Tribute (jump rope for the Stephen King fanatic)

Not last night but the night before

Tommyknockers, Tommyknockers 

knocking at my door

down the road in 'Salem's Lot

where the craving's strong

and The Body don't rot,

Misery reigns and Silence calls

as Nightmares and Dreamscapes

climb the walls.

in The Waste Lands along the path

The Dead Zone's strong

and shows it's wrath.

beware the night, Full Dark, No Stars

and Low Men In Yellow Coats

in big old flashy cars.

up at the overlook The Shining runs deep

but so does Insomnia.

no cure for Doctor Sleep.

in the Pet Semetary

where The Boogeyman lurks

you'll find a Bag of Bones

under Drunken Fireworks.

you'll see The Cat From Hell

and hear Chattery Teeth,

just don't take The Long Walk

to The House On Maple Street.

think you have A Good Marriage?

you might want to look again.

The Dark Half is underneath

The Colorado Kid.

working the Night Shift

with Mostly Old Men

we talked about the Afterlife

and the Dark Descent.

at Four Past Midnight

The Mangler fired up

The Regulators came

and stole Uncle Otto's Truck.

The Storm of the Century's

out on Little Tall

across The Reach

where Death kicked up a squall.

Dolores Claiborne's

secret is kept.

down in the Darkness

the bad man slept.

back on the path

where the monorail runs,

the riddles keep coming

and the answer ain't Guns.

over 35 Scary Years 

With Stephen King

I've read a lot and

I've learned one thing:

when you read the king of horror

It Grows On You,

it draws you in, holds you fast,

and never bids adieu.

it may grab you by the throat

or lure you bit by bit

until you're scared to keep on reading

but terrified to quit.

Bodybuilding vs. Spiritbuilding

Bodybuilding hurts. We all know that in order to build muscle mass, you must work those muscles out. You must lift weights or work out on machines or ride a bike or run. Whatever form of exercise you choose, if you are building muscle mass, you are first breaking it down. Think about the strongest person you know or, better yet, think about Hulk Hogan or Arnold Schwartzenegger. If you have ever watched a bodybuilder work out then you have seen how painful it is. You hear them make beastial noises and yell as they push themselves to the limit, as the struggle and strain to get that last rep. All to build their muscles bigger and stronger than before. What happens when you work out your muscles? The muscle fibers are damaged. The muscle fibers that are damaged by the trauma of working out are rebuilt by the body, becoming thicker and more numerous, therefore growing the muscle into a bigger, stronger muscle. (Read more about the science of muscle building here http://www.unm.edu/~lkravitz/Article%20folder/musclesgrowLK.html ) the point is, in order to make your muscles stronger, they must be traumatized, tortured and torn and then allowed to heal - bigger, better, stronger. When you are faced with adversity, when you go through a difficult situation or season, you can either give up and feel sorry for yourself or you can view these times like a spiritual workout. Just as a torn muscles' healing increases it's strength, size and effectiveness, our struggles can strengthen us spiritually and make us more effective Christians. If we strive to change our way of thinking and see these times as an opportunity to grow instead of wondering why God would allow us to go through such things, we can be much more productive and grateful people. So the next time you find yourself in the midst of a trial, push through the pain and then flex those new spiritual muscles that develop from the workout your Spiritual Trainer custom designed for you. He only wants to see you grow to your full potential and He will spot you through the workout if you let Him. Remember - no pain, no gain. 

My Footwear Fiasco

Tonight I witnessed a very sweet girl marry the man of her dreams. She was obviously over-the-moon delighted as she looked into his eyes and committed to be his for a lifetime. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, several of us scoured the few stores in our tiny hometown mall looking for just the right outfit for the occasion. I, myself, even bought a new pair of heels. Now, those who know me know that I am seen more often than not wearing boots. Not the spiky heel kind but the kind with the one-inch chunky combat boot kind of heel.  But I have needed a pair of basic black dressy shoes for a long time and this was my chance to justify the purchase. Surprisingly, I found the perfect pair at the right price the day before the wedding. They were a little higher than I would have liked but I thought "Hey, I used to wear these all the time. I can do this.". It turns out I was wrong. Driving in heels does not seem like it would be much different than in any other shoes but it definitely is quite different. It was a shaky start but I caught on quickly and we were on our way. As my friend and I arrived at the venue and got out of the truck, I began to wonder if I had made the wrong decision regarding my footwear. I wobbled along about as graceful as a hippo on roller skates. It was a bit of a trek to the ceremony site and I regained my sea legs and my confidence though my feet were beginning to talk to me quietly already. When the wedding ceremony was over and we headed toward the reception hall I was still doing alright. But in the cocktail area, as we waited for the photographer to finish up with the bride and groom, there was absolutely nowhere to sit. I stood there trying to look graceful and poised, hoping no one could tell that I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other as the pain in my toes and balls of my feet grew less bearable by the second. By the time we were directed from the cocktail area to the reception, each step brought with it shooting fire and, more than a few times, I wavered and almost lost my balance. I pushed through the pain only by reminding myself that I had endured much worse pain for longer at Parris Island and survived. I was NOT going to let a pair of classy black heels get the best of me. When we finally rounded the corner to the lawn strewn with tables and (blessed sweet wonderful) chairs, my feet felt like fire and ice all at the same time and I was not sure how I was going to get across the grassy area between the hard slate steps I was standing on and those amazing-looking chairs. If you have ever worn spiky heels and tried to walk across grass then you know what I am getting at. You cannot, when you walk across grass in shoes like this, put any weight whatsoever on your heels or your heels will sink into the soft earth under the pressure of the weight of your body. Then you run the risk of walking right out of your shoes. You must shift all of your weight to the ball of your foot instead. At this point, that was almost impossible for me but I again conjured my strength by mentally drill-instructing myself and determining that I would not allow these beautiful black demon shoes to make me the laughingstock of the party. As it turned out, I made it to the table without falling on my face or losing a shoe. The night was fair and cool. The breeze blew in off the lake. The music was nostalgically wonderful. And the food was fantastic! (I did have to beg a good-looking younger gentleman at our table to chase me down a glass of water because I just couldn't bring myself to stand up and walk back across the grass again when I had just sat down safely with my plate of prime rib and loaded mashed potatoes.) As plates were cleaned and cleared away, the music ramped up to a faster pace, signaling that the party had begun. Unfortunately, it was getting dangerously near my bedtime. I ventured out one final time to place my gift with all the others and then headed toward the front of the house and the parking lot beyond. As soon as I was around the corner and out of eyeshot of the party, I gingerly pulled my shoes from my throbbing feet. The cool slate of the walkway was heaven beneath my tortured toes and I breathed an honest sigh of glorious relief. I may well wear those shoes again one day but I can tell you it will not be soon and it will not be often. 

Daydreams of a Would-be Writer

To date, I have had no more than one poem published (and the one I did have published was in a collection of thousands of aspiring poets and I had to buy the book). I believe this barely-published state of being is partly due to the fact that I have not been very good at seeking out places to present my work. I am still struggling with whether this is solely because I am afraid of rejection or if I am also truly overwhelmed at the sheer enormity of the task of wading through all the sketchy people/publications/companies to find the reputable ones. It is my life's dream to publish a book one day. I have dreamed for it as long as I can remember. From the age of six or seven, I wrote stories and bound them into books. I have actually started a novel, which I work on only periodically when I can find the time and inspiration. My mind is so cluttered these days with everything else that is required of me that it is hard, even when time allows, to just sit down and pick up writing where I left off. The story reveals itself to me bit by bit all the time and I have a million notes scrawled on used napkins and bits of paper torn from the corners of whatever was handy when inspiration struck. Old envelopes are another convenient drawing board and I have to clear them out of the car and my purse on a regular basis (my husband always gets annoyed at "all that trash" in the cup holders). I am finally getting more organized and catagorizing them in my iPad so I don't have to sift through all the bits and pieces in such a random fashion any longer. Hooray for technology! I know I have a story to tell and I think it will be a good one. Maybe not for everyone, but a good one for a lot of people. There is darkness in all of us. Some choose not to believe that. Some willfully ignore it. Some embrace it and hurt others. Some simply allow it to flow out of them onto the page for the entertainment of those who aren't afraid to poke the beast once in a while (in a relatively comfy place and from a safe distance). I'm not sure where my darkness originated and I really don't care. I write because it makes me feel alive. I write whatever flows out. I write because it purges the darkness from my soul and when I emerge from that imaginary place, I feel lighter, I feel happy. I write because I cannot do otherwise.