Gifts I would give to you.

Jul11

1911- H. J. Haverman

I long to capture

the echo of the wind,

and the first ray

of a morning sun.

A handful or two

of fluffy clouds

after a storm has come.

The melody of a song

and the silence

of whispering

angel wings,

the gentle sigh

of a day gone by

and so many

other things.

I want to scoop up

the watery diamonds

that dance

with the reflection

of the moon,

and wrap them all up

in paper and string

and give them all to you.

I love you mom . . .

#BeReal – Always

Jul10

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This one is difficult for me . . . I have what you might call a few ‘issues’, when it comes to the way I see myself. I’ve never been too concerned with how others see me, I doubt anyone could judge me as harshly as I do myself. In some ways, this makes me a complete hypocrite. It does. I think people are beautiful, I truly do. It breaks my heart when I hear someone criticizing themselves, and yet, I do it to myself all the time.

When I look into a mirror or see a photograph of myself, I see a distorted version of the me everyone else sees. It’s called Body Dysmorphia. I don’t like what I see. I’m trying especially hard these days to combat that nasty little voice inside my head that likes to turn mountains into mole hills, or in my case, a mole into a mountain.

Realistically, I know what I see is an illusion, but emotionally it’s as real as anything else. I suppose we all suffer from this to an extent, we can all pinpoint things about ourselves we might consider flaws, things others would likely never even notice unless we pointed them out. I’m trying not point mine out, especially to myself.

This week, a fellow blogger, HastyWords, (beautiful both inside and out) issued a challenge in response to a challenge and it resonated with me, scared the crapolla out of me too because it involved sharing photos of yourself. Cue anxiety. I could have ignored it, but that would be giving in to the stinkin’ thinkin’ that keeps me in hiding.

The Facebook post that started it all –

“The ‪#‎dontjudgeme‬ challenge makes zero sense to me. The before or after have nothing to do with anything real.

So I think the point is… You try to make yourself as undesirable as possible so you can shock us with your best possible self?

I mean it’s harmless right? But really it’s just another way society is focusing on the wrong things. How about just don’t judge me period.”

You can visit her blog, here, to read more . . .

And on The SisterWives, read Lizzi’s post, In a world so quick to judge, just #BeReal.

So – I am sucking it up and getting real. Too real if ya ask me . . .

Obviously – Not a fan of mornings!

In this world of filters and Photoshop, true beauty has been replaced by an unrealistic ideal of what makes a person beautiful and it’s harmful . . . it’s just not real. The women we see on magazine covers have been airbrushed all over, thinned here, and elongated there. Their hair isn’t that thick, their skin isn’t that smooth, their teeth aren’t that white, and their bodies aren’t that toned. It’s not real.

Ready to #BeReal and show the world what beautiful really is? Share your real you, your everyday you, time to shine lovelies, shine.

They said . . .

Jul9

When they told me
he would never talk,
I taught him to sing.

I mimicked his little sounds
until he began to mimic mine.

When they told me
he may never walk,
I taught him to run.

I put his little hands in mine
and helped guide his feet
toward our goal.

I fell to my hands and knees
and raced along
the floor by his side.

When they said
he would not read,
I began showing him words
and teaching him sounds.

When they said
he would not write,
I gave him a crayon
and said you can,
and he became a poet.

When they said
he would live
in his own world
I opened the doors to mine
and waited for him to enter.

Now when they say things
I raise my voice to the heavens.

God hears me
and gives me strength
to help him overcome
the limitations
they say await him.

Crystal R. Cook

Purse Post

Jul9

I’m a follower . . . of blogs. This morning I happened upon a fun post over on Part Time Monster, she runs a weekly feature called The Thursday Thirteen, a themed list of various things, 13 things (obviously). This week, her list consisted of things you can always find in her bag or purse.

I’m lazy and uninspired today, and I have a purse. For these reasons I felt compelled to copy and share, so I dumped out the contents of my purse and snapped a picture. I hope she doesn’t mind me piggybacking on her idea . . . imitation is the greatest form of flattery, right? So says Charles Caleb Colton anyway.

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Just yesterday I cleaned out my purse, so all the crumbled receipts, loose change, gum wrappers, and other miscellany that typically find their way into my bag is thankfully not pictured. It can get pretty messy in there.

So what am I left with? The important stuff . . .

1. My Wallet. I love this wallet. It fits everything I need, nice and neat. I’ve had about a dozen different wallets over the past ten years or so, they all sucked. I like this one.

2. My Insulin and my blood tester. I never leave him without them except when I forget them.

3. Glucose tablets. These have the ability to save my life so they are ALWAYS in there.

4. Pepper spray. You never know. I have a couple of knives in there as well. Again, you never know. Plus, they come in handy when you need to cut a tag off a new pair of shoes.

5. Itch cream. Diabetic skin gets mighty itchy sometimes.

6. Pens and a notebook. Always. The terrible thing is, I sometimes forget my insulin, but always have a notebook and a pen handy.

7. Books. I take a book everywhere.

8. Reading glasses. Gotta have them or I can’t read my book.

9. Eyeglass cleaner wipes. Gotta have them or I might not be able to use my glasses to read my book.

10. Gum and lip balm.

11. Toothpick thingys. I can’t stand having anything in my teeth.

12. Hand mirror I never use.

13. Little catch-all owl pouch. Holds my fingernail file, nail clippers, and some ear plugs.

So there you have, crap that’s in my purse.

At least I posted something today . . .

My Silver Love has Been Lost

Jul8

It’s gone, this time for good I fear. I’ve searched everywhere, and it’s just . . . gone.

It may seem a little silly to get weepy-eyed emotional over something so many may see as nothing more than a throw away object to begin with, but to me, it was more than that; it was a mighty weapon in my personal arsenal, serving as both shield and sword; confidant and companion.

It served me well, beautifully well.

(View original – June 15, 2014)

My favorite pen fits perfectly in my hand. Sleek silver shell, slightly cold at first until warmed by the words it will ink to a page. It has substance, not too heavy, not too light. It knows everything there is to know about me, it has written of my innermost thoughts and wishes and dreams. It’s shared in my heartache and rejoiced in my joy. With my pen in hand we waltz across the page, dancing with words to music no one else can hear.

It didn’t start out as my pen, it belonged to another, who, I have no idea. How I came to have it, or how it came to have me, I can’t recall. One day it was just mine, it became an extension of my soul. When I first touched it to a blank page, I watched the dark, black ink seeping into the stark white paper and I saw pure and perfect beauty. Never has a pen touched the page so softly, leaving such a smooth trail of elegance wherever it goes.

My children often try to take it; my husband seeks to steal it away from me. My perfect pen is wanted by all. I carry it with me wherever I go. I’m not the type to lie, but if someone asks if I have a pen they can borrow the only answer there can be is no. It’s not really a lie because my pen is so much more than just a pen; It’s my partner, my confidant and my friend.

I’ve used many others, but this one has something they did not, I know not what it is, but I feel it when I hold it in my hand. Some may not understand, I don’t quite understand it myself, I simply know it is a special pen. I wonder what hands have held it before. I wonder if they knew what a treasure they held. I wonder if they search for it still.

I hope to keep it always; I doubt I could ever find another good enough to take its place. Is it odd to hold such attachment to an ordinary object, one disposable to most, irreplaceable to me? My pen is my pen; I’ll care for and keep it as long as I can. It has many more words to put on a page.

Crystal R. Cook

The origin & etymology of Qwietpleez

Jul7

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I’ve been asked several times why my blog is called The Qwiet Muse, and have also recently been informed by a few folks that I spelled quiet wrong, (just in case spell check didn’t catch it). So sweet. To put those helpful minds at ease, I spelled it that way on purpose. Spell check has been my saving grace on many occasions, however, this one I fought it on.

Words, as you know – must know, or should know, often have more than one meaning; you may think of the word muse and envision some mystical, magical creature of beauty floating overhead, gently guiding along inspiration. But believe me, if some ghostly apparition ever stops by for a brainstorming session, I’m outta there. I’m running and writing about it later (and elsewhere).

Muse can also be defined as an instance or period of reflection, a source of inspiration . . . My particular muse comes from everything around me; my faith, my family, my friends. My muse exists in all the wonders of God’s creation and in my unique human experience.

The Qwiet Muse is a reflection of me. It’s derived from my original screen-name, qwietpleez, and muse for my inspiration; the reasons I write.

Onto to origin and etymology of, ‘qwiet‘ –

qwi-et [kwahy-it] adjective. Basic definition – the same as quiet. It’s the same word, with the obvious distinction of containing a W in place of the U.

making no noise or sound, especially no disturbing sound: qwiet children.
free, or comparatively free, from noise: a qwiet house.
silent: Be qwiet!
restrained in speech, manner, etc.; saying little: a qwiet person.
free from disturbance or tumult; tranquil; peaceful: a qwiet life.

verb form
* to make qwiet: Qwiet down in there, or else!
* to make tranquil or peaceful; pacify: to qwiet a crying baby.
* to calm mentally, as a person: There, there, be qwiet now.
* to silence: Qwiet!

Origin: 1997; English(ish). Derived from (adj.) Middle English quiet < Latin quiētus, past participle of quiēscere ; (v.) Middle English quieten, partly derivative of the adj., partly < Late Latin quiētāre, derivative of quiētus.

*credit and apologies to dictionary.com

Historical Account:

In the summer of 1997 a young mother (me) was creating her first AOL.com email account. Her beginning attempts all failed, the names she chose were unavailable. She wanted something witty, something fun, and memorable. After several hours and many unsuccessful attempts, her frustrations began to rise, as did the playful rambunctiousness of her children.

Her attempts at quieting them were equally unsuccessful. Finding it increasingly hard to think, she found herself repeatedly requesting silence. Calm down, lower your voices, hush, go to the other room, knock it off, zip it, chill out, and other such requests went ignored.

Her final, shouted request, not only stilled the room of sound (for a moment), but became her victory at the keyboard as well.

“JUST BE QUIET PLEASE!”

She was filled with trepidation, dreading another ‘unavailable’ message but she pressed on, one key after the other. Q w i e t p l e e z. This was it. It was perfect. Her finger hovered over the enter key, she closed her eyes and pushed it. When she opened them, the message said ‘success’!

So there you have it . . . oh, by the way. I realize please is spelled wrong, I like it that way.

I hate bipolar.

Jul6

Hate is a strong word. It wields an ugly power I don’t care to tap into, but right now I hate bipolar. I effing hate it. I hate what it does to my beautiful son. I hate what it does when it rears it’s ugly head and cycles through our home like an unyielding tornado, leaving destruction in its wake.

Tornadoes appear and disappear so quickly, there’s no time to prepare, to take shelter. No time to shield yourself, and then they are gone as quickly as they came.

They never even look back at the damage they’ve done . . . they just move on.

I hate bipolar.

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Rage lashes

unexpected

unprovoked

gnashing teeth

claws extended

striking blindly

Distorted thought

unbridled emotion

strike

and then . . .

Silence.

Breathe.

It curls up

in the debris

Purring, it sleeps

cradled

in your arms

Cyber Bullying – Parental Responsibility – Close the window.

Jul6

cy·ber·bul·ly·ing

ˌsībərˈbo͝olēiNG/

noun

– the use of electronic communication to bully a person, typically by sending messages of an intimidating or threatening nature.

They Intimidate, oppress,

torment and tease,

they harass and antagonize,

they frighten with ease.

They tyrannize and dominate,

they manipulate, and mock

hiding like cowards,

they skulk and they stalk.

They dishearten their victims,

they hide behind screens,

they use words to provoke

without being seen.

They torture, exploit, and abuse

they taunt and badger and berate,

they demoralize and exploit,

and they use.

They bother and ridicule,

They disparage and criticize,

in cyber shadows they lay in wait

for someone else to victimize.

Words are powerful, more powerful than many give them credit for. They can inspire and heal and fill the world with beauty, but they can be a double-edged sword, easily manipulated to cause pain and inflict misery when wielded by someone with an ugly heart.

Words serve the wicked as weapons as they cowardly hide behind a cyber shield of anonymity. The prey upon the needy, the weak, the hurt, the young, the innocent. They click away at keyboards, wounding their victims one keystroke at a time.

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Parents need to educate themselves, they need to communicate with their children, they need to teach their children how to handle a cyber bully situation.

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Parents . . . you NEED to know what your child is doing online. What sites they frequent, who they are communicating with. It’s OKAY to insist on having passwords.

It’s OKAY to limit access and place restrictions on their computers and phones and game consoles. It’s OKAY to check your child’s history and internet usage. It’s OKAY to check their text messages.

As a matter of fact, it’s VITAL.

Until your child is 18 years old, it’s your RESPONSIBILITY to protect and teach them.

cyberbullying

– Don’t let your child become a victim –

A personal note on PRIVACY

While my children were growing up, privacy meant closing the door when you bathed or got dressed. Privacy did not extend to their online activities. At all. If I didn’t have access to their devices, they didn’t get to have the devices. Period. I reserved the right to block, monitor, and investigate . . . until they were 18 years old.

It is NOT an invasion for a parent to check in on what their children are doing.

We live in a world where the bad guys – the pedophiles, the perverts, the rapists, the bullies – can sneak into our children’s rooms anytime they like. They can ride the school bus with them, sit in their classrooms, and tag along to sleepovers. There is an always open window for them to climb right in without ever being seen.

I took great care to keep my children safe from these kinds of real-life monsters, the ones on the other side of their computer screens are no less real, and no less dangerous. Talk to your kids, just talk to them. Set boundaries. Let them know they can talk to you, tell you anything. Make sure they understand the dangers that lurk in disguise and what to do when they recognize them.

Give your children power over them by being present, and aware, and vigilant. I said words were powerful, and they are, but they can be silenced. They can be ignored . . . teach your children how to listen to them and learn which ones really matter.

Bumpy ride, 18 gauge, 5150, it’s okay to say the V word, and people listening.

Jul5

I don’t have a tumor, so that’s good.

Today I am a little less dizzy, the world seems to be righting itself – the world as my body has been experiencing it for the past few days anyway. The rest of the world is still on a tilt-o-whirl of crazy, but, whatever.

images (6) This week my first trip to the ER was by ambulance. Talk about a bumpy ride. It seems to me those things should have some sort of super suspension with air-glide shock technology or something. Aside from the jarring ride, being in an ambulance was difficult for me. I kept thinking about the other people who had been strapped to that same gurney, looking out those same, dusty back windows. I couldn’t help but think about the reasons they had taken that same ride. I found myself sitting in prayer for them and for whoever the next passenger might be.

I was glad when we finally arrived at the hospital. For the most part, I simply sat in the bed waiting for someone to come check and re-check and re-check all my vitals most of the day. I may have drifted off for a few moments a couple of times. I willingly let them take as much blood as they wanted and joked around with the nurses. I was there because my day had begun with a dizzy spell and a pretty low blood sugar. If it hadn’t have happened while at my doctors office, I would have stayed home and tried to rest it out.

After a long, long day I was able to go home. I did not want to spend the night there. At all. If I had though, we wouldn’t have had to drive right back in the next morning. After returning home, the dizziness returned and didn’t go away, by morning we were off to the ER again. When we got in the truck and began pulling out of the driveway, my husband started laughing. Rude, right? No, actually, it was because of the song on the radio. Vertigo, by U2. Haha radio DJ man, good one. How did you know?

Day two sucked. I had sticky tabs all over me. One hole in my right arm for an IV, nice little small gauge needle, and another for the CT dye in my left. Not a nice little small gauge needle. Nope. A giant 18 gauge piece of metal. Ouch.

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This one actually hurt more than the larger one.

This is actually my favorite place to have an IV inserted – Yes, I have a favorite place for IVs.

I wasn’t allowed to use the restroom alone either. It isn’t easy to pee in a cup with an audience. You didn’t need to know that, but now you do. That’s what happens when you read blogs I guess.

So I spent two full days sitting in the ER, people listening. It’s like people watching, one of my favorite pastimes, but without the benefit of seeing the faces and body language of those around you, your mind has to fill in those missing pieces. In some ways, it’s much like reading – the book is always better than the movie.

The people I listened to became characters in my own story, I saw them through the little noises they made, the rustling of their sheets, their interactions with the steady stream of doctors and nurses that came and went like a slow moving tide through the ER.

Detox Rick was in the bed next to me. He didn’t want to be bothered. He was relatively quiet until the psych team Drug-Alcohol-Rehab-Peru-Indiana-Treatment-Center-Withdrawal came by to chat. He said he came in because he couldn’t handle the life he was living anymore and wanted to detox himself. From what? they asked. Alcohol. How much do you drink? they asked. He said a fifth every couple of days. When was the last time you drank a fifth? they wanted to know. Yesterday at 11 am, he told them. The docs asked him where he lived, he said downtown. Homeless. If you drink a fifth every couple of days and live downtown, that typically means you’re homeless. They let him sleep. I sat in my bed and prayed for him.

53a06201a56dd_-_flowerpussy_xl Modest Sarah who couldn’t bring herself to say the word vagina was in the next bed over. She told the docs she maybe had a rash or something on her upper thigh. Turns out upper thigh meant vagina. Down there, she called it. She sounded young and rather mortified. I quickly diagnosed her with a UTI after she described her symptoms. So did the docs. She left without medication though, she had a plane to catch. I sat in my bed and prayed for her.

Fifty-one-fifty. 5150. She was not a happy camper. At all. I could hear her hollering in the background when the call snake-pit came in from the EMTs to let the ER staff know they were inbound. She was even less happy when they arrived. She screamed and fought and bellowed. She cursed the nurses, she told them they were incompetent. She didn’t think any of them were registered to be nurses. They managed to calm her down, for brief spurts of time anyway. At one point, she screamed so loud and so long it scared the crappers out of me. It was fear. Real fear. The kind of scream you hear in the movies. “You’re trying to kill me again!” I sat in my bed and prayed and prayed for her.

There are more to these stories to tell and more stories aside from them, but they will have to be saved for another time, the screen before me is beginning to waver and the nausea has returned. Vertigo sucks. I’m so thankful to be home . . .

We aren’t accepting applications at this time. I wonder why?

Jul4

My son decided to go out this afternoon and get some job applications. Thankfully, he changed his clothes before he went – he had the foresight to realize the shirt he was wearing wasn’t the most appropriate for the task at hand. I was really proud of him . . .

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