Tears & Tulips – My own Holland

Apr1

 

I started writing a post this morning to kick off Autism Awareness Month, but I stumbled upon this one from 2011 and since I’ve not consumed nearly enough caffeine yet this morning, I’m going to start with this one . . .

I haven’t always liked living in Holland. I’d like to visit Italy, just for a day. There’s a part of me that feels a little guilty saying that, but I’d be lying if I said I never felt it. I’m sure many of you already know what I am talking about, for those of you who may be thinking I’m nuts because I don’t actually reside in Holland, not the real Holland anyway.

April is Autism Awareness Month, for some of us, every month is Autism Awareness Month. Every week, every day, every hour, every minute, every second, every moment, we are very aware of autism because someone we love is autistic.

Why Holland? Because in 1987 a mom named Emily Pearl Kingsley wrote a moving piece about having a child special needs child. Her analogy has touched many hearts.

Her Holland may be different from mine, different from yours, but the her trip resonates in some way with just about every special needs parent I’ve ever known.

Her description is about the experience, the moment you realize your forever plans have been forever changed, and while those plans you’d made would have been wonderful to experience, the unexpected upheaval of them can be a whole new kind of wonderful.

Welcome to Holland brings tears to my eyes every time I read it. The first time I read it In 1989, was ‘planning my trip’ to Italy. I was consumed with everything I would do while I was there.

I never made it to Italy.

You know what? My Holland is beautiful and I’m thankful to live amongst the tulips, but I’ll admit, every now and then I wonder what it would have been like if I had just made it to Italy. I planned my trip more than once and each time, I arrived in Holland.

I can say now, with hesitation, if I had the opportunity to go back and choose my destination, I would choose Holland. I know this without a doubt in my heart. It’s not always an easy place to live. People from other places will often come here for a visit, but some of them make you feel like you aren’t good enough because you’ve never been to Italy or to Paris. They never stay long though.

There are other visitors too, ones who arrive with love and acceptance and a willingness to learn the culture, they make my heart soar.

Some days I’m sad. I watch my boys try so hard and when they get knocked down it hurts. I know I can’t keep it from happening, they need to fall if they are to learn how to stand, but sometimes I swear if I could carry them, I would.

I don’t think sad is the right word. I’m not sad. I’m not angry, and I’m certainly not mourning. I’m not sure there is an actual word to accurately describe what happens in my heart sometimes. I am so proud of my boys. They face trials and hurdles every day, more than some people face in a lifetime, and sometimes I look at them and it just doesn’t seem fair. They shouldn’t have to work so hard while others sit on the sidelines, not even cheering them on.

Not everyone sees them the way I do. They avert their eyes or stare accusingly at them, at me. Maybe if everyone could just visit Holland and give it a chance . . .

People tell me how strong I am and how much they admire me, I just want to tell them I’m not really that strong person who can handle everything all the time. I get tired and I cry and I feel weak. They don’t truly reach out because they think I can do it on my own. I feel alone and hurt. This feeling though, is thankfully fleeting.

There will always be days I just have to fall upon my knees and ask God to renew my strength.

HE always answers my prayers and sends angels my way to lift me up and wrap me safely within their wings until I can stand. My children are my greatest source of strength and when I am at my weakest, I look into their eyes and find it.

How can something as fragile as they be so strong? I wish I had the fortitude they posses. At times, I envy them their innocence. It shields them from much of the pain the world tries to inflict on them.

I know the day will come when that innocence won’t provide the protection it does now, I just hope and I pray I am able to help them learn the skills they will need to protect themselves from it all and I will be able to instill in them such a strong foundation nothing will be able to uproot them from where they stand.

I have faith and I believe with everything in me they will be okay, God would not have given them to me if he didn’t think me worthy of the job. Maybe it’s the other way around. Perhaps they were sent here simply to teach me. I’ve already learned more from those boys than I could teach them in a lifetime.

I’ve tucked my old itinerary away in a special place, it’s been so long since I’ve taken it out, I’ve forgotten where I put it. When I am tempted to try to find it, I go out to play beneath the windmills. Holland truly is a beautiful place. I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else . . .

Welcome to Holland by Emily Perl Kingsley (c)1987

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this……

When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”

“Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.”

But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around…. and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills….and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy… and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away… because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But… if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things … about Holland.

(C) 1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley

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Happy National Grammar Day!

Mar4

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Some of us geek out when it comes to grammar, some of us don’t care, and a few of us are asshats about it. Unfortunately, for grammar nerds, our love (fascination, obsession), in regard to the proper use of language has in some ways ostracized us from mainstream society.

We are called names, shunned, ridiculed. It’s quite sad, really.

Not all grammar groupies are the same. Sometimes, we even break the rules. We are human, after all.

In honor of National Grammar Day, take this grammar nerd test and see where you fall on the grammar geek scale.

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Click HERE to take the quiz

My result – The Pedant’s Grammarian

You may drive your friends and family nuts, but you would make Strunk and White proud. You love enforcing rules just about as much as you love the rules themselves. For you, grammar truly is one of life’s greatest joys.

Disclaimer – I’m NOT now, nor have I ever been a member of the Grammar Nazi party, nor have I any association with the Grammar Police. 

Take the quiz and tell me just what kind of grammar nerd you are!

Bleeding Ink

Jan29
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Artwork by Loui Jover

I’m bleeding ink
with each beat
of my heart.
With every pulse
the words flow faster
than my fingers can
can guide them
to a page.
These words,
unlike so many others,
are mine,
mine alone.
I fear they will be
skewed,
twisted,
misused,
misunderstood.
Wasted on eyes
only looking
between the lines
for something
conveyed
without my intent.
Used to wage war
without my consent.
These words I spill,
I fear
will not be
what you hear.
You’re listening
for something
I’m not trying
to say.
I’m bleeding ink.
It pours out wounds
from words
you shot
like arrows
without aim.
Spoken daggers
flung in the dark
without regard
or reason.
Misplaced outrage
felling the innocent,
breaking their hearts.
I’m bleeding ink
upon pages
no one can see.
I’m bleeding ink,
and it’s killing me.

CRC

When Words Take Wing

Jan29
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Artwork by Okalinichenko

Lines escape.
Letters become words,
become sentences,
become living poetry
breaking the veil
between reality
and belief.
Creatures created
from the twitch
of a synapse
within a stirring mind,
Flowing from pen to page
toward freedom,
words take wing.
Soaring thought,
ideas awakened,
loosed to roam
wither they will,
to set upon
unsuspecting souls,
stirring hearts,
provoking contemplation,
sharing wisdom,
creating dream.
Finding their way,
waiting to be found.
Lines escape,
letters become words,
become sentences,
become living poetry . . .

CRC

People Who Fart in Bookstores and Other Heinous Fiends

Jan22

img_0997Every weekend my husband and I head off to the bookstore . . . It’s a crucial aspect of my mental health regimen. Coffee and books. There are plenty of studies out there to confirm my position on the positive effects of coffee and bookstores, at least that’s what I told my husband. I know I’ve read it somewhere.

The bookstore for me is a sanctuary of solace. Coffee is the elixir of life. Barnes and Noble is my Shangri-la. Sometimes though, my experience is bittered, polluted in this case, by other people who obviously do not understand bookstore behavior.

My afternoon started off with promise, with a bit of bliss even. I roamed the aisles, scanning tables and shelves, making mental notes of what treasures lay scattered about as I made my way toward the Sci-Fi section. I’d barely began reading the synopsis of Summerlong by Peter S. Beagle when I sensed a disturbance settling uncomfortably around me.

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Image -Pinterest

I looked up to see a man quickly rounding the corner at the end of the aisle when it hit me. The smell. The god-awful, putrescent stench of whatever fowl food was decaying within his inner workings filled the air about me. My eyes began to burn. I held my breath lest it enter my lungs and spread throughout my respiratory system, making me quickly and surely dead within a matter of moments.

I fled as quickly as I could, taking what I thought would be refuge in Romance, but when I dared begin to fill my lungs with air I realized it wasn’t over. Weakened by lack of oxygen I thought I was done for, but the sheer will to survive gave me strength enough to continue. Teen Fiction was the next aisle over, I was sure I’d be safe there, I was wrong.

I-Could-Still-Smell-It.

I am fairly certain that man was in need of medical attention.

img_0992I heard rumblings from Fiction and Literature and sure enough, there were other survivors, huddled together for comfort.

From there, I quickly made my way to the Starbucks Cafe at the opposite end of the store where my husband sat, flipping through a magazine while sipping a venti iced coffee with half and half and classic sweetener.

I must have looked dreadful after my harrowing experience, but he was kind enough not to mention it. I told him what happened through gasping breaths. He raised one eyebrow, told me to stop being melodramatic, and went back to the latest issue of Hot Rod  magazine. If he’d been there, he wouldn’t have been so flippant about it.

Anyway, I composed myself and ventured back out into the stacks, keeping an eye out for that flatulent fiend, thankfully, I didn’t see him. He must have fled the scene of the crime. He dropped that bomb and ran. Monster.

I made my way to the restroom for a bit of freshening up. Maybe img_0999I was being silly washing my face and my arms and my hands as thoroughly as I did, but I’d just been exposed to a toxic cloud of gas. I didn’t want to take any chances. Of course, all that running water made me need to pee. I waited for a stall to open. When one did, a little boy skipped out, followed by his mother.

When I shouldered the door open I was horrified. Pee. Everywhere. How? Why? Was mom watching videos on her fricking phone while her little angel was painting the place with piss?

Now, I raised three boys, I know what can happen in the restroom, but seriously?

I backed out and waited for the next one to open. A well dressed woman exited, her smile lulled me into a false sense of security. You know what I saw? Pee! Drips and dribbles of pee on the seat. What the hell? It wasn’t just one or two either, it was on each side and the back. Again, how? Why? You might be wondering how I know it was pee, you might be thinking it could have been spray from the flush. No. She clearly needs to up her water intake. It was grown-ass woman pee.

I decided to hold it.

img_1001Determined to enjoy what time I had left before my bladder forced an end to my bookstore day, I again composed myself and decided to head over to Biographies, I never made it that far. See,  the direction I was traveling took me past the children’s books, I wasn’t two steps in front of the entrance when I was body slammed by a runaway kid, who was followed by another runaway kid who was followed by an agitated mom who told me to watch where I was going.

Despite everything, I somehow managed to make it to the register with two books. My bladder held until a suitable restroom could be found. While it wasn’t the best bookstore day, it wasn’t the worst either. Actually, it was. It was the worst bookstore day ever and I think I’m deserving of a do-over.

A plea to my fellow humans . . .

If you can, please hold your farts until you’ve found a suitably airy and unoccupied space to release them. An empty aisle in a bookstore does not fit that criteria, the restroom will work, exiting the building will work. If possible, please refrain from eating gas inducing food items prior to entering a public space.

Thank you.

Moms, from one mom to another, for the love of all things not disgusting, please teach your young boys to aim. Toilets were designed with a great big hole filled with water, that is where the pee goes. If they do happen to miss, these things happen, please clean that nastiness up.

Thank you.

Ladies, I can’t believe I even have to ask, please stop dribbling piss on toilet seats. What are you even doing? Use the damn toilet seat protectors, hover if you must, but geez, don’t piss all over the seat and walk away. That’s just nasty.

Thank you.

Moms, I know kids can get rambunctious, especially in public, but if you can’t keep them from running and screaming and turning mischief into mayhem outside of your home, take them to the fricking park. Teach them to behave for goodness sake, I managed it, so can you.

Thank you.

 

 

 

 

They are always with me

Jan19

Throwback Thursday . . . Words

qwietpleez's avatarThe Qwiet Muse

Words

They are always there.

Constant companions

following whither I roam,

lending themselves

to use as I please,

offering their worth,

asking nothing of me.

They assist me to rise,

they sing me to sleep,

they catch up my tears,

and dry them for me.

When my voice

has gone silent,

they offer me theirs,

and when it’s too loud

they soften the sound.

I’ve pushed them away

I’ve cursed them be damned

and still . . .

they remain –

without hurt or disdain,

and still . . .

they remain –

to unburden my heart

and vanquish my pain.

They make music

from thoughts,

transform what I think,

spilling my dreams out,

painting visions in ink.

My constant companions,

my most faithful of friends,

they live and they breathe

with each word that I pen.

Crystal R. Cook

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The Words

Jan10

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The words, the words – they scream, begging for release, clamoring, vying for attention, pieces of poems and paragraphs of prose push and pile one upon the other until I hear nothing more than noise, until they become nothing more than sound without substance, until I’m forced to lock them away, somewhere so deep within I’m afraid they’ll be lost.

The words, the words – my constant companions, my friends, my sometime foes. Tonight, there are too many, so many I cannot pluck them out and pen them to a page so I doodle and scribble my angst. I write random words and scratch them out. My frustration fills the page.

Perhaps tomorrow they will settle, tomorrow they will whisper. Maybe then I will breathe again.

Happily gaa-gaa

Jan10

When you’re 16 years old and you meet a cute guy you can get a little gaa-gaa over him. Puppy love, isn’t that what they call it? It never lasts, right? Wrong. Sometimes it does.

30 years ago I was 16 and met a cute guy, got a little gaa-gaa and guess what? I never got over him. I tried a few times, but I could never do it. I never will.

Today is the anniversary of the day we wed, 22 years ago. We had ups and downs, a couple kids, marriage, a couple more kids . . . life. We made a life, stitched it together with love and respect and a little bit of crazy (that stuff really sticks).

I cherish every moment, every memory, every dream we share. I guess I’m still a little gaa-gaa over him ❤️

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Palette of words . . .

Jan8

I’d no intention to write today, poetic was certainly not the mood I was in, but I clicked on WordPalette instead of Solitaire this afternoon to wile away the time between loads of laundry and lost myself in wordplay.

Seriously, if you haven’t tried this app, you should. Every time I play around with it, I’m left happily surprised with the results.

Sometimes I only use words from the palette, sometimes the choices simply serve to inspire and spark a little creative fire. I’ve always liked playing with fire . . .

Click here to read a little more about this fun app –> My Favorite, Fun New App

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Raging against ourselves,
abandoned from within.
Felled by foolish pride
and ignorance,
we search for meaning
amongst the ashes
of truths we long ago burned.
We buried the path
to a better future
beneath layers
of forgotten yesterdays,
of lessons we were meant to learn.
Miles made of years
stretch before us,
in the space between now
and someday,
there lay a vast
and barren desert
littered with remnants
of things we once valued.
Mammoth mountains
of prejudice and disdain
and things we should have
long since buried
impede those
who seek refuge beyond them.
Those willing to forge a new path
and embark upon a journey
toward a new future,
willing to face fears
and fight against what is,
will one day rise,
lifted by winds of change
until they soar high enough
to glimpse the dawn
of a new day.

It’s not personal . . .

Jan5

img_0877Killing for them or tearing one of their worlds to pieces is the easy part. It’s not personal, for me at least. I’m not personally or emotionally invested in them. I know, what’s wrong with me, right? I’m not like a lot of other people, and I’m not just talking about the killing and dissembling of someone else’s world stuff.

Really, I think the killings are probably the most normal thing about me. People just have very different ideas of what constitutes normality. I’m only trying to help.

So, like I was saying, the killing part I do for them is easy for me. Okay, it’s sometimes a little tough. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to, but it’s kind of a job requirement.

The thing I have a harder time with is dealing with the ones who came to me and asked me to do the job to begin with. I mean, c’mon, they know what I’m going do, it’s on the business card for crying out loud. Well, if I had business cards it would be. The point is, they know.

Sometimes I just want to scream. I’m listening to these grieving creatures and thinking, umm . . . you came to me, remember? You read the terms and conditions, you signed here, initialed there, so really, dry it up and move on. That sounds cold hearted, I know. Especially since I am so much like them and would likely feel the same way.

Besides, it’s not like they can’t fricking bring them back to life. It voids my services of course, I stand behind my work and my refund policy clearly states in no uncertain terms that there aren’t any refunds. Heck, a majority of the time I do it for free anyway. I probably shouldn’t but, and reserve judgement here, I enjoy it. I often derive a great sense of satisfaction and sometimes even inspiration from it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of satisfied clients, most of them as a matter of fact, but some seem to have a harder time letting go once the deed is done. They wonder if they made the right decision, I suppose that’s normal. It’s a process. They know they did what had to be done, or they wouldn’t have sought out my help, but still, they grieve. They don’t always agree with my methods, even though they came to me based on my previous work.

That’s the thing, they trusted me to get the job done, then they second guess the way I did it. After some time has passed and they’ve worked through their emotions they almost always come to thank me, I get a lot of repeat customers actually.

It’s a rollercoaster, what I do, I like to think I’m pretty darn good at it too. Sure, I make judgment calls maybe someone else in my position may have made a little differently, aside from the basic mechanics, we all have our own little bit of flair we add to our work.

You know, I don’t always do the actual deed myself, I offer advice to folks who want to see it through themselves. Every now and then I just tweak their ideas a bit, give an overall opinion of the direction they want to go and they get it done.

I have a job right now actually, so I gotta get to it. This one is for img_0878me, it’s a little harder when you make the work personal. Words to cut, characters to kill, paragraphs to shorten, others to lengthen . . .

I’m not a monster. Editing and critiquing the words penned to a page can be brutal work, especially when you’re doing it for someone else, or yourself. Just brutal.

I didn’t bother to check for grammar, typos, or any other of pesky things that plagues writers in the above rambling, it’s just rambling. Something to keep my mind from going mad with the muddied mood I happen to be in. It was either plot murder or write about what to some constitutes a demise of sorts – editing.