Notes From A Broken Heart

It's amazing how seeing a word, truly seeing it as if for the first time, redefined my perspective in an amazing way.  That one  word carried power that removed mountain loads of misconceptions, mistakes, and missteps  Zowie! as a dated comic book character might exclaim.  Dinah Washington, a back-in-the-day jazz singer intoned, "What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four little hours, brought the sun and the flowers, where there used to be rain" W ell I declare,  a word  rightly read can produce a cataclysmic result. This happened only because I didn't subconsciously, accidentally, or unconsciously place  another synonym in the original's place. James Cleveland, the venerable gospel singer, vocalized his plea, "Father, open our eyes that we may see to follow thee. Oh Lord, grant us thy loving peace, and let all dissension cease.  Let our faith each day increase, and Master Lord, please open our eyes."   What in the world am I writing about? Where&#

Since I spend so much time alone, it shouldn't surprise me when questions that stagger my imagination morph into proverbial light bulbs  of awareness.  Like, why do I expect perfection from family, friends, and even acquaintances (but not myself)?  How is it ridiculously easy to derive a list of "You ought to" and "You should/shouldn't have"  or "How could you?" for everybody and Adam's house cat? Why do I become sanctimonious in my self-righteousness? As if I've never tripped over my own feet.  Like I'm the vestal virgin of the world.  Perfect.  Sinless. Why don't I turn the spotlight on me and my warts? Heaven knows, I have them Similarly, why do I find it so very difficult to forgive minor mishaps of others ("their debts," as it were), yet hide behind the coward's citadel of "I can forgive but can't forget," especially for major blunders.  They carry even heavier penalties. Why am I toting 30-y

Out of nowhere torrential tears pour forth, swathing my face, until inexplicably they taper into bleak drip-drips, then stop.  I never know when to expect the sobs or wails to visit, leaving me in a soggy state. It just happens.  Wait.  That's not exactly right.  Sometimes, utter loneliness creeps in on "little cat's feet" and the spigot opens.  I borrowed the phrase from Illinois Poet Laureate Carl Sandburg, except he was describing fog.  Other times not. Indeed, sometimes I walk around in a dense, cruel fog that seems to smother my feelings and leave abject hopelessness in its wake.  No sunshine anywhere.  No matter how urgently I engage in self-talk, nothing I say can bring Courtney back to this earth plane.  I can hear her say "Hey, Ma" crystal-clearly, but they're only sounds in my memory.  I can conjure up pictures of her, when it's not too  painful, but they are flat, one-dimensional, lifeless. Why do I torture myself this way? I th

It's one of "them" days, when "The Blues" sneak up on me.  Like a walking octopus (if they could walk ), it grabs me from behind, pins my arms, covers my eyes and mouth, and whispers in my ear: "Them that got shall get Them that's not shall lose So the Bible says and it still is news Mama may have,Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own That's got his own." Significantly, I reject the "But God bless the child that's got his own" lyric as misguided and spawned most likely by Billie Holiday's harsh life.  Early on, I believed the Bible verses my Sunday School classes introduced to me.  Our teachers taught us "Peter opened his mouth and said, Of a truth, I perceive that God is no respecter of persons" (Acts 10:34) and, God "sends rain on the just and on the unjust" (Matthew 5:45).  In all the tumult and torture life brings, my picture of God remained clear.  He doesn