He was nine when he wrote it – This is how autism sometimes speaks.

Feb5

Compassion comes in many forms, I think on this day, my son’s capacity for compassion and empathy and understanding of a world we so often take for granted shone bright in its innocence and purity . . .

There are those who say autistic people do not have the capability to feel empathy or compassion or relate to the emotional world around them. I know this to be untrue, they may express these feelings differently than others, but they are more than capable of feeling them.

When my children were young we spent many afternoons in the park. Sometimes, when I drive past it, I can almost see them playing there, I hear their innocent laughter between the beats of my heart. One of these outings stands out in my memory, it was a beautiful and brisk autumn day, the perfect kind of day for something special.

Two of my four children are autistic, one is quite social and loves to run and play, the other is very much the opposite. He prefers to be still, watching, listening, taking in everything around him. While his brothers and sister quickly ran out into the open field to play, he spent the afternoon with his arms wrapped around a tree, he wrote this poem when he got home, he was nine years old.

VOICES OF NATURE

The wind chills me
as I walk the path
through the park

I hear a small voice
that is heard with my heart
It says “come to me”

I search for the source
of the mystical voice
there is only a single tree
ancient and weathered
roots exposed to the sun and the rain

The voice draws me nearer
and I see tiny little ants
crawling about
in search of food

I knew it was not them
that called out to me

I look to the top of the tree
the bare branches sadden me
I touch the tree
and feel enormous pain

Somehow the tree had spoken to me
maybe it is my gift

I sit next to the giant trunk
and speak to it for a while
it forgets its pain

I wrap my arms around it
as far as I can reach
I press my forehead
against the bumpy surface
and I think it’s thoughts
and I feel all that it feels
and it is thankful

Wilson Cook

Waking Up is Hard to Do (with apologies to Neil Sedakis)

Feb5

Not a morning person. A morning person, I am not.

Do-do-do yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Waking up is hard to do.

Don’t take my dreams away from me,

don’t make me wake up, I’m so sleepy,

you know I’ll be mad at you,

cause waking up is hard to do.

Remember when you held me tight,

and then we snored all through the night,

think of how we slept right through,

now waking up is hard to do.

They say that waking up is hard to do,

now we both know that it’s true.

Don’t say that this has to end,

instead of waking up,

I wish that were were sleeping in again.

I’m begging you don’t make me rise,

can’t we give our sleep more time?

Come on baby, let’s fall asleep,

cause waking up is hard to do.

(they say that waking up is hard to do)

Oh I know, I know that it’s true.

(don’t say that this dream must end)

Instead of waking up I wish that we were sleeping sound again.

I beg of you don’t say to rise,

can’t we give our dreams another try?

Come on baby, let’s stay asleep, cause waking up is hard to do.

(Yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn) Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn, yawn. Comma, comma, yawn dooby doo yawn . . .

Where’s my coffee?

Crystal R.Cook

Original by Neil Sedakis – Breaking up is hard to do –

Do do do, Down dooby doo down, down. Comma, comma, down dooby doo down, down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down, down. Breaking up is hard to do.

Don’t take your love away from me

Don’t you leave my heart in misery

If you go then I’ll be blue

Cause breaking up is hard to do

Remember when you held me tight

And you kissed me all through the night

Think of all that we’ve been through

And breaking up is hard to do

They say that breaking up is hard to do

Now I know, I know that it’s true

Don’t say that this is the end

Instead of breaking up

I wish that we were making up again

I beg of you don’t say goodbye

Can’t we give our love another try?

Come on, baby, let’s start anew

Cause breaking up is hard to do

(They say that breaking up is hard to do)

Now I know I know that it’s true

(Don’t say that this is the end)

Instead of breaking up I wish that we were making up again

I beg of you don’t say goodbye

Can’t we give our love another try?

Come on, baby, let’s start anew

Cause breaking up is hard to do

(Down dooby doo down down) Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down down Comma, comma, down dooby doo down

Eleventy thousand things, cobwebs, poetic advice, & rhyme.

Feb4

I have eleventy thousand things to do, that’s just a rough estimate, mind you, (eleventy is a thing, my thing) — by my estimation I have time enough to complete approximately three of these things, and this is assuming I remove myself from the computer reasonably soon.

Problem. I would rather write. Or read. Or nap. –sigh-

Of course, writing is among the eleventy thousand things I must do, and for some of this writing, looming deadlines are attached. I’ve already procrastinated past the point of saying it can wait one more day. Today is kind of that day. –ugh-

Since the new bloggy bit I would rather be writing is going to have to wait, I’m dusting off the cobwebs from one of my early posts, which was seen by five people according to the statistical analysis of The Qwiet Muse. Actually, I am going to kind of, sort of, merge two posts together since the subject matter fits, and now that I’ve read them, I find pieces and parts I want to change, fix, adjust, add to, and . . . –argh- no time.

Now I must be productive and responsible and –extended sigh- get to work . . . I am going to need more coffee.

Poetic Perfection?

Is there truly such thing as a perfect poem? What reads like unblemished perfection to one, may not receive the same praises from another. Poetry is a subjective art. There are guidelines a writer can follow which may endear their words to a greater audience of readers. The words of a poem provide the reader sustenance with which they can quell their hunger, but the presentation, the way in which the writer chooses to craft their words upon a blank canvas, is important to a readers palate as well.

A poem needn’t be epic in length, think of the power the words of haiku hold.

Poetry is something which comes from within, composition and form are secondary to the words which will bring meaning and life to the page, but important still. Poetry comes in many forms, perfect to one – nonsense to another. What matters is the author’s voice tickling the reader’s ear through the whispered words of the page.

You needn’t use big words or flowery verse, it doesn’t have to rhyme, and it doesn’t have to be explained; the words and the composition of them should suffice. Writing poetry can be healing, thought-provoking, and at times, profound to both the writer as well as the reader. The perfect poem is the one that touches your soul when you write it, and invites the reader to become one with your words.

The laureate lamented
for her words were skewed,
her altiloquence mistaken
as being quite rude.
Her style clinquant,
her affectation too much,
too many mistakes,
like catchfools and such.
Circumlocution
and too many clichés
made all of her readers
turn quickly away.
What she thought
to be eloquent
was really quite fustian;
due to forced rhyme
she lacked any . . . lyricism?
Pedantry ad nauseam,
not even done right,
left the young writer
feeling contrite.
She vowed to improve,
she promised to change
and pay more attention
how her words were arranged.
Convinced of her talent
she started again,
but was soon held up
by heteronyms.
She stopped and she sighed,
then she started to cry,
for her poetic juices
had completely run dry . . .

CRC

Simply awful with that bit of forced rhyme and the ridiculous use of unnecessarily big words. I must admit though, it was quite fun to write.

Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. If you cannot rhyme well, you shouldn’t rhyme at all. Forced rhymes destroy what may otherwise be a fine piece of work. Rhymed poetry needs to have a rhythm; it needs to flow seamlessly as it is read. It needs to make sense.

If writing a rhymed piece, ideally each stanza should have the same amount of lines; the rhyme scheme needs to be consistent. There are several ways to craft a rhymed poem, once you’ve chosen your style, remain true to it throughout the piece, the jarring effect of switched up rhyme schemes can throw a reader off.

Every line in a poem does not need to be capitalized; many writers tend to do this, for the reader though, it is often hard to distinguish where one thought ends and another begins. A poem can have commas, periods, and question marks. These details can certainly serve to enhance your work; don’t be afraid to use them.

Poetic beauty is personal passion, as it is with any art. There are those who love and admire the work of Picasso and others who are perplexed and not attracted to it in the slightest, yet both recognize the value of the art itself.

Words never rest,
an endless dance
of thoughts
and epiphanies,
which must
be forgotten
or given
life eternal
upon a page.

Words
ease fear,
create terror,
heal, hurt,
make
insanity
the norm.

They never
cease,
they never
fade,
never fail,
never stop.

CRC

And because we spoke of rhyme . . .

Stymied by Rhyme?

To rhyme or not to rhyme, if you choose to rhyme, you must rhyme well, for if you don’t, it will sound like . . . Well, you understand don’t you?

From the Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce – RIME, n. Agreeing sounds in the terminals of verse, mostly bad. The verses themselves, as distinguished from prose, mostly dull. Usually (and wickedly) spelled “rhyme.”

When asked about English words without a rhyme, most will quite correctly say orange, purple and silver. There are actually many words in the English language lacking a partner in perfect rhyme.

If it’s true rhyme you’re looking for, you may want to steer clear of the words: anything, January, stubborn, apricot, dictionary and xylophone. Good luck with chaos, angry, hostage, rhythm, shadow, circus, crayon and glimpsed. Angst and empty, depth and width will be tough to rhyme, just like glimpsed and else and diamond and chocolate. Penguin and galaxy do not have any true rhymes, nor does elbow or engine, anxious or monster.

A perfect rhyme, sometimes referred to as true rhyme or full rhyme, is defined by the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language as; a rhyme in which the final accented vowel and all succeeding consonants or syllables are identical, while the preceding consonants are different, for example, great, late; rider, beside her; dutiful, beautiful.

Pure rhyme can be broken down even further. Words such as dog and log are single pure rhymes. Silly and willy would hence be referred to as double pure rhymes. An example of a triple pure rhyme would be mystery and history.

The longer the word, the harder it will be to find a perfect rhyme, this doesn’t mean they cannot be used in the context of rhyme however. Para-rhymes are defined as a partial or imperfect rhyme, often using assonance or consonance only, as in dry and died or grown and moon. This is also called half rhyme, near rhyme, oblique rhyme, slant rhyme or forced rhyme. This refers to words that do not completely rhyme, but use like sound to form the desired effect. A common example is the word discombobulate, to create a fluid sounding rhyme, three syllables must be utilized, populate would work well as a half rhyme in this instance. Hill and hell or mystery and mastery are examples of para-rhyme.

Masculine rhyme, or monosyllabic rhyme, is among the most common; this technique stresses the final syllable of each word, as in sublime and rhyme, or went and sent. Feminine rhyme differs in that the stress is on two or more syllables such as pleasure and treasure or fountain and mountain. Identical rhyme is simply using the same word twice.

There are various other examples of rhyme; eye rhyme is a rhyme consisting of words, such as lint and pint or love and move with similar spellings, but different sounds. Rich rhyme is a word rhymed with its homonym such as blue with blew, guest with guessed.

Scarce rhymes are words with limited rhyming alternatives like wisp and lisp, motionless and oceanless. Wrenched rhyme is the rhyming of a stressed syllable with an unstressed syllable as in words like lady and bee or bent and firmament.

Internal and external multi-syllable rhymes utilize the rhyming of more than one word, in this example, bleak and seek are internal rhymes; words within the body of the stanza, while night and light are external rhymes and fall at the end of a line.

So she found him
in the bleak of night,
lost on his quest
to seek the light.

Assonance rhyme is the matching of the vowel sounds, feast and feed, fever and feature. In syllable rhyme, the last syllable in each word is matching, pitter and patter, batter and matter. Consonance rhyme is matching the consonants in each word, her and dark. Alliteration is matching the beginning sounds of each word, often used in a series; perfect, poetic, personification.

Many people wrongly assume writing a rhymed poem is an easy task, until they actually try to write one, that is. There is much more to it than seeking words that rhyme, but we’ll discuss it at length some other time.

Crystal R. Cook

The Documentation of Experience -Writing

Feb3

It makes my heart smile when someone reads the words I pen and they resonate with them in some way. I feel blessed when they respond, when I realize the message I intended to convey came across as I’d hoped it would.

Often, I write to share a truth or an insight I’ve gleaned at some point in my life. If it taught me something, perhaps it can do the same for someone else, or at the very least, validate a truth of their own or set them on a path they may not have known was there.

There is something important I wish to impart when it comes to what I give to the page, I am not necessarily going through what I write of in the exact moment I write of it, sometimes, but not always.

A writer’s mind, at least my mind, does not completely maintain a foothold in the here and now. The ebb and flow of my stream of consciousness is forever churning and changing direction, my thoughts rushing in as raging rapids or as gently trickling droplets.

I can think a thought or experience a moment of epiphany about depression or anger or grief during the happiest of times, sometimes I share these thoughts because I still need to learn something from them or simply set in stone what has already been cultivated from the garden of my experience. I share these thoughts in the hope someone may need to hear what I have to say.

Writers can also be a wee bit melodramatic — I once wrote two agonizing pages about fear, anxiety, and what was lurking in the shadows just waiting to get me. In actuality, I was in the park on a sunny afternoon watching my children frolic, yes they frolicked, and when I looked down I noticed an eensy weensy spider coming toward me at a speed which made me slightly less than comfortable; it startled me. I went with it. I didn’t have any curds and whey, so I ran with the whole deepest, darkest fear thing.

There are times I write of lessons learned long ago and my words may convey a sense of the now, when in fact, I have long since moved past that moment. I do this for those who may need to hear it in the now and might relate. I do this because it is a part of my story, it is how I felt, who I am, and how I came to be.

Sometimes I find a few scribbled words scratched upon a crumpled piece of paper I’ve left between the pages of a book, something I once wanted to write, but somehow forgot about, and it all comes back to me, begging to be set free and given its say. I almost always oblige it.

I can travel my own timeline as a silent observer, I take notes and create a written history of the events, the feelings . . . I capture them and breathe life back into them so none of it is forgotten or experienced in vain.

Everything I write is a truth, it may be an old truth realized and finally made tangible in print. It may be something I hadn’t felt the need to share just yet, or perhaps I was simply waiting for the right words to find me.

Maybe those words were just waiting for the right person to share them with.

Crystal R. Cook

Hiding behind a mask – Fooling no one but myself.

Feb2

George Bernard Shaw said – Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world.

I was in hiding for years; I tried with all my might to summon strength enough to pull myself up and into the light of life, but I always seemed to remain imprisoned within the shadows of my heart; at least I thought I was. I realized one day everyone could see me. The invisible walls I thought concealed and contained me were nothing more than an illusion of my own making. My vision tainted by the very mask I’d been using to hide.

Throughout my life I’ve tried on various masks, some were to hide from fear, some from pain, some from memories. None of them ever fit just right, but I slipped each one over my soul, disregarding the discomfort. I became used to it. I convinced myself I donned each mask for the sake of someone else. I fooled myself into thinking I could never be without one.

Horace Mann – Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.

I feared what would be thought of me if the ones I loved knew all my truths, my fears, and my failures, real or perceived. I didn’t want them to see who I was because I had somehow forgotten my real self, I’d buried her beneath unrealistic, self-imposed responsibilities and expectations. I was crushed beneath the ideals of who I thought I was supposed to be. I don’t know how much I missed, how much of me I robbed from those I loved while pretending to be more or less of who I actually was.

Now, I think back on it and I’m not certain what it was I actually feared. I knew they would not stop loving me, but the little voice that so often whispers words only we can hear, told me they would think I was weak. It told me I had to hide, no one could know of my secret shames even though deep down I knew I’d nothing to be ashamed of. But that little voice told me to hide it all, so I hid.

Japanese proverb – Fear is only as deep as the mind allows.

I tried to hide from my family and my friends, but the one I tried the hardest to hide from was myself. I didn’t want to face what I saw as flaws and inadequacies. I turned away from myself so I would not be forced to look upon what I thought were my failures. I thought if I stayed hidden and just played the role of the person I imagined I was supposed to be it would make it all easier. I was wrong.

Confucius – Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

The person I pretended to be was stronger and braver and smarter than I thought I was. The fake self I presented to the world fooled no one but me. The fear and the doubt I didn’t want anyone to see, that I didn’t want to feel, was always right there beneath the surface of my faulty facade. It was the dark that dimmed the light in my eyes. I was wrong to think I needed to hide who I was and how I felt. It took me a long time to realize and recognize my only true fault was trying to hide who I was.

Robert Louis Stevenson – To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life.

It turned out I was human, and it was actually okay to be human. I found my strength in what I thought was weakness. I am stronger than I ever imagined I could be. I found faith in myself through my fading doubt. I still struggle, but I believe in myself more than I ever thought was possible.

My flowing tears were healing rivers and my broken heart mended my soul. There was a time I thought I needed to hold back the flood, that it would somehow drown me, I found instead, releasing it allowed me to breathe again. What I thought was heartbreak was heartache that simply needed nurturing.

Siren Kierkegaard – There is nothing with which every man is so afraid as getting to know how enormously much he is capable of doing and becoming.

Sometimes, I still hear that awful little voice telling me I’m not worthy of even myself. I no longer listen, I choose not to listen and I choose to be who I truly am. I admit to sometimes smiling when I do not feel like smiling, I say I’m okay when I may not really be, but I catch myself. I refuse to allow myself to find comfort beneath those masks even though sometimes, for a moment, they offer a sense of security.

I am on a journey, as we all are, a journey of discovery and change that began the moment we breathed our first breath and will only end when we’ve breathed our last. I am discovering who I am. I am someone who can ask for help and not feel as though I’ve admitted to failure in doing so. I am someone who sheds tears that must be shed without feeling weak. I am someone who cannot do it all alone. I am someone who knows more than she once did, someone who looks forward to what the future may hold instead of fearing it or letting the past dictate where it might lead.

I am someone . . . simply me.

As George Eliot once said, It is never too late to become what you might have been.

Crystal R. Cook

The man of my dreams was the one I never dreamed of.

Feb2

In honor of all the mush-gushy-gooey-lovey-dovey stuff February always inspires, I thought I would dust off an old piece – I’ts simple and maybe a little silly, but it always makes my heart smile . . .

When I was a little girl, I dreamed, as little girls quite often do, of the man I would one day marry. I just knew he would be a super hero. He would have the ability of flight, the power to read minds, and he would obviously be capable of leaping the tallest of buildings. Our lives would be filled with adventure.

Then one day I realized what a silly little girl fantasy that had been, Super hero, ha! I was going to marry a rock star of course. He would have totally cool hair and look amazing in spandex. He would compose epic ballads about our love and dedicate all his albums to me.

One day though, that dream faded as well. I came to realize men simply don’t look good in spandex and I would never want to spend my life with someone who had better hair than I did. I was growing up and my dreams were growing with me, I realized I would obviously need someone quite rich to make me happy.

The older I grew though, the more I simply wanted companionship. I soon concluded unless I met a man who had a huge inheritance, he would have to work all the time to make the big bucks I thought I desired, leaving me alone and miserable. They say money cannot buy happiness and I believe them.

So, I would marry a free spirit, an artist perhaps or a wandering poet. We would hitch-hike the world with only our love to guide us. This was the most fleeting of my fantasies. I’d heard hitch hiking was dangerous; I really hated camping out and the thought of snuggling up after being on the road for a week without a shower was more than a bit unappealing.

So that left me only one choice, I came to the final conclusion I would never marry. I would make my own way in the world without the pressure of finding that perfect man. I was at peace. It sucked. I knew I really didn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life so I decided to simply wait and see who God would send my way.

I tucked my dreams of the man I someday may have married in a little pocket of my heart, keeping them safely hidden away. Those dreams hadn’t crossed my mind for years until one afternoon, while folding boxer shorts and matching up itty bitty baby booties, it hit me like a ton of bricks . . .

It had happened. I was married, had been for some time actually. My dream of a lifetime love had become a reality while I wasn’t paying attention. My dream man can’t fly nor can he leap tall buildings, and thank God he can’t read minds, but he is a super hero of great magnitude in the eyes of our children.

He could never be a rock star, keeping time to the rhythm of a beat is not one of his strong points, he does sing softly with the radio sometimes, it always brings a smile to my heart. His doesn’t have to tease his hair each day and thankfully does not own any pants made of spandex.

He may not be rich, but he works hard to provide for us. The love we share makes us wealthy beyond measure; the happiness in our home could have never been bought.

He is more of a perfectionist than a free spirit. He’s soft-spoken and sweet. He may not be a poet, but his whispered words of love are precious and sincere.

I’m glad I’d forgotten to remain true to my vow of solitude. God, in his infinite wisdom, had sent to me the perfect love and made all of my dreams come true.

Crystal R. Cook

One is silver and the other’s gold.

Feb1

I’ve been a silent observer of life and its many fascinating facets since the moment I was given eyes to see. One of the most intriguing, and I must admit confusing, aspects of it all is friendship, at least for myself. I’ve come to the conclusion having a small, if not very small, close-knit group of like-minded, yet diverse friends is a satisfying and healthy alternative to the dramatic realm of all that comes with maintaining a rather large grouping of friends.

I’m not what you would call a social butterfly, I’m not even a social caterpillar. I’ll stay right here in my cozy little cocoon thank you. It’s not that I don’t desire friendship or that I shun it when it is offered, I simply don’t seem to fit into many of the molds people think friends should fit into. I don’t care to talk on the phone, I don’t care to go shopping and I don’t care to go out with anyone but my husband or an occasional date with one of my kids.

Many of the women I meet have younger children, my days of parks and play dates have passed. My children face challenges a lot of people either cannot or do not want to understand. Being an autism mother sets you apart from the crowd much of the time. I don’t mind, they say good friends are hard to find, and they are, especially when your life is filled with the trials and triumphs that come along with having special needs children.

Throughout my life I haven’t had many friends, just a select few, including my mother, the best friend I could have ever hoped for. The treasured few friends I have in this life are far in distance, but close in heart. I have mostly memories and mementos I treasure, remembrances of the friends I have been blessed with in this life. Truthfully, I’ve always kind liked it that way. I never thought I needed anything more.

I wasn’t looking when new friendship found its way to me, I was hesitant at first to open myself up to a group of new people, I will forever be thankful I did. Before I met them I used the internet for research, for fun and distraction, now, it is my lifeline to old friends and new.

Like I said, being a mother with special needs children makes for difficult connections sometimes. I found myself in an online group, an autism support group. I thought if anything, I could help others who were following the same path I had traveled since my children were born. I never expected to find support or encouragement for myself, I only wished to give it.

What I found was unexpected and amazing. They embraced me and drew me in, we became a family as we pointed and clicked our way forward. I will never have words enough to thank them for being there for me when I didn’t know I needed them to be. That was years ago, they are still there for me as I am for them. It’s a different kind of friendship, we don’t hang out or have weekend barbeques. We don’t power walk at the mall or go for coffee in the afternoons, but we are always a click away from each other. In recent months, I have found myself immersed with and surrounded by another bastion of new characters I think safe to call my friends.

For me, this beautiful, distant connection is perfect. I am not like most women. I do believe friendship is a wonderful thing, in moderation.

I am not one of those women who have a phone directory filled with names and numbers of people I like, don’t like, tolerate, get the good gossip from, always asking for favors or any of the other unknown reasons women flock together for. I’d blame it on my years of being a military wife, seeing people come and go in and out of our lives, but I know it has nothing to do with that. I was like this even as a small child. I wasn’t anti-social, I just preferred my books. I would rather sit down and write a story than go out and ride bikes on most days.

I’ve always held tight to my beliefs and stood strong on my convictions and that hasn’t changed, but it has changed the people who choose to stay in my life. I have high standards when it comes to the people I allow in. I’m not referring to social status, financial brackets, looks, background, race or religion. I am talking about character and I have found a lot of people just don’t have any.

I want friends who are not afraid to disagree with me and still stand beside me regardless of our differences. I want friends who will give as much as they receive and I want friends who will accept me for who I am just as I would accept them. I want real friendships, friends who do not pretend to be one person in front of me and then another in front of someone else.

It seems to me, through observation, people tend to change ever so slightly (some not so slightly) when in the company of varying friends. I find it odd to watch the dynamics which take place within large groups of friends. Too often I see underlying jealousy or subtle sabotage taking place. I see heartache and desperation when one is wronged and the others are left not knowing which side to cling to. It’s all a bit too much for me.

I do not easily open up and trust, when I do, it is wholeheartedly. I have been hurt because of this, but I have also been blessed with the purest of friendships because of it. I don’t know when or where my next friend will cross my path, I do not know if it will be a forever friendship or a wonderful passing gift. I am not in a hurry to welcome new people into my heart, but if someone comes along who can measure up to those who have come before her, I will with open arms. She will have big shoes to fill for they have been well-worn by angels.

Crystal R. Cook

Ready to get compassionate?

Feb1

It’s February, and that means we are one month closer to warmer weather, and more importantly, it also means February 20th is right around the corner! On that day, the 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion crew will begin spreading compassion across the interwebs like a wildfire.

Actually, they’ve already begun. You may have heard of us or seen #1000Speak somewhere while surfing the net, if you haven’t clicked on it, googled it, or become a voice, you might just want to give it a look-see. We would love to hear your voice.

What does compassion mean to you? Have you witnessed compassion in action? Have you been compassion in action?

Tell the world about it!

Sometimes, when so much of what we see is negative, we feel like there is nothing we can do to change things. It’s all so big and we are so small, but here’s the thing . . . It only takes one small act to brighten one persons world, to change it for the better. It takes one helping hand, one moment of understanding, one-act of compassion.

Imagine the difference we could make if everyone took up the mantle of compassion, if the ones they touch do the same for someone else and it creates a beautiful spark, suddenly — hearts are on fire.

You don’t have to be a member of 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion, you just have to incorporate compassion into your life, into your world. Of course, we would love to see your stories, your thoughts, and feelings — On February 20th share them on your social media, let your friends and family know you are going to be a part of the change this world so very much needs.

Share a story, a favorite quote, a picture . . . tweet to #1000Speak, share your thoughts on compassion and get out there and put it into action.

Crystal R. Cook

If We Were Having Coffee . . . Again

Jan31

Comfort zones, caves, and stepping out. A little.

Jan31

These past few weeks have been a whirlwind for me, I’m a little overwhelmed in many ways. I ventured into the cyber world further than I ever thought I would and have made some amazing connections. Some of which I can already tell will bloom into more than passing acquaintances, I’ve found a few kindred spirits and friendships have began to blossom.

It is strange and amazing and I am thankful for it all, but still . . . It is new and maybe a little bit scary.

I am doing my best to embrace this new aspect of my life, I actually think I am doing quite well with it all, but there is a part of me that just wants to crawl back into my little cave and shut tight the door behind me, locking up all the little locks I use to keep the world from coming in.

I’m not going to, not today, hopefully not ever. If I do retreat, and I likely will, it will hopefully only be for short spells when I need to reflect, rejuvenate, and catch my breath.

I’ve been given an opportunity to expand my corner of the world, to branch out and see what there is to see beyond my own horizon. It’s beautiful and vast, parts of it I cannot wait to explore and other parts I already know will remain distant territory I will not be journeying to.

These new people I am encountering — some of them are so very different from me, yet with each one, despite these differences, there is a single thread somewhere in our own unique tapestries which sort of weave us together.

There is part of me feeling so far out of not just my comfort zone, but my league. I am reading the words these weavers of thought create and I find myself thinking, wow, I wish I could do that, and then one of them will comment and say, I love what you’ve written, I wish I could do that, and I am left in a state of shock and amazement.

I haven’t yet figured out how to manage my time and my energies, new projects are being presented to me, all of which I want to accept with a resounding, Yes! I would love to contribute! But how to choose and when to find time enough to dedicate just the right amount of me to these things is tricky.

Baby steps. I have to simply take baby steps.

Thanks for keeping me company as I find my way.

Crystal R. Cook