I HATE it when I see my own stupidity so clearly defined in someone else ... I mean, saying things I have, or at lease could have, said - usually referencing years ago. But, the reality is that I am aware that I may still be stupid, because I know I have been stupid. The bumper sticker "Don't believe everything you think" has become my mantra.

These observations came reeling round to me this morning as I perused my Facebook newsfeed and found a comment referring to the death of Dave Brubeck, a man who lived a remarkably creative life, a genius of the music world, and who lived a "long" 91 years. Of that long and productive life, one young man makes a comment, "Most unfortunate. I actually though [sic] that he had died years ago, however, so I can't say that I'm much bothered. Guy was ancient." Oh, yeah, ancient. Yeah, he "though."

Where shall I begin? Somewhere around my mid-30's, I guess. Because that is when I think I started getting a tiny bit of a clue that maybe what I'd "though" all my life wasn't quite lining up right when I actually "thought" about it. I'm not exactly sure what I was thinking before I started thinking, but when I started really thinking I realized I neither agreed nor ascribed to many of the beliefs and convictions I held as true. I started seeing my convictions as intolerant, insensitive, uninformed, immature, and generally illogical. I was startled by these revelations ... but ultimately very glad for them. Life experiences came round to ground me, soften me, humble me, awaken me. Thank goodness I am who I am now, but wait ... what if I still count as intolerant, insensitive, uninformed, immature, and generally illogical?? Life is a cycle of prayer, reflection, evaluation, and self-examination.

The shift in my thinking messed with my head, literally. I simply had never really thought about what I thought about "things of life." Are you following me here? Such things of life as religion and justice. Things such as the teachings of Jesus that caused me to see that everyone else's life is as of much value to themselves and to God as mine is. Things like the fact that opportunity should exist for everyone ... what they do with it is their decision, but they ought to have the opportunity to take it or leave it. And, things such as knowing that while I had worked and planned and done things like I was "supposed to," it was because of More than my own rightness and goodness that I lived a life called Blessed. 

How do I sum it up. No question mark there because it's a rhetorical question ... not one really being asked or expecting an answer because I don't think there is an answer. Except to say that it has taken these life experiences to dispel my belief that life is richest in youth. That what is called "mellowing" as we age is actually a process of becoming wiser. Hopefully age brings to us a knowledge of what and who is important. It brings to us an understanding of the value that is in life ... of any and every age. Perhaps most of all it brings the undeniable realization that even if we live for 91 years, we have only a very, very short time in this world

Recognizing that there is a chance that we are stupid is the beginning of the greatest wisdom. To say that 91 years old is ancient is an insult, maybe uninformed and unintended, but still an insult. 91 years comes round in a snap of the fingers, in the proverbial blink of an eye. Should we live to the greatest extent life in this world has to offer, we still have such a short, short time at best. At "worst," life ends way too soon. Like snow on delicate begonia blossoms, a very natural event but one we're just not quite ready for.

Here's to the joy of being young, but here's to the joy of being wise ... at any and every age.

This morning I named it: We are holding in trust at out home on Russell Street "Our Menagerie of Misfits." The animals that have come to us through various avenues. Denny the dog was brought in as company for Piper the dog who had moved from the wide open country to a fenced back yard. Piper was losing herself back there in the yard by herself for much of the day, so Denny to the rescue. Denny himself had been being held in trust, having been rescued off the road as a puppy, so it was a perfect complement and solution to our Piper problem. Then Daisy the dog, an adorable and affectionate puppy (... a puppy of the giant sort!) was brought round to us, to be held in trust until she could reunite with the one who loves her most. Three dogs in the backyard did not mix well, and Piper began looking lost again. So back to the farm in the country for Piper. Yippy for all!! Thanks to my sister Piper was welcomed back...to be held in trust.

Now Denny and Daisy are in the backyard digging under the fence, making friends with the neighbors and their dogs, crying like lost souls when absent from their humans. No longer is their company of dogs satisfactory. A 24 hour a day human just for Daisy is would make her life complete.

And Meeklo, the former street cat, big snuggy guy with the cute round face is being held in trust at Russell Street, along with his new little companion Ying. Ying is now exiting the kitten stage and is so full of life that the walls can barely contain her.

They all are loved. They all are enjoyed. They all make me laugh. They all make me anxious when I feel that the "enough love to go around" truism is challenged.

In the meantime we are literally giving a home as best we can and celebrating as we hold them in trust. I think they, in the meantime, are holding Frank and me, too ... without even knowing it. Just being themselves. Bless them one and all. Us, too.

When I go to my closet to get dressed I find lots of nice garments, but when I put them together to make an outfit it ends up looking like something I wouldn't choose for myself. How is that possible? I am the person who chose it all to start with!

Turns out some of my best outfits have been from pieces that I never would have bought for myself ... a long pleated wool skirt from my mother's closet, for example. Pieces that come floating into my life that I otherwise might not have given a first consideration, much less a second. Reminds me of some of life's best experiences, the ones we don't choose for ourselves, or that we think miss the mark for what suits us or what we expect. But, there they are, hanging in our closet. Thank goodness.

I've always felt it a shame that my Aunt has without exception been reluctant to have her picture made. She is a woman of delicate grace and strength, always busy serving up life for others in a welcoming way, never calling attention to herself, but always presenting herself in the most elegant of ways. She is gentle and unassuming and a model of southern genteelness and selflessness. I have patterned much of who I desire to be for others in this world after her, as I know many others have. She is a beautiful woman whose charm finds its home in those she is around.

And it is she who shakes my belief that "a picture is worth a thousands words" is true. I recently saw a photograph of Aunt, she who is warmth, hospitality, and grace itself and the photo just wasn't her. How could it be? No voice, no response to the person gazing upon her, no laughter, no sympathy shared. It was then that I realized that though much is gained in photographs, much is simply not present. She, in fact, in the photograph seemed different ... severe even. Not at all a portrait of the woman she is, either physically or spiritually. That causes me to wonder over photographs I have seen of long lost relatives, or people living in a different time than I. I get a visual, but now I know there is an essence of those people that I will never know. It suddenly is a great loss. Though the picture is worth a thousand words, something remains elusive. It seems it takes a living being to convey the soul.

I regret that there are people of great influence in my life whose voice I will never know, or whose natural smile and authentic laughter will never be known to me. Whose presence is lost, a presence that is more than holding a space.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Photographs can capture a moment, can sear the soul. Photographs can propel us to action, touch our soul. And those are invaluable and are as eternal as much as anything of this world ever is. But, to know an individual through a photograph without voice, without warmth, without soul is not possible. That makes me know that we must hear, and feel and truly connect with the people around us as we live.

I can tell you one thing for darn sure, and that is that I would not want to be expecting a baby this day and time ... though maybe not for the same reason you might be thinking. It occurred to me tonight as I was at a wedding that expectant moms of today have lost one of the greatest luxuries of all time of being pregnant - maternity clothes. My gosh, I'd like to wear maternity clothes now just for the pure comfort of it, and I surely would want them at 9 months pregnant and not have to feel like I'm still having to "suck it in." These days the "maternity" clothes are body skimmers, and I simply cannot imagine not having clothes that expand with the waistline over those months. I cannot imagine any feeling of snugness during those months of expanding waistline. Sheesh. I guess the clothes are cute? But, are they really? Are the soon to be moms really comfortable feeling the tightness inside and outside the body as the clothes grab hold of the belly and squeeze? Do these expectant moms go home and slip into something roomy and comfy? Oh I hope so. Live free for a few months ... that's all you get.

Joining with others who share a common vision is oddly not in itself enough to guarantee successful work together. I learned this from working with children in an afterschool music program at the Oscar Mason Center, a community center of the Huntsville Housing Authority. Three years ago when this program was initiated, I realized our greatest challenge was not music education which all the children came desiring, but rather building a place of emotional security and inclusiveness for all the children who shared the common vision. Though this program met in the midst of these children’s community, barriers still existed and had to be broken so that each child was welcomed in by his or her peers. Six weeks passed before we made much progress toward violin fundamentals, but in those six weeks these children learned that music is about listening and when they found a focused point on which to listen, which happened to be the violin beside them in our small orchestra, they became more willing to listen and more apt to hear, and therefore to see and validate and welcome the person holding the violin, no longer hearing just the music, but willing to hear the heart of the player. We must be able not only to speak of our own individual visions, all noble perhaps, yet tinged with what we may qualify as justified pre-existing conditions, but to hear the vision as others speak it. I challenge us to listen and hear the hearts of our neighbors.

Imagine my shock when I numbered an estimated 1,650 people living in the house with Frank and me. Their presence does not bother me, or invade my solitary nature. In fact, they are a comfort, offering advice when I seek it, but remaining quiet and non-invasive otherwise. They help me relax and unwind, or stir up a bit of adventure when I feel like exploring beyond my own experiences. These people help me have a better understanding of those who live in conditions of all sorts and in all directions different from the conditions in which I live - and to know that I am not alone or unique in conditions that are the same. They bring me to outbursts of laughter and of tears, of shouts of "amen!" and to shouts of outrage. My attention to them anchors me in history and propels me to future thoughts.

I sometimes take our housemates for granted, the authors of those books on the shelves, but they have joined our household in a way that shapes our lives and influences us. Frank has taught me that as I have watched him grab just the right book off the shelf to affirm a cause or to validate a thought or to just be surprised with what is presented. What's written inside those books is the essence of the author, a sharing of something from deep within just as confidences might be shared between friends. It is as though there is life present in the books, life standing ready but dormant until opened.

Open up.

"October is national .... " gulp ... I hear the phrase beginning. My stomach tightens, my heart pounds, my attitude changes to defense as I prepare to hear the rest of it regarding the disease that shall, in my household, right or wrong, remain unnamed. Happened this morning as I was watching the video of the WKBT morning anchor who was presenting a response to a critical email she had received. But as she began the phrase "October is national ... she surprised and relieved and rallied me by saying "October is national Anti-Bullying Month." Hmmm. A relief, but also a sort of call to arms that I can better speak to.

I guess what bothers me about Pink October is that though we do gain in funding and enlightenment, and are given opportunities to honor and remember women who have been pounded by this disease, the disease is not going to learn anything from pink awareness.

Bullying, on the other hand - I think we're on to something. I sat beside my husband on the couch this morning and said that I find it interesting that in the Bible there are specific instances of God revealing what is desired of our words and speech, that our lips are referred to frequently in Scripture ... the touch of burning coals to the lips to remove guilt and atone for sin and inspire speech which praises God, and the closing of the mouth of Zechariah when he doubted the words of the angel Gabriel, for example. Until the birth of John was revealed as true and Zechariah could speak praise, his mouth was closed. No bad-mouthing, no mocking of the thought of conception at their old age, or pulling down, or talking in the streets about the message would be allowed.

So that set me thinking about how vitally important what we say or do not say to others makes such an incredible impact. We must be responsible with what we say to or about others. Words can be tools for building up or weapons for destruction. The weapon can be subtle and hidden, veiled in edification for our target's own good, or wide open out there for everyone to see, but what right do any of us have to pass judgement on the other, judgements often based on mere impressions.

Bullying? It is a dangerous thing and I have no tolerance for it. Bullying is happening in families, in churches, in neighborhoods, in schools, in the workplace - there is no place immune. But bullying is something that can be changed with awareness and teaching and building up. Bullying needs proper confrontation, and so I was pleased that the bullying of the anchorwoman was confronted by her husband and colleagues and used as an opportunity to bring to light the hurtful observations of the email. And it brought forward in support many people who most likely would have otherwise remained quiet.

Orange is the color of this October initiative and I will be pleased to see it.

I'm just asking ... can we add wine to that NutriBullet blender mix instead of water???  http://www.nutribullet.com/

How is it that I know how to cast a fishing line? Or hoe and plant a garden properly ... that okra likes it hot and dry ... that squash plants like a little mound on which to grow? How is it I know how to change a tire and to create a wireless network of my computers and printers?  Why do I know a defensive driver does not crest a hill on a divided highway in the left lane? How is it I can recognize signs of trouble in a car engine, could lay roof shingles if I had to, and know what makes pancakes nice and fluffy. Why can I tell when someone looks peaked (pronounced peak-ed)?

I've been thinking lately of the things I, or any of us, know without even "trying." Of things learned without being taught, but simply by being present. It has to do with time spent ... time spent paying attention, or just being present with someone though we may not be fully engaged in the moment. This is why what we do with our time, especially as children but all of our lives, is of such great importance. It was during some of my most irritating times such as blackberry picking with my grandmother in the sweltering, relentless heat of a buggy summer, or stringing up beans in samesuch summer that I now realize I have gained the most. I know things that matter simply by my having "been there." 

Though I applaud the premise, we need to know more than what we learn in kindergarten. We need the knowing of what those three leaves actually look like. We need to know how to sit on the porch every evening before bed at the end of the day ... which actually does end, by the way, for those of us who want to believe and behave as though time is limitless.

And, we all need to realize that we are all teaching with the lives we live and messages we send. Make it worthy.

"Woman." There. I said it. I think I must have been in my late thirties or early forties before I could even say the word. I remember finding ways to avoid using it. Felt so uncomfortable - almost like an obscenity. What's up with that?

Could it be that it meant something that few people, especially me, could really figure out? I mean, we all know what to do with a girl and maybe even how to be a girl. But, a woman? A woman is something that we can't quite fit into a comfortable box. A woman is established, rooted, knows herself and her mind. A woman has lived long enough (regardless of the number of years) to know that life is more than sexuality or physical attractiveness. A woman knows that the opinions of others are of great value, but are not to inflict any feelings of self-consciousness or abasement. A woman lives secure.

I believe men need courses in how to relate to a woman, and women need courses in how to be a woman. It is not an easy thing to grow old, especially as a woman. To know how to claim value beyond youth is critical.

I used to say "you go, girl!" But, I think I'll change it to "you go, woman!"

Ouch. That hurt.

The Pruning has occurred. Financially. Physically. Spiritually. Much of what was is no more, so that the abundance of what is can be fully claimed, separate and Holy, and standing to receive in new ways.

I declare that I will perform a sort of exorcism on myself. Get it out. Get behind me. Be gone.

RE: Get it out.
It has been said that I am a person of little to no initiative. I have been called cold, uninteresting, and ridiculous. My voice has been described as machine like. My parenting skills have literally been "called" into question. My husband has been advised to give me a talking to for the venom I spewed in a conversation. And though I have been taught all the right responses, though I find my value in Jesus Christ, though I live in affirmation and encouragement every day, there is a part of me that still runs those chiding observations through my head many times a day.

RE: Get behind me.
You cannot sway me to believe what you say. No initiative? I have found a way to go to college through full music tuition scholarships and BEOG grants (an attempt to find a way for the seemingly impossible and ask as little as possible from my parents for my education); I paid back to my parents the purchase of a bassoon that paid for said college education; I taught myself to play piano, saxophone and flute; I have performed professionally as principal bassoonist for many years with Huntsville Symphony Orchestra and played 2nd and contrabassoon as well to maintain that love as well as the care for my children; I have stood steadfast beside those three children as they launched into the world; I have founded two music education programs that offer music education for children who could not afford it otherwise; I have created professional positions that have not existed previously - youth director and personnal manager for a regional symphony; I have followed a call to study at Vanderbilt Divinity School; I have driven to Houston to seek medical care for the dreaded disease diagnosed in my husband; I have insisted the physician get me to a surgeon knowing my symptoms were not benign and have said yes to bi-lateral mastectomy without immediate reconstruction so that I would still have the strength to care for a chronically ill husband whose home health care was me; I have taken the reigns of a household budget when I realized the sharp mind of my husband was failing in the final stages of cancer; I have stood bedside and birthed him into Heaven and created a funeral service that brought dignity and honor to him and to Jesus Christ; I have sold a house and moved away and built a house to be caregiver for my aging parents who were struggling and to enjoy life near my brother and sister; I have "come back from the brink of obsolescence and auditioned to win a position at ETSU as bassoon instructor and bassoonist and personnel manager with Johnson City Symphony Orchestra; I have given all that up in faith and returned to Huntsville to be near a grieving daughter; I have called a man I love for coffee because I am not cold. I am passionate. I have initiated reconstructive breast surgery, well into its 15th month now and another six months to go. As for being ridiculous? Good for me. Life without laughter is unbearable and unfulfilled. As for the venom? It's called truth.

RE: Be gone.
This is the hard part. Why do you stay in my mind? Why is it your words that resonate in my head? Why is it that when I doubt myself and need bolstering it is your criticism that I hear and validate?

This is a reminder to self and to others. Speak what builds up. Not what tears down. Words stay in the mind. Mocking becomes sinister. Smiles become evil. Be silent or be true. Be gone.

The "Big Daddy." That's what it was called. A phenomenon similar to the rotisserie chicken incident. That happened when I came off being a vegetarian after 10 happy years. But something changed in me that screamed that I needed meat, so I went to the grocery store and bought two rotisserie chickens - one for my family, and (yes indeed) one for me. Stood at the island in the kitchen and ate the whole thing. And I am not a large woman.

Today it was chicken tenders. Another scream for protein, for healing, for sustenance, for filling a hunger that had not been quieted for several days. I went to Tenders and ordered the "Big Daddy," six chicken tenders, fries, slaw, and a thick piece of buttery toast. I got the "Big Daddy" to have enough to share with Frank ... but ... he'd had lunch, oddly, earlier in the day at a meeting. So we sat at the table and talked while I ate the Big Daddy, politely sliding the Styrofoam box toward his side of the table every few minutes. He took maybe a bite of a tender, and maybe a spoonful of slaw, but I ate the whole thing. Even the bread. I ate the "Big Daddy" all by myself.

They say it makes no sense to name a car. I say if that's the case "they've" never had more than one of the same make or color in the driveway.

The first of mine to be named was a 1987 yellow 240 Volvo wagon. In it, we found ourselves zipping around all over town and in carpool lines to the point that it became known as Zippy to differentiate it from Slick the 940 Volvo, gold in color but enough like yellow to breed confusion. And I nip fixable confusion in the bud. Slick was un-ding-ed (undonged???) and suave and parked at the outer edge of parking lots and then straight home to the garage.

Came time to give Zippy to the first of the children who would drive it and my choice of cars was a Subaru, but that didn't happen when I found a Suburban, so commanding that she became Queen, which helped because Subaru/Suburban ... which are we talking about? Another confusion nipped. A few years later, once the hauling of children and friends and jazz bands and volleyball teams had passed, came the downsize and this time it was a Subaru ... aptly named Superoo!!!!

Funny, then came another car, another Subaru, a stick which represented the freeing of Rhonda, but it had no name. I loved it more than any other in what it meant to me, and seems sad that it merited no name. Is it true after all, that naming a car represents some sort of unfortunate condition of the owner? That once I "found myself" I no longer needed to find a part of my own identity by naming my car? ... naaaaaaaah!! Next car was a sturdy Volvo wagon, black and shiny and a working mule of the automotive world for me, willing and able and not to be pampered ... she's Big Girl.

I recently married a man with a problem son ... a silver Mazda Miata convertible. This car's troubles are not entirely its fault though, I'll give you that. Rear ended at high speed by a drunk driver it's just never been the same. Over the course of about 14 months or so of being in the shop for body and engine repair, and about four months of being stranded in my hometown of Greeneville TN 280 miles away, the day this car became serviceable and Frank pulled in the driveway with it nothing else could be said but, "Bad Boy has come home."

And now's where it gets complicated and I think I prove my point. Still owners of Big Girl, within 24 hours we bought two more Volvos. There are differentiations - 1986 vs. 2002, sedan vs. wagon, 240 vs. v40 - but they are both red, and "the red Volvo" is going to be the prevalent ID and the major source of energy leak and confusion in defining which one. Easy solution ... let the naming begin. I, merely for my intents and purposes call one "Happy," the 1986 240 that has brought something back to us that is needed and grounds us. The other, the red wagon found by Frank for me, is, as I am to him, "Cinnamon Girl."

Insert happy face here.

Hello? 

May I speak with Mrs. Broyles, please? 

May I ask who's calling?

This is a courtesy call for breast cancer. 

I'm sorry, Mrs. Broyles is not available to take this call.

So what is this? Is breast cancer suddenly polite enough to call ahead? Easy answer to that one. Hang up immediately.

Why does "noone" bother me so much? I finally googled it today to see if it meant what I thought it did and to find out if I have been wrong all my life ... like the time in high school the spelling champion confronted the cheerleaders over "A-L-R-I-G-H-T, ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT." That would be "all right," don't you know. Not sure if I'd caught it or not, but I've never forgotten the legitimacy and honor our valedictorian wanted to bring to our school.

I have seen a lot of changes and morphs and some I just face with some degree of "whatever" but noone is messing with my head. How could anyone, and seemingly everyone, agree that no one can so easily become noone. Noone. That's Old English for noon. Urban Dictionary, my help for all the nonsensical letters of communication - lmao - the hippest of the hip and coolest of the cool defines noone as The incorrect combination of "No one." But hey, that doesn't seem to be slowing anybody down. Noone is going to listen.

Each birthday that has a "0" in the ones column generates some sort of anticipation ... yippy 10, wow 20, eh 30, whoa 40, ack 50 ... and so on and so forth. But when I hit 50 I was sooooo grateful to be alive that I threw myself a grand paella party and invited all my most dear and longtime friends. My daughters and sister helped me cook up a storm, rally flowers from the neighbors and help string white lights along the porch - all 600 square feet of it. Celebration galore. But, I was still 50, and lots of life was behind me.

A trip to Puerto Rico less than a year later as a new widow provided a moment when I went to sleep on the beach in the past and awoke, looking through palm fronds to clear blue skies and the future. So as I turned my gaze upon what might lie ahead instead of living so much in what had already passed, The Unit - that's those two daughters of mine and my sister and me - urged me to take a look at what could be some firsts after 50.

The Firsts After 50 list became an official reality with a whitewater rafting trip (a quick aside here based on a typo I just made ... think about what you get when raft is mistyped and the "r" and the "f" are transposed - haha). The list grew to contain my first trip to Europe and my first time speaking French in a French speaking country, making my own bassoon reeds and actually performing on them; learning to drive a stick shift not just in theory but in practice, and owning my own little manual "all-wheel drive to go anywhere" (and did) sporty car; serving as my own contractor and lining up the building of an entire house. A New Year's pledge resulted in finally being able to "turn the corner" on crocheting and I made scarves from yarn from local llamas. I built my first successful fire in a woodstove and became a master of fire building in the big stone fireplace in my house and in our cabin. I cooked over an open fire. I was in my 50's before I allowed the Democrat in me to stand up and be counted. I see these are essentially many things I'd always desired but felt too timid or constrained to try.

My Firsts After 50 list also includes losing my mother. But a few years later I added the joyous first of marriage to my Frank ... his true first at age 58. A honeymoon to Nova Scotia added my first bowl of seafood chowder to my list. I became a mother-in-law. :)

And, I saw Ringo in Nashville and Paul in Las Vegas before it was too late ... for them or for me.

P.S. And, how could I forget!? Another first after fifty ... knowing how to use a corkscrew!

P.S.S. I remember AND have new experiences so, this will simply be the continuing list:

•  a cruise to the Caribbean

•  riding a tandem bike ...

I wonder what Heaven is doing right now. What's going on? Is there a feast? Is there wonder over the struggles below? Does Heaven laugh over my concerns that my spider veins match my Royal Purple robe?

There is so much of Rhonda. There is so much to love and to treasure. So says my beloved husband.

I have showered. But, before, I have drained the tubes. I have measured the output. I have cleansed the wounds. I have dried. I have bandaged. I have held the tubes. I am a woman dressed in a silky crimson nightgown and wearing a silky royal purple robe. Live it and feel it.

My sister named it. We call him "Mr. Possibility." That would be my husband. He is a possibility thinker, my sister says. She named what I knew. Each day brings round new possibilities, and it is a wondrous way to live. Seems like I've read that somewhere before, heard it from the pulpit. But do we usually trust it, or live it?

Oh the wonder of it ... time together every morning, on the couch with devotional reading, coffee and notepads, and "simply musts," and ponderings never left without hopeful outcomes ... always watching to carefully tend a possibility, to find a way in a way that those who give and those who receive are Ultimately Blessed. Mr./Ms. Possibility ... a cavalry to the rescue for those who are sinking.

I am enraged. While I read of politicians who speak to me of familiar and safe political subjects, of inappropriate and dishonorable conduct of the other, of how much more money one party dumps into strip clubs than the other party (strip clubs which represent mutually consensual abuse and which do nothing Positive for anyone), and of retrospective conditions, successes, and failures of the USA, I cannot help but desire better.

You want my vote? Speak to me so that I and thousands of others can find common ground for betterment of all. Speak to me so that I and others quietly reflect on what you have said so that we are inspired to come forward to work with you and for you. Speak to me saying you do not know the answers though you know the needs and the questions. Speak the needs and the questions to bring forth citizens who have resources and passions and desires to implement the answer you may not know.

Speak to the life circumstances of those of us who live in the USA, who gain greatly and beyond measure from living in such a country but who are challenged. Speak to the men and women who have lived a truly honorable life of contribution to family, community, nation, and indeed the global state, who lose enough in later years to need provision. Speak to the unacceptable circumstances and lack of options available to honorable elderly men and women who still look for dignity that they have worked decades to achieve for themselves and others. Speak to parents whose children do not have the option of a path for self-sufficiency.

Speak to me of implementing programs and jobs and corps that serve the employed and care for those in need. Does that go against your politics? The day there are no more physically devastating and disabling diseases, no catastrophic changes to life goals, no lack of opportunity for those who desire it then I might be willing to listen to trite rhetoric from the podium that sadly reflects your current politics.

Right now, I'd simply prefer a collection be taken of what might otherwise go in the G-string. Use it to help someone in another month of rehab or nursing home care or home health or health insurance payment or to awaken a mind.

Elvis has now left the building.

Maybe if I could make them a fashion statement. Tie them up in a scarf, or dangle them like a flippy ponytail, then maybe I would have more affection and patience with my four dear JP drains. Poor little under appreciated things. Can't help it that they are the clean up crew of the surgical process, doing a very important job. I am bored of this. Gotta' paint the old barn every time I go out in public just to feel like I pass for myself. But, I'm getting there.

I couldn't help it. Upon learning that a new acquaintance is a nurse, the Glinda voice invaded my head and my first thought was "are you a good nurse or a bad nurse?"

All nurses work beyond what seems to me to be humanly possible so I really have not exactly a complaint as an observation stemming from my most recent two nights in the hospital.There are good nurses and there are bad nurses. Much of what defines each category can be affected by experience ... some things come only with experience. But baseline nurse entry point should be that they want to be there. If you don't want to be there, please don't try to humor me with your empty presence.

To the Bad Nurses: Folks are suffering dear ones. Condescension doesn't accomplish anything. Disregard, either. Showing greater fear over unexplained bleeding than your patient doesn't raise you in the ranks. Failing to do a little research to find an elusive answer to one of my questions only limits your own development and leaves me feeling like a non-essential being. Truly, we really don't expect perfection. We know honest mistakes happen and that often we simply cannot be the center of your shift. We know the job requires nearly superhuman efforts of intensity for the whoooooooole time you are working the floor. But, if you don't behave as if you care if I live or die, do I really want you bedside? Actually, strike that. You don't even have to care whether I live or die because I can't even begin to imagine being emotionally engaged in your job where loss swoops in regularly. Just don't imply that either/or is satisfactory ... we all want to be rooting for the same goal.

To the Good Nurses: Folks are suffering dear ones. Acknowledging there is a person with presence, history, and at least some sort of future before you lifts a heavy pall. Regarding your patients with honor and respect releases the need we have to prove ourselves worthy yet again. Offering assurance even if all indications are to panic sure does calm the weary soul. And keeping my question with you and coming back to me with an answer indicates to me that your patients stay with you even when you are absent from them, focusing yourself on edification, on the noble, on the helpful. You behave as if you care if I live or die. Thank you.

I'd rather be the oppressed than the oppressor.

She bounded into the room with expectation and energy as though she had just come from another part of our city, the seventeen year old did, and not as though she was one week into a year long exchange program from a country literally half way around the world. She and her fellow adventurers around the table shared with us mentors their fierceness and passion for freedom, travel, wisdom, vision. Seventeen?

Weighing this now, I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that I must have been a total idiot until ... well until just recently. And I may still be fooling myself. Looking back on beliefs and experiences in my childhood and adolescence that both shaped me and "shook my world" I see um, eh, things like the shock I felt when I first saw a woman driving a car with a perfectly able, licensed male passenger. Oh, my. She must be dominatrix. He must not be quite right. And, the only way to outsmart harm and/or death was to never venture beyond - beyond whatever was the prescribed boundary of the known, proven, and accepted.

This experience is good for me, as it would be for everyone. I find myself nearly as shaken by these youths around the table, so far from home, trusting the goodness of people in the USA as I was by that progressive female driver. But, now, I celebrate the shake up.

This image is not often far from my thoughts. Artistically dramatic, representative of a place and time now both physically and theoretically gone it captures a moment when two lives met briefly then parted to divergent paths. I know the rest of the story for the handsome sailor, my father, and the then beautiful city of Port-au-Prince in the country of Haiti, but the story of the little boy is lost to us. Was it lost to him? Does he still live a story?

Just like the search for the kissing couple in Times Square celebrating the end of WWII, or the green eyed girl on the cover of National Geographic I search in my mind's eye for this little boy. I wonder. I hope.

The weight of the world is no longer on my shoulders says the pleasingly full young model in the Playtex bra commercial. Mine neither, honey. The big c took that problem off my chest seven years ago. And for a woman who claimed to not define herself by her body I sure have been doing a lot of that recently.

14 months into a try for reconstructive/restorative surgery I am still hoping ... hoping for success in a return to what was, in a sort of space age plastic way that still seems appealing. First up is that I am grateful for life. Any adversity I encounter I know would gladly be picked up by any number of women who no longer have the option to be annoyed. There is beauty beyond the cultural expectation as proven by my husband who married me before any of this reconstructive process began, and it was not a pretty sight. The feel of the touch of his hands on my chest, though, the warmth, the care, ahhhhhhh ... especially because the only touch since the removal had been the hands of my surgeon on regular 3 - 6 month check ups.

So now whenever there are honorable attempts to educate and enlighten the greater community regarding breast cancer, I am not impressed. I am not interested in the color of healthy women's bras. I am enraged at feeling my own loss again. When I cannot grocery shop or look for shoes or watch a football game in October without having what I live beyond brought to mind, generally in a shroud of cleavage, I am not impressed. Oh, and that "Save the Ta-Ta's" bumper sticker? Last one I encountered in a parking lot after a long shift on my feet at work I felt like taking my key, scraping through it, then taking a BIG BLACK SHARPIE and writing over it "It's Too Damn Late!!!" I mean, really. Really? Can't we somehow do better? Surely.

I wonder what brought her to the front porch that late summer evening. Was it to enjoy the sunset and feel the breeze? Was she there for space and distance, a house grown too small for breath? Was the lure of the porch to sit quietly and watch the slow traffic or to get a pick up from the world beyond? Did she go to the porch to smoke a cigarette and try to shake the day? Was the porch just far enough but not too far? Did she look at the choices of other people in the area? Did she hope something would be different on the porch? Or, did she go to the porch to wait an arrival, to be closer to the embrace?

We can all feel pretty good about ourselves most of the time with tidy observations about ourselves and our own qualifying affirmations about ourselves that give us value and worth - that is until we are caught square in the sights of a four year old, a purely blistering place to get caught. Part of the blistering heat is the fact that the observations are based on fact as seen, not prejudiced with predeterminations of any kind.

It happened to me last Sunday. Two of the little cuties were playing at the bottom of a stairwell. Hey look watch this they say and bound from the second step to the floor, nearly bouncing as they land, so pliable and fresh they are. Ooooooh, say I, wow! I can't do that. We know, one dear one says - because you're old. You're old like my grandma ... and away they went.

Well, fact is, I am at least as old as their grandma, but how could they not be fooled? Don't they see how well I've taken care to get it together every morning to face the day?. Don't they see youthful edge that prompts folks to remark that they don't know how old I am but I look younger than that? Sheesh ...

The hardest part of the sight of a four year old is that it is truly reflective of truth. Am I bothered by a snarly twenty-something who disregards me because I am old? Some, but not as with the four year old. The twenty-something type is loaded with all sorts of disregard - with which I myself was once loaded - and it's easier to chalk their purpose limiting observations of my age up to being their problem. But these guys in the stairwell called it. They still liked me, still thought I had some value I guess. Point was, I just couldn't jump those stairs cause I'm old.

Happy Anniversary!

We say August 15, 2012 is the day things changed. Suddenly everything was clear. We were married again, just a few weeks after our first anniversary. And, just like a baptism, we were married that August day by immersion - immersion into the absurd, the rediculous, the unexpected, the uncertainty, and the need. All good things after all, it seems. This man I had married had chosen me and married me when all my chest held were flat, reaching, scars ... all that remained after the removal 7 years earlier of that which made me (I had supposed) a desirable woman wife.

Two days prior, I had entered the hospital for a two day stay to undergo the LD flap procedure of breast reconstructive surgery. Mind you, this was the sixth surgery of a 14 month quest for breasts. I had been weary and scared and disappointed and frustrated but all the while eternally grateful for life and hope and love.

Anyway, that was on a Monday. Once awake after my surgery, I watched him sleep in the hospital room beside me. Missed him during the short times he was away from my room. Tuesday came and we planned a hospital room date for later in the afternoon/early evening. But then, the bleeding was odd. Too much? Am I bleeding internally? Take my blood pressure! Check my oxygen level! I don't seem to be able to swallow! Is that a normal side effect of anything my body is going through?? I saw tears in his eyes. He left to go to the bathroom. Back by my bedside, calmed a bit, we started examining the planned date, but he wasn't there anymore. Where had he gone? Was this too much? Was the love he affirmed for my self-described half-woman self really more than he could muster?

Yes, yes, pressing presentations looming at work. Yes, yes, must take care of the animals at home. Yes, yes, yes, yes ... Watched a bit of a movie on our date. Fell asleep. Kiss kiss goodnight. Sleep well. Love you.

Then it was a Wednesday. That August 15 day. Time to go home. Coordinate my ride home around his presentations due at 10:00 and 10:45. So glad for the going/coming home! But, where is he? And now, where is she?

We pull into our sweet drive at the front of our sweet house just a couple of miles from the hospital. I am still groggy from the drugs, but not so groggy that I don't catch sight of a big orange cat on our front porch. Meeklo. The big orange cat who is a housecat. Not an outdoor guy at all. And he is on the front porch to greet us.

"Uh, Frank?" "Yeah, I'll tell you about that. Haha. Was going to tell you when the time was right." Entering the house I see a couch cushion resting against a wall. "Well, you see the dogs came in before I was ready for them. And I had to get the cats. And I closed the door and got the cats, but then Daisy the dog pushed the door open and muddied up the couch. And destroyed a pillow. While I was out of the room." Selah. "Honestly, Rhonda, the days did not flow well without you. Life was hard without your presence and your help. I was scared and feeling fear of loss like I have never felt. I couldn't concentrate. Things fell apart."

"Honestly, Frank, the hospital room was barren when you were not with me. I need you Frank. You give me strength and confidence and assurance. And I know you need me.We need each other. We are limping and incomplete without the other."

And we knew it in a new way that August 15. Another anniversary to celebrate.