Notes From A Broken Heart

When's the last time you heard a full-throated "bellylaugh?" When someone lets go spontaneously with a prolonged hoot that spills over and fills a corner of a room? A happy eruption of joy?   Actually, when was the last time I enjoyed that unexpected freedom and released ripples of happiness? I can't remember.  Not because the synapses that connect in my brain have been relegated to the "misfiring" heap.  No, nothing's wrong with either my short or long-term memory. "Those were the days my friend We thought they'd never end We'd sing and dance forever and a day We'd live the life we choose We'd fight and never lose For we were young and sure to have our way.  Those were the days, oh yes those were the days." And enjoy a belly-laugh or two.  Long before "political correctness," among other debilitating phenomena embedded themselves in our culture. Or ethos. Or something. Or somewhere.  Hmm. I sing no paean to nostalgia

It's become a cliche almost, this personification of innocence.  I shrug and admit,  " I know I take too much for granted.  I recognize I'm walking around with a loaf of bread under each arm while complaining about what I don't have, what I didn't get, when another, less deserving schmuck did!" A shrug then may be the measure of a thousand words and multiple excuses. So.  I find myself surrounded by truths and "dodges." A choice point, surely.  It appears that I've locked myself behind bars. whose key I tossed eons ago.  Maybe, though. I'm enamored with the drama.  That's what happens when a life swims in ponds of mirages.    "Get ahold of yourself, Daughter," Mama (my grandmother) would counsel.  "Life's not a bowl of cherries, but it's not stale cornbread, either.  Whether you like it or not, both can feed you, Girl!" How do I find the "grip" and then keep it? Really, I didn't have a clue.  Even

In these worst of times---certainly, the worldwide pandemic carries no equal---when ordinary life feels like an outer space aberration, I find myself seeking stability and solace, somewhere, anywhere.  I've sought refuge in typical places, from dependable people, and through countless machinations. Reminds me of "Searching," that venerable"oldie but goodie" standard.  "I've been searchin' searchin'  searchin'  every which- a-way... and like the Northwest Mountie, you know I'll bring her home someday." The "her" would be a COVID-19 cure.  And while I don't doubt that science and good sense eventually will prevail, I have no way of guesstimating the month or year.  When we can secure and protect or at what cost this plague will extract remain the sustaining quandary.  "I don't know" will never be an acceptable response, no will "soon, I hope," of "in the near future." "Where could

  Actually,  the honest question begins with, "Who's in charge here?" I find much too often that I've fallen into an insidious trap.  I take responsibility for everything , especially the critical, make-or-break determinations within my franchise.  Yes, everything .  Glutton for pain?  Hmm.   When reality intrudes, then I wrestle with failure in all its iterations: fallen, failing, or failed. This leads to a threadbare "go-to"blame-game.  Maybe, somebody bigger than poor little me? Mind machinations birth insane offspring. Self-recrimination serves as a parliamentarian, yes, so I don a Sherlockian cap and cape and search for a get-out-of-jail clue.   I meant well.  I used a tried-and-true problem solving and decision-making methodology.   The right people weren't available.   It worked before!    And on and on until exhausted, I throw up both my hands and retreat.  After a good long sulk, I send me a gilt-edged Pity Party invitation. While repetition bri

Trepidation.  That's how I approach this subject.  Yes, my blog topics deal with personal issues.   In fact, what ranks more personal than placing death and loss under a microscope, without adjustments or calibration, then sharing what I see, feel,  or avoid, I've shone a spotlight into my soul to people I've never seen or expect to meet.  As unprepared to meet you, dear Reader, as I was to encounter the face of my daughter Courtney's death, I had no choice.  It happened. Irrevocable, undeniable, and unchangeable.  My way of "picking myself up and getting back in the race, " writing became my opiate of choice.   The pain wouldn't allow me to dissemble or "prettify" ragged,  jagged feelings.  They all gushed forth.  Thank you for traversing death's circuitous terrain with me. And begin to recover at a snail's pace.  "It's been a long time coming,  but I know change is gonna come.  Yes it will,"  at least that's what sing

  While unsupported by any research with which I'm familiar, nevertheless, I've always believed that genius  is the ability, or capability, to ask the right questions. Maybe the metaphorical "lightbulb" came on from years as an educator who has taught every level from sixth grade to graduate school.  I don't remember.   All I can recall is that one moment the nugget wasn't there and the next second, there it was. The notion probably emerged while I stewarded eighth-grade students in a " gifted education" class. I lived in Virginia then.  However, it might have been Virginia's mesmerizing blue mountains that sparked it.  Hmm. My theory took wings over the years that followed, whether I served as  language arts instructor to  middle schoolers, high school English to "regular" (whatever that meant) students,  or even in "methods" seminars to graduate students.  It all rushed back the morning my dependable dryer didn't respond