E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 50

What Makes a Real Man -- A Valentine's Dedication

What Makes a Real Man?
    A real man is someone who's willing to do something other men might not even dream of--he's courageous, seeing a challenge and, while other men are busy getting scared, he's already coming up with solutions.  He's the kind of guy who dates a single mom with four kids, and instead of running away like a pansy, he simply says, "I've got this." He's amazing really--and I like his freakin' style. I met a man like that once....
    A real man is selfless. He thinks about the needs of others.  He might even work a grave shift, getting home at five, but for some reason he's still willing to get up at seven to help the kids get ready for school--even though no one expects him to, or asks him to. 
    He's thoughtful....  On holidays like today, his kids wake up to see Valentine's bags prepared especially for each one of them.  And as he watches them open their gifts, his eyes light with amusement even though he hasn't slept all night, and he's no longer living for his needs alone.
    A real man is kind.  Even if their woman is sad, or having a really hard day about the same thing--for the millionth time in a row--that man will hold her in his arms, rock her, and tell her he loves her and everything will be okay.
    When I met Mike, I had no idea how much he would change my life.  I just remember joking around about the most inappropriate things, laughing so hard.  I thought, "Now there's a funny guy.  He's gotta be the happiest person I've ever met."  He was silly, and young, and fun.  I still can't believe we went from that, to this.      That jokester has taught me how strong someone can be, and how empowered they can make you feel--especially when they're your best friend.  He's taught me how fighting can actually be fun, after we finally find something to agree on.  And that although life can be exceptionally hard, our family is strong enough to make the hardships easier.     And lastly, he's helped me see that even if I didn't always feel like it, I am worth somethin'.  And that I would do nearly anything to make him feel the same.        Mike,    I know things aren't perfect, and sometimes I freak out when the dog sleeps in our bedroom.  And I can be completely irrational about the weirdest things--and I was more of a hindrance, than a help, that one time I "helped" you fix my car.  *still smiling*  But you have completely changed my life, and the lives of the children.     Thank you for being so wonderful to us.  I hope that every day you feel how much all of us love and appreciate you.                 Happy Valentine's Day to a real man.                                                                          Love you,                                                                                  Elisa    [image error]

What will you be when you grow up?

The Scribe stood, arguing with me--like she enjoyed it.  Finally, I'd had enough--people told me the teen years can be difficult; they didn't tell me it could be about this!
    "I think you actually like arguing with me."
    "Well, I've decided I want to be a lawyer," the Scribe said, her fifteen-year-old eyes sparkling with mirth.
    Oh, boy, this was gonna be crazy.  The Hippie, her little sister who sat on a couch, suddenly turned off the TV.  "Is that why you've been asking me weird things?!  Mom, the other day The Scribe kept asking if I thought violent riots are wrong.  I didn't want to talk about it, but she kept asking...and asking!"
    "And what did you say?" I asked.
    "I said people shouldn't hurt each other.  Then she picked the other side and said some riots have changed our world for the best, even when they have been violent."  The Hippie walked over to us and kept talking.  "She made such a good point, that I actually changed my mind.  But then she started arguing AGAINST me again!  Said there's never, ever a place for violence.  Both points were so good; I just ended up walking away."  She put her hands on her hips and stared at The Scribe.  "A lawyer, huh?"
    "That's right." The Scribe smirked.  "And I'd probably make a pretty good one if I could get you to change your mind like that!  Hippie, what do you want to be?"
    The Hippie blushed for just a minute and looked down.
    "You're being so shy," I said, worrying.  Why was she nervous to tell us?  Did she want to be a Mickey at Disneyland or something?  I took a drink of my coke and nodded at her, to please go on.
    "Well, my boyfriend wants to be a nurse," The Hippie said.  "And I thought it would be great to work with him.  So, I guess I'll just--have to be a neurosurgeon."
    "A what?" I almost spit my drink out, so taken off guard.  Talk about flippin' random.
    "Well, I want to work with him, but if I'm gonna do that, I might as well be his boss."
    That's my girl.
    So my oldest daughters have been to the counseling office to get more information about attaining college credits in high school and then moving on after that.  They are so darling.  I have no idea what they'll actually end up being, but lawyer, surgeon, or Mickey at Disneyland, I just hope they'll be happy and always know I'm proud of them. 
    

A Strange Conversation About Life... and Death

This post is a continuation from yesterday.  You can read that here if you'd like:
The Crocodile and His Lake of Tears
    I'm not sure if you've ever had tea with a crocodile, but I can tell you, it's the strangest thing ever.    "Tell me again, why did you want to meet me, child?" he asks, still holding the flowered teacup in his huge, reptilian fore-feet.    "Because everyone is scared of you, and I'm sick of being scared."    "What scares you about me?" He sets his teacup on the table, leans close to me and breathes in my face.    My voice comes out a bit shakily this time.  "The unknown. You might hurt me. You might even kill me."    "And you're scared to die?"    "Yes. I'm sure I'll be fine with it after it happens, but I don't think anyone wants to know what it feels like to actually die."    He nods, and his serpent-like pupils study me further.  "I've lived hundreds of times. And I've realized, from the day we're born, we begin dying.  Dying isn't so bad though, it's simply change--like the butterfly."    "I'd hate being a caterpillar--doesn't a cocoon sound terribly claustrophobic?!"    Sarco laughs so hard; when he's done I think he might inhale the room, just trying to catch his breath.  "All I'm saying is, you can be scared of everything.  You can be so scared of death, that you end up being scared of life.  None of us make it out of life alive.  But that's not bad--that means we have a chance to grow...to change."    "But what happens after this?  I think I know, but I wish I knew absolutely."    "Do you think the caterpillar is certain it will turn into a butterfly?  They've all just heard stories too.  But they go off instinct.  What does your heart tell you?"    "To stop worrying.  Embrace change.  Not be so scared anymore." And for some reason instead of staying in my seat, or even taking a sip of my tea, I get up and hug Sarco.  He's so big only a small part of me can even hug him, but he understands.  "No matter the surroundings, I'm the only one who can control my own fear...or my own peace.  Thank you, Sarco.  I'm not so sacred anymore."    After tea, we jump in the hole at the base of his underwater, air-filled cottage, then swim back to the surface.    As I wring out my clothes, Sarcos eyes pop above the water's surface.  "Thanks again, Sarco.  Can I ever come visit you again?"    "You can," he says.  "But I might be tempted to keep you down there forever."    "I'm not scared," I say.  And then, I simply walk away.  

Do you have an irrational fear? My fear was of fire.

   I don't know whether to call this a rational or an irrational fear, but when I was a kid, fire terrified me.
    At the age of nine, I would wake up at night, having dreams of deathly flames licking my toes and legs.  The ever-changing streaks of orange, yellow, and reds would climb my walls, and barricade my door.  I couldn't breathe, not even to scream.
    And when I'd wake up, the dream would still cling to my consciousness; I could feel the heat, taste the smoke, and smell the stench of burning wood.  I'd cough into my garbage can, half expecting black spit to come out.
    "It's okay, Elisa," my mom told me one night.  "Why are you so scared about this?  We have smoke detectors.  We're okay."
    "I'm scared of burning to death. And even if I don't die in a fire here, maybe I'll be stuck in one after I die. I'm just scared that I'm not going to Heaven."
    She hugged me.  "Of course you'll go to Heaven."
     The point was, I've been up to the altar about fifty-million times asking God to save my fire-hating soul.  And I'm sure He might, but my own family gets sick of me--does God really want me in the "Land of the Good," for eternity?!  We'll see....

    So, the next night, I had the same dream.  Fire scorched everything, and blocked my door....  The ceiling hung low, beating with heat-pulsing flames, and flecks of ash floated down toward my face-- 
    When I woke up, I didn't call for my mom this time because I already knew her best lines.  This wasn't her battle to fight--I needed to work through this on my own.  That's when I discovered something amazing.

    I bit my little lip and closed my eyes, not wanting to picture fire again, but I needed to picture something I could conquer.  The only other really scary thing my nine-year-old brain could imagine was crocodiles.  And, it's embarrassing to say, but when I've been scared as an adult, this story STILL makes me feel better.


The Crocodile and His Lake of TearsDisclaimer: As I've gotten older this story has evolved...and will probably continue evolving until the day I die.
    I'm walking barefoot.  The jagged sand cuts at my arched feet. I long to wade in the murky lake at my side, but stories of death and heartache surround those waters.  The old women of the village say, we should never go near the shore.  I can't help it though, I'm curious. And now that I'm there, my skin is hot and dry.  My body aches for the rest only water can offer.  My soul longs for adventure.  After a time, I'm closer to the water. The lake eats at my toes, then my feet. My legs descend ever so gently, and I wonder momentarily what may be swimming inconspicuously beneath the surface.    I'm standing there, minding my own business, when a crocodile the size of a dragon bobs to the surface.  Water rolls from his ancient, scaly back, and his side-winding eyes blink sardonically.         "Oh, child."  His black tail flicks derisively, a weapon humans wish they could still hone for war.  "You aren't very smart.  Didn't those old hags in the village tell you to never come to this lake?"    My mind whirrs like a clock being wound backwards.  "Maybe they did tell me. But...maybe they didn't.  It wouldn't change the fact that I wanted to meet you."    He's as big as a sarcosuchus, yet his body moves faster than seconds split in half.  He studies me, his reptilian pupils, chilling my soul.  "You're a strange little girl," he says.
    "And you're an odd crocodile. You're the biggest thing I've ever seen."
    He laughs, this gravely sound like he was a smoker in a past life, and his mouth is so big the noise echoes inside before finally escaping--probably the only thing to ever escape THAT mouth.  "Why did you want to meet me, child?"
   "Because everyone is afraid of you, even me.  But I don't want to be scared anymore."
    "Wish granted."  Then his gaping maw widens like the entrance to Hell. He lunges, and my legs are suddenly trapped by his jaws.  Pulled down to a drop-off, mere feet into the lake, he spins me down into the water, throws me sideways, then clamps me around the waist.
    Water fully envelopes us as we descend deep to the bottom of the lake. I almost scream, but know that losing any breath at all, would cause my doom. 
    I push at his face, to no avail.  And as we move farther down, I realize he's holding me almost gently, and the way we're spinning forces my soaking hair to drift past my face as if I'm a mermaid.  Although I'm deathly scared, for a split moment, I feel free.
     My heart continues racing, especially when I realize we're descending toward a massive cottage at the bottom of the lake.  
    How did a cottage sink down there?  My thoughts are panicked, sporadic, wondering how I'll breathe, and if he'll eat me in one bite, or two? But then we swim through a rocky tunnel before crawling underneath the house.  When we pop up through a hole in the floor, I gasp, because the cottage is perfectly sealed, filled with air, instead of water.
    "Sarco" (as I've called him when telling this story to my children) sets me down on a rock floor.  My hip hurts from the impact, and I shake like fallen prey.  He lumbers through the hole in the floor and every time he steps, the cottage shakes, making lake-water drip from my clothes and hair, and china on the nearby shelves, clatter in the aftermath.
    Peering around, different ideas flood my mind: Would he have me "over" for lunch or just "have" me for lunch? Did he prefer live meals, or dead ones?  Was he truly as terrible as he looked, or is primal instinct ever really evil?
    Then Sarco crawls across the floor, and sits at a huge mahogany table. His tail slides a tiny chair next to him.  "Over here, child!  It's time for tea."
    So I do the first thing I think of--I wring out my hair, flatten my sopping clothes, and sit beside the monstrosity. He pours me tea, his clawed, gnarled fore-foot, daintily holding the gorgeous China teakettle, and that's when things really got interesting.

To be continued tomorrow....

A Strange Conversation About Life

The violin *trying*: Doom Strings, Death Folk... Some Strange Fiddlin'

    After reading this post: Playing Fiddle for a Dying Soul  
-- to read that, click HERE --    a couple of people asked if I could show a clip of me playing the violin.    This is not the style I played for that woman, but I had to post it anyway.  When I have free time, which isn't often, this is what I like to do.The fiddle trying to play metal....
 EC Stilson 2016 :)

He is Cantankerous and THAT'S a Challenge

Mike and I are currently down to one vehicle.  People keep asking how we're handling this, and honestly, I love it! 
    Let me back up...Mike and I have been married just over a year.  And only having one vehicle means that he's either my chauffeur, or I'm his.  It's a pretty great gig actually.  I zip around, pretending I'm getting paid.  And Mike is the best client ever: he's not rude, or demanding, sometimes I even get food for driving him! AND he's cute.
    "Why are you so happy?" he asked yesterday.
    I just smiled because I've never gotten to be a chauffeur before!  If you can't make the best of things, you've got nothin'.
    So, it's my turn to drive every night, when I pick up my swing-shift husband for lunch. 
    This is one of my favorite parts of the day because the most cantankerous man is a security guard at Mike's work.  I drive up to a looming prison-like gate, and that man is supposed to let me in.
    He's super-old (almost one-thousand), and he does NOT like me.  I like him all right, though--he smells like black licorice and I can tell we'd have a lot in common if he'd quit grimacing so much.
    Every flippin' day I see this man.  He walks around to the left side of the truck and asks me my name.
    "Elisa," I spout, every time.  "But the real question is, how the hell are you?"
    He just stares at me and blinks.  The other day it was raining and he stood, getting rained on.  I couldn't figure for the life of me, why he doesn't just wave me through like the other security guards do.  Nope, this man has a badge AND a will.
     "Fine, Ma'am.  Move along. You're cleared to come in."  He kinda hobbles when he walks. And as he totters back to his booth, I keep telling myself, someday he'll smile when I get there...someday.
     Someone once told me that I want to be everything to everyone.  I wouldn't go that far, but I do want to brighten people's days.  Heck, when I was a kid, my favorite character on TV was Oscar the Grouch.  
    I wished so bad that I could live next to him.  His attitude cracked me up, and I wondered, what had made him that cranky?  Had one of his family members died in a tragic accident?  Did he never feel loved as a child?  Did he wish he'd been born with cuter fur/hair whatever the heck that is?  Did someone once dress him as a Christmas tree?  Did he wish he owned tweezers for that unabrow?  The list goes on.
      Back to the story.  Yesterday, Methuselah, walked over to the driver's side of my truck.  He stared at me, not saying a word.  So, I broke the awkwardness.
    "The sun's been shining.  The snow is melting!  It's been a beautiful day."
     His left eyebrow raised, and he looked around us.  His hunchback was pretty prevalent and when he looked around, his whole body turned with his head.  "Beautiful, huh?"
    And, at the moment, it really wasn't.  The sky hung low with pregnant clouds ready to give birth to--the biggest storm the world has ever seen!
    "How are you today, anyway?" I asked.
    He leaned closer to me, studying me with those ageless eyes.  "I'm...all right.  Now move along!"  Then a slight smile crept onto his face.  
    I sped into the parking lot and couldn't control the happiness in my heart.  That man had made my day, just with a smile.  It's amazing what a little kindness can do.

How to Find Buried Treasure

A memory...from 3 years ago :)

    "I realized I'll never save enough to get a laptop, but at least I can buy a kindle," the Scribe said.  "My friend will sell me hers.  I just need eighty dollars."
    Her friend--that sounded like a recipe for disaster.  "And where are you going to get eighty dollars?" I asked.  My four kids gathered around.  For some reason even Doctor Jones (my toddler) wanted to hear what the Scribe would say.
    "I just need a shovel," the Scribe said.
    "What? Why?" It made no sense to me, but the other kids seemed to understand.
    "Mom, I know what she's talking about," the Hippie said.  "Buried treasure!  Your buried treasure!"
    "Exactly." The Scribe nodded, winking.  She sat on the couch before her three siblings joined her.  "Mom, can you tell us the story again?  Come on, you know we love it.  Plus, I need the dough."
    I snorted--those kids kill me.
    "Fine."  I sat on the coffee table, suddenly understanding what they had referred to.  "Once upon a time, there was a little girl.  Her name was . . . Elisa!"  The kids giggled as I went on.  "She worked, harder and harder, earning every penny, dime, nickle and quarter she could . . .  She sold lemonade.  She picked asparagus! She even scrounged change from her brother's room--when he wasn't looking."
    It was true.  I must have been about seven by the time I'd saved more than Bill Gates is worth.  I toiled--feeling the joy that comes from a hard day's work.  I hid all the money under my bed.  Sure that sounds miserly, but I wasn't trying to be an angel.  I stole a bunch of my brother's best socks after that--just the left ones.  I filled those suckers with change.  At dinner, I laughed into my soup when my brother asked where his socks kept going.
    My mom smiled sweetly--so innocent--and said, "That's the mystery with socks.  No one knows where they go."
    Except me!  I had them--dang it--I knew more than most grown-ups did.
    Anyway, days crept into months and summer finally came.  My mom knelt gardening, and when I snatched the hand shovel--she had no idea it was me.  I tiptoed to the backyard and that's when I started digging.
    The backyard was massive, stretching halfway with grass until it became dirt and went all the way back to a creepy alley that had my name written all over it.
    I dug the biggest hole the world's ever seen--and I must have done it quick, 'cause my mom didn't even see me!  I was a ninja, a rich ninja and nothin' could stop me--not even taxes.
    I grabbed all my change that was still in my brother's best dress socks, then I threw them in the hole and covered 'em up.  It was just a random spot in the yard--a place that needed some kind of marker.  I didn't want to be obvious, so I took a rock and made a huge "X" in the ground.
   It felt really great.  My family didn't know how rich I was, and that was all right.  I bet my mom would have let me out of chores and everything IF she knew I was a billionaire.  But I didn't want them loving me just for my money--that would've been terrible.  I smiled thinking about all of it.  That night my dreams were wonderful about affording chocolate fountains and hosting big parties.    
   It wasn't until the rains came, that my hopes crashed to the ground.  I stared out my window.  The "X" was gone!  All my hard work--was hidden.
    My mom insisted on dressing me for school.  I wore some pansy dress and bows that made me look like a kitten.  When my mom wasn't looking, that's when I ran outside and dug into the mud.  I made hole after hole, but I couldn't find my funds in the rain.  That's the trouble with being good at hiding things--I even hid it from myself.  I went inside and that's when I got in trouble.  "What . . .  Your dress! What have you been doing in the mud?" my mom asked.  But I wouldn't talk--pirates NEVER reveal the location of their buried treasure.  As I took a bath, my brother asked again about his missing socks and I did chuckle a bit--he'd never know.  But it did bother me--maybe that's why God sent the rain.  I'd hidden money in stolen socks--that made it sinful, practically.

   I looked at each of my kids and finished the story. 
"It wasn't until we moved to the big city that I cried.  I waved to the house.  My family all thought it was because I loved the place.  That wasn't it at all though.  I was just sad to be leaving my fortune behind."
    "Wow," the Hippie said.
    "How much dough did you bury?" the Scribe asked.
    "I don't know.  It might have been five bucks for all I know.  But when I was little it seemed like a hundred."
   "I knew it," she said.  "How far away is that place--does someone still live there?"
    "It's too far away.  Plus, someone does live there.  We just can't sneak in and dig up their yard."
    The Scribe nodded.  "I guess I'll have to find another way.  But it was a good idea . . . and a good story.  After all, how many kids have mothers who used to bury treasure, just for fun."
    "Not many." The Hippie laughed before continuing. "Maybe just us."
    They all got up and left.  I gazed through the window to our backyard.  Rain splattered the dirt and for some reason I couldn't quit smiling.

A Picnic on a Grave: Romance Gone Wrong

A memory, from two years ago--before Mike and I were married:

    I peered out the window, admiring my favorite mint-green tree.     Once, that tree had meant nothing to me; in fact I'd thought it was ugly and twiggy. But my cat had loved the tree, basking in its shade, always rolling or stretching contentedly in the grass at its base. So, after she died, I buried her in the tree's shade, knowing there's no other place she'd rather be.
    It was almost time to drive the kids to the sitter as I stood looking out the window.  "Do you still miss our cat?" The Hippie suddenly asked me. "Because I do."
    I hugged her. "Yes, I do. I know she didn't pass long ago, but look," I pointed, "the grass is growing back around her grave. You wouldn't even know we buried her there. And at least we can go say 'hi' to her whenever we want to."
    The Hippie nodded.
    After dropping the kids off, I got a call from Mike. "Can you stay out for another half-hour?" he asked. "I have a surprise at the house for you, but it isn't ready yet."
    "Okay?" I said, not even hiding the excitement in my voice.
When I finally arrived home, the sky had darkened fully and candlelight flickered through my front windows.
    But once in the kitchen, instead of seeing Mike there, only a bunch of white candles sat on the counter.
    "Mike?" I whispered.
    Nothing.
    "Mike?"
    A trail of candles led down the stairs, so I followed them to the backyard. My breath caught in my throat as I opened the backdoor—that's when I saw it...
    Mike sat so masculine and handsome, surrounded by a ring of candles at the base of my favorite tree—ON TOP OF MY CAT'S GRAVE.
    My hand instantly covered my mouth. Why was he having a séance on her grave!
    "Elisa," Mike motioned me over, completely oblivious to my freak-out. He pointed at two steak meals resting next to him in the ring of flickering candles. But all I could stare at was the very rare steak on our plates.
    "Oh!" I choked out the word, taking a seat next to Mike, disrespectfully sitting over my dead cat all because of love. As Mike talked, I wondered if I was sitting on her entire body, or just one part, like her head or butt. Did it still look like it always had? Had it decayed already? Oh my gosh--she wasn't even that far down because I'd done a crappy job burying her!
    "Take a bite," Mike chirped, so freakin' happy!
    The meat on his fork oozed blood.
    My throat remained tight, as I tried to stay calm, but every time I took a bite of steak, I thought of how the cow was dead...and so was my damn cat. And what would SHE think of us having a party on her grave anyway—how sacrilegious was that?! She'd haunt me forever.
    "Are you okay?" Mike finally asked, getting a clue.
    "Everything is..." I turned pale like a vamp.
    "Okay?" he pro-offered. "I've tried to make this night special. What's bothering you?!"
    "It's just that..." I didn't know how to tell him. He'd tried so hard. "It's just that...," I repeated. "Don't hate me for telling you this instead of just enjoying the moment. But there's something you should know... There's a dead body buried...right underneath us."
    "You're kidding?" he asked, and I noticed he'd stopped chewing the food in his mouth.
    "No," I said.
    Mike paled, then swallowed that huge piece of steak as his rabbit-scared eyes studied me.
    "Who," he cleared his throat several times, "is buried underneath us?"
    "Simkhaw." Tears filled my eyes. "You've heard me talk about her..... Maybe a foot under—okay maybe six inches!"
    "Simkaw?" 
     Well, wasn't he inquisitive, Mister Ring-of-Fire himself! Then he scooted slightly away from me.
    "She loved this tree" I balked. "You're judging me for burying my cat in my yard? Sure, it's probably illegal, but she LOVED this tree. And I'm not the one who made a picnic on her grave!" He didn't respond. "I would've buried her deeper, but the ground is hard out here! I couldn't dig farther than that!"
    "Your...cat," he mouthed.
    "Yeah, my cat. I've told you about Simkhaw before?"
        He shook his head. "Simkhaw...Why, no you haven't.  Holy crap, Elisa--at first I thought you were talking about a person!" And he was seriously so shook up!
   I suddenly forgot that I sat on my dead cat's grave. I forgot that Mike had created the biggest fire-hazard known to man. I also forgot that I'd probably just scared the shit-balls out of the man I loved.
    "Oh my gosh--I am so sorry." Then seeing his still horror-stricken face, I found the misunderstanding so amusing I laughed until I nearly had a six-pack. I snorted and giggled, completely red in the face.
    Then instead of being angry, Mike actually laughed too.
"Of all the romantic things I could have done," he finally said, "I made a picnic on your cat's grave and then I surrounded it with candles."
    "It does kinda look like a freaky ritual," I confessed.
    He agreed. So, we moved the entire shebang, candles and all, to the other side of the yard. And after that, we actually had a wonderful time.
    "This is a night we'll never forget," Mike said.
     I looked up into the night sky, wondering if my cat was somewhere up there, laughing her furry butt off. "You've got that right!" I said, then I blew out the candles and snuggled into Mike's arms.

It's All in How We See the World

    Today is my birthday--34 now :)
    Anyway, I woke up in a funk this morning, thinking about how memorable my birthdays have been.
    When Zeke died, his viewing was on my birthday. I played the violin next to his little casket, and cried.... THAT was a hard day.  Several years later, I had a little girl (Dr. Jones) thirty minutes before my birthday.  The next day all of the nurses working the floor, brought a cake to me, and as I held my newborn sweetheart, the nurses sang to us.  I had this overwhelming feeling of gratitude from their kindness. That was my most amazing birthday, holding my little girl, and listening to the nurses sing--who would've known they'd be able to take my blood pressure AND carry a tune.
    Anyway, like I said, today I woke up in a funk.  And I keep thinking of something that happened a couple of days ago:
    I went to get my taxes done; as everyone knows, this can take quite a while.  After I'd given all of my information to the sweet lady across from me, I began studying a photo she had on the wall.
    It's an intriguing picture, with five people who are all lying on their backs in a grassy field. Each person is a different race--and the concept is pretty clear--diversified yet unified.  But there was something more about that picture; I couldn't quite grasp it. Each and every person wore a pair of eyeglasses.  Unable to help myself, I continued staring at each detail of the picture until the appointment was almost over.
    "Wow, you really like that photo," the tax preparer said.
    I looked at it one last time, and what had elluded me before, suddenly shone through. I saw the whole scene differently.  "It's amazing," I said. 
    "I like it, but I wouldn't say it's amazing."  She took off her glasses and studied me.
    "I know this is a common concept, and there are a lot of photos out there like this, but I just realized what make this one so different."
     "Oh?" she asked.
     "If you stop focusing on the obvious things: the people, their clothes, the grass they're lying on, and just focus on their glasses...."
     She came next to me and stared at the picture. "Their glasses, huh?  Well, they look like regular gla-- Wait, I see it! The reflection!  I've never had anyone point that out before."
    The reflection shone faintly in each of their eyeglasses, but even those faint images were far more beatiful than the obvious picture itself.  Greying buildings, lanky trees, and a stormy sky showed itself in the glass.  As if every subject looked at a dry, dying world, ready to be refreshed by a storm....
    I almost wished momentarily that the photographer had rested in the grass as well, and taken a picture--not of the people, but up, seeing what had appeared above and around them.  Were the people the real subjects of this photo, or had the artist realized what the glass told about their surroundings?
    "You're right, Elisa. That picture is amazing!"
    As I took my paperwork and got in my truck to drive away, I looked through the business window. The tax preparer sat down where I had been, and began studing the photo.
    The whole drive home I kept thinking about the picture.... 
    If we take the time to look at life through different perspectives, we'll discover truly amazing things.

Signing Off,
Elisa

Happy birthday to my little girl!

I can hardly believe my little girl, Dr. Jones, is seven.  Time is going too fast.
    Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you soooo much!


Then:
And now: 

What a doll! :)