I came across a poem the other day and I just can’t get it outta’ my head, so I’ve decided to share it with you today. The words are by ~ Ganga White and the photos by yours truly, unless otherwise noted…
WHAT IF?
“What if our religion was each other
Greenland 2009 by Nick Weidner
Dr. Jane, Angaangaq, Atsaarsuaq Hansiina, Mr. Man aka Ron Weidner and Yours Truly
A few years ago I had the great pleasure of meeting Dr. Jane Goodall. Over drinks one night, she told a heartfelt story about how a young boy once asked her, “Where do you think people go when they die?” The child had lost his mother at a young age and missed her terribly. Dr. Jane shared her belief that our dearly departed are always nearby and watching over us. “You mean, like in that chair over there?” he asked, pointing across the hotel lobby at an empty desk. “Or up there, on the balcony?”
Uh, I mean a vacation from blogging. Not for long. Only until the ironing’s done.
Before I go though, I have a question for you:
Have you noticed all the new blog-o-cabulary being used out there in Blogland lately?
Personally, I kind of like it. For one thing, using blogisms keeps my spell check on his toes …………….. See? Continue reading
The night our relationship began was like any other August evening in the San Francisco Bay area. Foghorns droned. Seals arp-arped. A chill fog rolled over, under, and around the Golden Gate Bridge, spreading its misty fingers into the nooks and crannies studding the bay’s coastline. It stretched all the way up to the Williams – Sonoma on Chestnut Street, forcing the store manager to close the shop’s double door early. He really hadn’t needed to hurry, since the moment she walked in, the temperature in the room rose at least ten degrees from the warmth her cherubic, rosy-cheeked face exuded. Continue reading
“Just let it out Margo!” my daughter urged. She started calling me Margo at a young age, whenever yelling “Mom! Mom! Mom!” didn’t get my attention.
Clearly, she thought I had been keeping silent too long. An hour of heavy sighs, muted mumblings and grumblings might have been the tip-off. “No, it’s stupid. I’m being judgemental. A little thing like that shouldn’t bother me,” I said.
“Like you always tell me, Mom. Just do it!”
Waking up to the 75th stunning, clear-blue, cloudless, 60 degree morning in a row last Saturday, Mr. Man and I shared a monumental moment of inspiration…
That’s when great minds that have lived together for over three decades whoa! in separate bodies meet in the ether swirling above their heads and their respective light bulbs merge together in a sudden burst of electromagnetic energy. The scientific term is a supernova. We call it a brain fart shared idea of epic proportion. Continue reading
There are some things that I am not willing to share, like the road when there’s no guard rail to keep me from ending up at the bottom of a three thousand foot gorge, a bowl of Häagen-Daz cookies and cream, and my side of the bed when I’m having a hot flash.
She said, “Yes!”
Holy schlamoly! My baby girl is getting married! Where did the time go?
It seems like only yesterday, uh, last week, last month a short while ago that I had been asked the same question –
This is where the picture gets all wavy with the *Twilight Zone theme song* in the background and we time travel to 1980 the evening when my husband proposed.
Picture this:
Two extremely young lovers exit their run-down quaint hotel onto a cobblestoned street. Continue reading
A golem is a monster – a shapeless creature made of earth – a hefty, hulking blob conjured into existence from a dimension seldom visited by human beings except, perhaps, in our nightmares. Once it has been called into this reality, the golem lumbers along doing its creator’s bidding. In my case, some silly, sub-conscious part of me managed, yet again, to summon this grotesque creature forth. She awakened this slumbering beast from the deepest, darkest corner of my psyche. My golem is not made of clay. It is a tangle of words, criticisms – and when it stalks me, it sows seeds of doubt in my conscious mind. Continue reading
Liesl wielded the cumbersome wand over the ancient cauldron with the agility of a lumberjack felling a sapling. Dwarfed by the knotted rod’s size, it was obvious why the young girl’s name had been first shortened to little Elisabeth, then to Lizzie, and finally to its present diminutive Germanic state.
Despite the fact that the petite figure’s name had been minimized to suit her stature, Liesl’s inherited gifts were far from small. Continue reading
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