my hair across my face. I breathed deep to try to catch my own scent. Did I smell? Is that what he was insinuating? Do I have something green in my teeth? Spinach salad from my lunch? Shit. He’s making fun of me.

He stood abruptly, making his way towards me. “Please forgive me, Miss.”

Before my brain could consider the meaning behind his words those lips were on mine, soft at first, then hungrier, delving his sweet spearmint flavored tongue into my mouth. My arms took on a life of their own, wrapping themselves around the broadness of his shoulders. My hips sought out his, digging themselves against him in complete abandon. I pulled away, desperate to catch my breath, but more desperate still to rub my cheek against the roughness of his unshaven cheek, my head settling into the crook of his neck.

“Miss, I’m sorry to have upset you.” The man whose name I hadn’t the decency of asking for wiped tears I had no knowledge of crying from my eyes.

“No, I’m sorry.” I whispered into the wind before turning my back on the flood of uncensored emotions. I did the only thing I was good at, I ran away.

Truth be told, the tears weren’t embarrassment, hurt, or anger. They were tears of honesty, brought on by something I hadn’t experienced up until that very moment in my life. I couldn’t help but smile as I traced my lips with my fingertips, finding them hot and swollen. I burst out into a fit of giggles upon boarding the tour bus that was to take me back to the hostel. I wouldn’t be surprised if a scarlet S tattooed itself across my forehead for all to see.

I skipped dinner and my usual bath accompanied by a glass of wine, not wanting the trace of him to be washed away with the grime that travel and sweat had streaked across my skin. As I found myself flitting off into a dreamless sleep; only one clear thought could be plucked from my stream of consciousness. So this is what passion feels like.

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