I find myself sitting in the front row of a packed conference room. The lights are low, the tension is high.
More than 400 people have come to see Scott Kelby, a renowed photographer and Photoshop guru, work his magic in a one-day intensive seminar.
The lights are still low. The tension is no longer high among the other 399 people...only with me. I have already received four emails regarding work related tasks, a call from an intentionally unemployed close friend wondering what I am doing today, a husband who needs to vent, and elder parents who seek my help in a technology issue.
And the conference hasn't even started.
To make matters worse in my little world, I failed to collect enough change to keep me stocked in DP for the day, so my concentration level would have to go the natural route. I pitied the Mary Beth to my left and a Martha to my right. They had no conceivable idea.
So I look skyward, grasping for the grateful list I was scribing in my head: job that pays for conferences, a car to take me there, a friend who watches over my dogs, and a brain to take in all the wonderful things that is happening in photography, a special love of mine.
I look downward. I have a blue sock and a black sock on. Great...so much for looking hip among all the creative types today.
At least I am grateful to have socks.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Always an I Love You
I look into the mind of the dementia and feel at a loss.
There is someone who is my friend, my mentor, my mother
A woman who bequeathed me her mind, her soul, and her love
She provided me with a breath of life and gave unconditionally as I lived my own
As she watched us grow, she grew as well.
The memories crowd in as fast as my mind can release the flashbacks.
I am scared I will forget them. I am scared she will forget them as I remember them.
Watching me get my driver's license,
Tall ships with Rosenbergers..giving me the $100 from her savings.
Peanut butter on a buttery cracker, placed on a paperplate for backyard picnics.
Holding my hand as I sit at Grandma's funeral, knowing that this woman that holds my hand is the connection between my birth and my death.
Her tears fall as her vision leaves ever so slightly, enough to make her feel lost and unsure.
What can I do she says, and who can I help this way.
It is easier to sit alone, watching the game channel, and to feel the darkness surround me then it is reach through the light and find what is good and left for me to do.
She does not negate what she feels for her children or her husband.
She negates her place with them.
This woman who brought God's love to my heart, and asked me to walk down the aisle
In a church she adopted, is the same woman who is forgetting that God has brought her into this life for a purpose and will not let her leave until that purpose is found.
Always known for her independent spirit, she thrived on her self-initiative, and her travels. She was beloved, and was loved. She was self-driven, and undecided. She was caustic and she was butter in her voice.
My throat tightens as I look toward her face. My grandfather looks back at me.
My eyes gather tears as I look toward her eyes. They are the eyes I see when I need assurance that another day will come and they will be there to talk to, reminisce with, and love.
She wonders if she did something to cause this turn in her life. Did she smoke too much, causing my sister's unfortune, or did she and my father not show enough love not to encourage us having children of our own.
She calls me, says hello…..never forgetting to say she loves me.
There is someone who is my friend, my mentor, my mother
A woman who bequeathed me her mind, her soul, and her love
She provided me with a breath of life and gave unconditionally as I lived my own
As she watched us grow, she grew as well.
The memories crowd in as fast as my mind can release the flashbacks.
I am scared I will forget them. I am scared she will forget them as I remember them.
Watching me get my driver's license,
Tall ships with Rosenbergers..giving me the $100 from her savings.
Peanut butter on a buttery cracker, placed on a paperplate for backyard picnics.
Holding my hand as I sit at Grandma's funeral, knowing that this woman that holds my hand is the connection between my birth and my death.
Her tears fall as her vision leaves ever so slightly, enough to make her feel lost and unsure.
What can I do she says, and who can I help this way.
It is easier to sit alone, watching the game channel, and to feel the darkness surround me then it is reach through the light and find what is good and left for me to do.
She does not negate what she feels for her children or her husband.
She negates her place with them.
This woman who brought God's love to my heart, and asked me to walk down the aisle
In a church she adopted, is the same woman who is forgetting that God has brought her into this life for a purpose and will not let her leave until that purpose is found.
Always known for her independent spirit, she thrived on her self-initiative, and her travels. She was beloved, and was loved. She was self-driven, and undecided. She was caustic and she was butter in her voice.
My throat tightens as I look toward her face. My grandfather looks back at me.
My eyes gather tears as I look toward her eyes. They are the eyes I see when I need assurance that another day will come and they will be there to talk to, reminisce with, and love.
She wonders if she did something to cause this turn in her life. Did she smoke too much, causing my sister's unfortune, or did she and my father not show enough love not to encourage us having children of our own.
She calls me, says hello…..never forgetting to say she loves me.
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