Friday, November 3, 2017

Dona Nobis Pacem ~ Remember Your Mission

Welcome to the 11th year of peace blogging. 
Please sign the Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post and leave a comment. If you tag me on Facebook, that's even better! Most of you are doing that anyway. Thank you for blogging for peace today. Thank you for creating this powerful community of international peace activists! You encourage and empower me to do more. Now go inspire others to do the same. Love you all.



Remember Your Mission

There was this wind you see...
I heard it come round the north side of the biggest tree on Bloggingham Mountain, swirling and dancing and making a noise that I, in all my human years on earth, had never heard. Outside my bedroom window it spun through the pane like lightning, a fiercely potent spirit of nature capable of shattering glass and breaking bricks. Directly over my head it made a mighty swooshing sound and landed near the ceiling of my bedroom, in the center, over my heart lying supine beneath it wide-eyed and breathless, through my ears and inside the firings in my brain it surged and sang a familiar song.    
Except for my awe-struck tears it was a waterless landing. It left no damage behind, this personal hurricane of mine, exiting as it rattled the joists with a deafening whirling sound and encircled the lamp lights like dancing wind ghosts full of secrets.
I was shaken, deeply moved... but strangely not afraid.

This visitation happened a few weeks ago. 
The next morning I checked the weather reports. 
Had there been wind last night? No, said the forecaster.
 Had there been a storm last night? No, said the weatherman.
Had there been a palpable unnatural phenomenon?
Yes, said the girl in the unscathed bed.


Perspective.
The presence of a mighty rushing wind in my bedroom is not such a foreign concept to me.  There are two previous occurrences in my life that could be described as oddly prophetic, if not downright supernatural, and both came in the form of a dream. Both were direct and specific answers to prayer. Both involved a tempest.  One was a shattering and violent tornado dream the night before I was about to majorly change the course of my life. I saw my family stumbling over the rubble of our home; we were still intact, just walking in different directions. The very next day I knew that I knew that I knew that THIS was the day I'd prayed to recognize and act upon. Peace. In the middle of chaos.

The second one was a dream of my father after he passed away.  After a long illness with much pain, I yearned to see him well and whole.  I prayed for peace. And so my dad appeared to me in a dream, during a gusty thunderstorm outside the same bedroom window in Bloggingham, in a glow of yellow light with hugs and kisses to let me know he was fine. My sister had the same dream the same night. I never worried about him again. Peace.

The third one has yet - until this night in 2017 - been told.
I'm about to tell it to you
You will need the long and vivid history of my relationship with such things to understand the significance of a warm fall night that recently shook up and elevated my appreciation for the unexplainable - such as the sound of breathing living wind pounding on my bedroom window. 
Except this time, it was no dream. It was as real as flies on a summer watermelon or the smack of a bat on a lighted baseball field. 
It happened many many years ago. 


In the same room.
On the same mountain.

I'd gone to lie down for a nap on a Sunday afternoon. I was as exhausted as I've ever been, but couldn't sleep. Quite suddenly, a paralyzing feeling came over my entire body. Like my body was weighted and worn. I tried to move my arms but I couldn't. My legs would not budge, not even my toes, and it felt like every ounce of life was being swept from my body. I felt my heartbeat steadily decrease into slower and slower beats. My breathing began to slow down. I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't see! My world was pitch black and yet I was peaceful. There was no need to call out for help or in fear, because I wasn't afraid.
And I most definitely wasn't alone.

"You can go now," the Voice said. "I know you are tired. It's alright if you want to come with Me. I'm here. 
You can come with me. It's OK."

No life. No breath. No movement. No heartbeat. 
Just a sound.  A swooshing sound.

That suddenly traveled up through my entire body and fully forced its way straight out of the top of my head, like a spiritual vacuum of sorts, leaving me void and still. That was the last physical sensation I felt as my mind pondered an answer to the inaudible gentle Voice hovering above my bed. The choice was clear. The intent was loving. I was torn. 
"I want to go with you," I told Him. "It would be so nice to let go and let you take me with you."  I don't know how long I stayed between my world and His, but it was as clear a picture of perfect peace I've ever had the privilege of experiencing.
 There was nothing but energy and life in that space between. 


How long would He wait? I wanted to stay in that place forever and yet....
"I want to finish my work," I told Him. "I want to go with You but I can't.
 I am choosing to stay.
I felt a deep and warm covering of love and acceptance. I was saturated with peace. 
He was gone.
 I felt my breathing return and the blood start to flow. A foggy sensation in my head and then eyesight returned. I slowly began to move my hands and arms and feel my heart beating again. I fell into a deep sleep and was very tired for a couple of days.
 Physically, I was fine. Spiritually, I was never the same.

Why did I stay? What was my purpose?
My purpose was to continue to serve what I was serving. To love. To be present. To continue to hold space for those who needed me. And to finish the race I began. I've never regretted the choice I made. I sometimes regret the way I spend my choice. 

So. Now you understand why I sat straight up and paid attention when that same swooshing sound entered Bloggingham's walls once again a few weeks ago. My spirit knew that this was not a calling away but a calling to.  I felt energized and grateful. Deep in my Cherokee soul I knew it was a spirit wind, even if my pencil skirt analytical brain had to call the weather station to make sure.  

Native American symbol for wind

Native American belief holds that the Earth element of Air brings new life and transformation. 
My Cherokee roots tell me this is so.  The air element of wind brings spirit and words together as one. It was true for me the day I chose to stay.  We had a non-verbal conversation full of power and love. Those are the best kind!  Unconditional love and acceptance shaped my destiny. All I had to do was say YES.
In our world, we're bombarded with carelessly uttered words each day that mean nothing at all. 

What could words full of glorious intent do instead? 


Destinies are carried on the wind you see.
They come with transitions. Travail is hard. It is the most painful part of childbirth. 
But I'm here to tell you that there's some healing happening in my life and some amazing answers to prayer that have spun on the web of the universe for decades.
 Happening right now.
Don't discount prayers and intents you spoke eons ago. Their time will come.


We carry on you see. Sometimes we carry on for someone else. We may not realize this for years. I carry my Papa's unfinished work.  We carry our people with us. We bring them into our own journeys. Our destinies are born the minute we take our first breath. They are not ours to disown. They cannot be discarded as if you suddenly changed your mind.  You know in the sinew and bones of your being what your destiny is.
We carry our destinies inside us.


Our children and those we love carry theirs. Sometimes two destinies are entwined and overlap - one helping the other.  Most often you don't realize how intermingled you are with someone else for many many years. Like our peace globes. And that old sack full of dusty marbles, a box full of plastic dolls and stories that fall from heaven in my ever-astounded lap, like silk on granite to my soul, to assist in my understanding of what I'm put on this earth to do. 
Sooner or later, you either accept them or lay them aside. And you might not have just one. There are seasons and times for different purposes you see. All equally important to your soul. But don't expect someone else to pick up your destiny and run with it. 
It's yours for a reason. 

I found that out when my eternal choice was made ever so clear. 
So listen! Even when you're faced with the choice to stay or go, remember your mission. You have one! Have you finished your life's work?  Have you finished today's work? Has this relationship served its purpose? Or is there more to do? To say? Do your children need you? Does your community need you? Does the world need you?
YES. A resounding YES.

Your vision will take you far. Even when you can't see. Even when your arms are lifeless and your heart can't pump blood through your bedroom slippers. Even when you're dying in the middle of a talk with the Almighty in your very own bedroom. Even then!

 We travel between two worlds all the time. Every day. Every choice we make. Every word we say. Every time we choose to love or choose to hate, we are walking out our destinies and learning how to make better choices. 

I believe .....
We are destined to be whole and perfectly whole. Peaceful and perfectly peaceful. 
Steady and perfectly steady. Loving and perfectly loving.
Not in some eternal striving for perfection that causes stress - but in letting go of the struggle. 
Of surrendering to the unknown
Of choosing to step into what is ours and let it take us where it will.

Sometimes the wind is a mighty rushing wind
That's the kind of wind I want in my life.
Because I don't have time to dance around with breezes
and neither do you
 Remember your mission.
You might have a Wind to answer to. 
And on that day, when it comes, you'll want to answer rightly. 
Get ready. There's a mighty wind about to call your name.
You're not finished yet.






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Mimi Writes.......: Dona Nobis Pacem ~ The Silence Of Peace

Mimi Writes.......: Dona Nobis Pacem ~ The Silence Of Peace: Today I am sharing the story of my grandfather's marbles as is my custom on November 3 each year. It was the very first Blog 4 Peace ...

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Tuesday, October 31, 2017

The Doll Box ~ A Story of Peace and Love

.
It is peace week in the Blogosphere. Bloggers will use their keyboards to blog for peace on Saturday, November 4. It's time to tell the stories. Sit down and listen awhile.

As you know, my Papa is the reason that little blue globes continue to spin out of control this time every year.
 I wrote this peace post for the November 2007 BlogBlast For Peace in his honor. His stories are an integral part of this movement. It has become tradition for me to share them with you during Peace Week.
And for some reason on this chilly October night as I wait for another launch of peace globes, I can almost hear him speak and hover about, waiting right along with the rest of us The dolls must be shared once again.
 So Papa....I miss you. I love you.   Speak.

  
The Doll Box

"Put them in the pot, Mimi, just that way."


I planted the last Black-Eyed Susan in the clay pot on the deck, richly purple, and staring at me with an eye in the center of royalty's colored fall beauty. I dug and rearranged and poured in fertilizer. Watered. Played in the dirt.

My Papa stood looming over me with that jovial smile of his, a burst of sunlight behind his balding head and a brightly gleaming twinkle in the midst of the smile I adored. I was still unbalanced with a trowel in one hand and a pile of dirt in the other which prevented me from jumping immediately into his arms, but it didn't seem to matter; a warm wind blew straight through the curl hanging down the front of my right shoulder and moved it behind me to rest on the back of my sweater. I was sure of it. My Papa was always telling me to get my hair out of my face. No surprise to me now.
"Plant one more in the pot, Mimi. She'd like it that way."

"They remind me of her," I said out loud. "The dark ones she loved best. The Black-Eyed ones I don't care for, but I plant them anyway because she loved them so. I think they look disheveled and untidy - if a flower can be that way - and as she could be in the morning times. Her hair a mess and a cigarette over coffee, frying bacon at 5am so that you'd have a great start to your day, wrinkled robe and a smelly kitchen. One bright spot of colorful charm – like my Black Eyed Susan - was you, Papa."

I stopped planting and looked up.




“I've been watching you, Mimi."
I laughed.

"Well you know she had to have things just right. Two purple here, one pink there, large petaled, small-petaled and a very straight row or you had to start all over."

He laughed.
"I remember."

I fixed my eyes upon the face of the man who held the key to my heart ever since the day I took my first breath. I put the trowel down, the dirt fell from my fingers and I found myself sitting in the fall sunlight, listening to leaves drop playfully from the trees that surrounded me. I watched them fall almost on command at his overgrown feet that were firmly planted in front of me.  
Steel-toe shoes, huge shoes, painful shoes.
Important shoes.

  It would take him forty-five minutes in the mornings before work to lace them up. Rheumatoid arthritis claimed his quality of life, pain a constant companion, everyday tasks a monumental chore - and yet he rarely missed work (thirty-three years in a furniture plant) and most days he tilled the garden out back in the evenings. For today, I was content to sit at his feet and plant flowers. He was there to give me a warm breezy hug. Of course I knew he wasn't really there.

Was he?


Resigned to never again help him unlace the knotted shoestrings that strangled too too tightly across his tender feet, I turned to wipe a tear. I miss him still.


" I've been watching you - you and the peace globes," he said.
I smiled and stood up. He was right.
Pansies could wait. 

"I know, Papa. I've known for some time. You always give me courage when I need it, inspiration when I've lost it and the biggest laughs....I get the most joy from your far-flung sense of humor. It is always with me."

 He roared a belly laugh I thought I'd never hear again this side of Heaven. It nearly rocked me off balance, causing me to drop the flat of pansies on the deck.....
so deep it was, so rich.
So Papa.
And then I realized that I was staring straight into the face of providence. Or ghostly luck. Don't stumble now, Mimi....."I need to ask you! Papa! I have so much to ask you. I don't know what to do about.....
Will you stay?" 


"I've been watching you, Mimi," he said with that tsk tsk expression, "I need to ask you a question." 
I sat down again, wondering if I'd done something wrong. He sounds serious. Does he want to talk about the marbles? Yes, that must be it. The marbles. He wants to tell me how he made them. He'll tell me and I'll tell my readers and they'll tell people and he'll explain it all. 
I waited.


I remember - oh I remember - how they adored one another
And now they were both gone.


I had her pansy pots and her azalea bush and her quirkiness. He had memories not to be shared with a granddaughter but sacred scenes I saw playing behind the youthful grin. I did not let on. But I knew there were stories he must - he surely must - somewhere, somewhere - still share with her.  


"Ask, Papa. I'll tell you anything you want to know," digging a new opening in the dirt for one more yellow pansy. 
I just wanted to see him smile again.

"But why, Mimi.....why do you need so many?"


"Because she said if you planted enough of them really close together it would make the bouquet brighter and ...."
I sighed. Doesn't he understand?

"No, Mimi. Why do you need so many peace globes?"

I stopped digging.
"I don't NEED them, Papa, they just keep coming. From everywhere. There are so many I can't get them all  planted...er...counted. In the mail and through the strangest streets. Back alleys, front pages, small blogs, large blogs, no blogs.  In the middle of the night. In the morning. In the evenings. All colors, all creeds, all walks of life. All species, all reasons. Some humorously made, some seriously woven and others with a single signature. Those I like, too." 
He sighed. 

Had I disappointed him?
What does he want me to say?

If there's one thing about my Papa that was always the best thing, it was his deliberate ability to cut through my facade and get to the truth - usually without a word and never with a scold. Any serious conversation he made with me always came on the palpable presence of one who loved me unconditionally. I never doubted his intent for my good or his wish for my clear understanding. Laden with well-worn common sense wisdom, I soaked it up often, playing carefully at his painfully laced shoes which criss-crossed in front of me on the living room floor at the bottom of the green leather recliner he loved. And today, I felt much like that seven-year-old.
Papa had one more story to tell.



"Do you remember the dolls, Mimi? The 100 Dolls?"

" Oh yes, Papa. I still have them. I keep them in the box for safekeeping. They are in perfect condition though the box is yellowed now and torn on the edge. I still see your address, your name, the paid postage stamp and the tape."



He suddenly got a serious look.   

"I remember the day you asked me for them. We were thumbing through a catalog and you squealed with delight. 'One hundred dolls!! How could 100 dolls come in one box?' you asked." 

"I remember," I said. "They costs one dollar and we had to send away for them all the way to New Jersey and add our postage fee. I was so excited and couldn't wait to get them in the mail. I think I was seven? Yes, just about that age." 


"Open them, Mimi. They hold a secret. Open the box."

 I went inside to get the box. I'm writing this story at my usual perch at the table trying to recapture on paper what other-worldly thing has just happened in my pansy world. In my mind's eye I am still there, on the porch with my Papa and we are planting pansies and the sun is hot and the leaves are falling. My pen is flowing and I don't want to leave. We are having such a lovely day. All is right and he has chosen to visit me now. I don't want to break the spell. I don't want to open the box...but it is there in front of me on the table.


I picked it up, put my reading glasses on trying to make out the fine print. I reach for a magnifying glass to help but for some reason, I put it down. I couldn't. I couldn't look. I just couldn't. If I do as he asked then my time with him will be over and I can't stand the thought of that.  


And when have you ever been able to disobey him? Never. And when have you ever disappointed him? Sometimes. And will you do that today? No.
 I picked it up again. 


Bulk Rate. US Postage Paid. Newark, N.J. Permit No.4396.

100 Dolls Dept R
285 Market Street
Newark, N.J


What's so special about this old box of dolls? They're plastic and probably a few are missing. Pink. Flimsy. Tiny little things.

Not at all like I.....


"Right," said Papa, "you were disappointed when they arrived a few weeks later. I could see it in your face. I never forgot how cute it was when you said, 
"NOW I know how they got so many dolls in one box. They don't look like the picture in the magazine at all. They are very small and I think I might even break them.


"So you sat at the kitchen table night after night and lined them up. Trying to figure out which was a cook and which was a nurse and which was a girl and which was a boy. I told you that they all have a face and they all have a voice, even if they are on the small side.  You made up stories to go with them and then, once you'd brought them to life, there was a sadness about the way you stored them away.
Back in the box. Back in the box. Always back in the box."

He shook his head.

This was not going to be easy. What does he want me to see? There won't be an obvious blue world-globe-like-marble sitting there this time. We're talking about prissy dolls for a prissy girl who turned into a prissy woman who has no idea why she's crying at her keyboard in the middle of this unfinished story. 


Until......

I decided to open the box.




And there it was. 

Something I'd forgotten about. On top of my dolls in the lower right corner was a matchbox size toy. He'd sent away for that too. It came with my dolls. 
Tricky Dogs. They were magnets. One white dog. One black dog. When you start to play with them they always gravitate toward each other. After forty years the magnet is still strong. I turned them over in my hands and read the back of the box. 


Directions: Place one Tricky Dog on a surface (polished wood or glass) Push the other Tricky Dog up to it from behind, or sweep the second Tricky Dog in a half circle around the first one. Watch them twirl!

My tabletop is made of glass. I took the black one and put him up front, made a sneak attack by the white one and voila! the black dog began to spin in a circle - in an energetic frenzy - and aligned itself with the other one smashing into him, wagging their magnetic tails and gravitating together: smooching, the way only magnets can. When I was little, most often I played with the dolls, but Papa......he would gently nudge me to lay aside the Barbie doll brain and chase my dream in another direction. He was like that. Always dropping life lessons in my lap, at inopportune times like today, when I am planting pansies.


I laughed. I'd forgotten the hours of entertainment we'd had trying to make the dogs do something else. I tried to separate them so many times. So like me to want to argue with electrons and atoms - but they always ended up smacking into each other with a dog collision. Inevitable. Worked every time.
Without fail.


"The globes, Papa. They all spin their own way and yet they eventually make their way towards one another, spinning together.  The globes, Papa....they all spin with one purpose. 

Is that right?"
He smiled.

Now my grownup mind understands such things. I know there really is no trick. I know they're just heavily plastered metal toys with magnet skates on the bottom - but I'm not a grownup today. I'm a seven-year-old on the floor with my Papa and we are playing from the box he mail ordered for me in the 1960s. And I am laughing. The dogs - and the dolls - and Papa....still make me laugh. 

I sighed. This observation is just too obvious. Magnets. Globes. Spinning earth balls. Earth Science. I get it! I turned to him with a knowing look and said, 
"I know all about this little analogy. I went to college and got a degree since you've been gone ya know. And anyway, I need to finish planting these pansies and get them all in a straight line the way she would....the way she would....Papa?"
Papa? 


He was gone. 


And I was left with a tabletop full of little pink dolls piled on top of each other, delighted to be free of the box, criss-crossed in a pink maze, laid crosswise in the jumbled life of another doll, too many for a seven-year-old to count, too tiny for a middle-aged woman to see in great detail and somehow I knew they'd been waiting for just this hour to make their second debut into my life. Pink. Plastic. Fragile. Soft spoken. Small. And yet when I put them all together they make an enormous pile. 

Like my globes. 


"Why Mimi? Why? Why do you need so many?"



 I never answered his question. That must be why he left. I suppose he is angry with me. I'll have to tell him another time about the blogger from Hong Kong and the man from Singapore and how Idaho met Japan and tomorrow Italy promised to email Turkey......Israel and Poland and Tennessee and how Michigan is helping Ireland make a globe and it doesn't matter how small their blogs may be they all have a face and all have a voice and they just want to speak their....oh, never mind. 
 Hmmm...It's been forty years and I still haven't played with all those dolls.
No time like the present. 

So I took them out of the box.
One by one.

A nurse, a dancer, an Indian man, two clowns, Spanish people, a ballerina, a little girl, a man speaking, a roping cowboy, a smiling cowgirl, a Buddhist monk, a Chinese man, a Mexican hat dancer, a Gypsy girl playing a tambourine, Bolero dancers, Little Bo Peep, all nationalities, all creeds, all expressions, all costumes of origin and a world of imagination at my fingertips that now played alone without the fumbling arthritic hand of the man who gave them to me so long ago.......a Peruvian girl, a small child playing ball, a colonial doll with a full skirt taking a bow (My favorite. She bowed a lot in those pre-pencil skirt days). 

I remembered how his hands were so large and gnarled, fumbling with the small creatures as they fell in his lap. I would laugh and we would start the dance again. The Buddha man would twirl with the Peruvian woman while the little boy with the ball - perhaps it was a jack-in-the-box - sat quietly in the middle of it all. They all got along in my peaceful box universe. 

The dolls in my box lived in one world, dancing and spinning around.


"I'll get that for you, Papa," I said. "The lady from Spain would like to dance with the Russian ballerina now if you don't mind....Papa!?"



I looked up from the land of pink twirling peace and saw a tear roll down his cheek to land on his steel-toed shoes. I could tell he longed for our pink doll world of friendly global dancers and I so wanted to never see him sad again. 
 



"My life went sailing by," he said, "like a thin silk pansy leaf falling on the wisp of a breeze. I blinked and it was gone. Not much older than you are today. So much left to do. So much left to say. Many more flowers to plant. Stars to catch. More dances to dance. My work was not done...But you knew that, didn't you, Mimi?"

I did?
"All I know, Papa, is that I wasn't there that day. I canceled our outing and you left without me. You and grandmother went to the doctor and after that day I never saw you again. Not ever again. I was angry because you did not say goodbye. I was angry that I did not say goodbye. And I longed to tell you all my tales and all my stories through the years. I've waited for you to tell me what to do."
 

 I put the dolls down and looked at his wisdom worn face, anxious for the answers I needed. But he had a way of making me figure it out for myself. This day was no different. 
 

"You do not need me to tell you what to do. I am proud of you and you are doing just fine. Just remember one thing: It takes all the dolls in the box to make the world a beautiful place, Mimi. They can't hear what the other has to say unless you introduce them to one another and set their feet to dancing. 

 

Take them out of the box.

"Just take them out of the box." 


That's it? That's the secret? Take them out of the box? But what about the globes? And the marbles? I jumped up to give him a hug the way I always did but he was gone.
Again. 

 In the bottom of the box I found a piece of yellow paper. It had my name on it, folded, in my grandmother's handwriting. I opened it. It was a speech I'd made in church for a Christmas program when I was three  years old. He'd tucked it away in the bottom of my doll box. I smiled as I remembered that the best part of that day had been running down the church aisle and jumping into his white-sleeved arms for a hug and a kiss. If I ever doubted what my grandfather gave to me, and continues to instill in me even now, it is the simple power of love and a respect for all creatures large and small...
pink and Peruvian.


And that, my friends, is all we need.

*********



The Doll Box was written for  BlogBlast For Peace in November 2007. It is now time for Dona Nobis Pacem in the Blogosphere 2017. I never know what I'm going to write until the last minute. Some strange sort of sensation hits me about the stroke of midnight on the eve of each launch.
That's when Papa shows up, nudges my memory and honors me with a story.
First it was marbles, then pansies and dolls
And one year he told me a love story.
I wonder what he'll have to say on Saturday...or if he'll come at all. 
Maybe I'd better get some sleep. 
It could be a long - very long - night.


Reason #4 to Blog4Peace: The magic of dolls. And love. And dolls. And love.

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Sunday, October 29, 2017

Sitting On a Haystack

Sitting on a haystack




We had a great morning.
My son and his son, my Baby Beans, who is now a cool six years old. We watched #4 play on his local sports basketball team. We watched him dominate yes, really score 13 points before half-time and one more before the end of the game. We were happy to see the happy on his face. He is confident. Independent. Precocious.  Fiercely stubborn. There might be a smidge of his mimi in that boy on that last count.
I thought about his older half-brother (my Baby Boy) also talented and athletic at nearly 13 years old now, knowing that this day is precious and important as well. Days spent with all three of them - my boys grown and growing - still etched in my mind forever and ever.     Oh, I have a million things to do today. But I don't care.

Because days like this are golden
Ghosts and all....

ONE of us climbed a tire tree

After the game we found a Fall Festival full of live music, pumpkins, tire swings, a pie-eating contest which I forbade the boy to enter (lest he dominate, win that too) and end up in the emergency room, hayrides (we didn't go along because he said the tractor was just too slow), cotton candy and pinatas with more sugar than Carter has liver pills (you will get that if you're from the South) and mounds of straw everywhere. Homemade jam. Pickled beets. Hot dogs and all things nutritionally bad for you. 

                 
Sinful food
Saturating sunshine
Oversized sunglasses
Crisp air
Dirt and grass and little boys falling down
in Batman hats


Somewhere in the world today there are children who can't play outside
Batman conquers the tire tree....
because there are bombs dropping in their neighborhood
hunger lurking at the door
crying and sorrow, fear and famine
no pumpkins, no swings, no happy

Tire swinging

and that silly posed smile for the camera....
This is why I blog for peace
on NOV 4
with all of you

I want a peaceful world 
uninterrupted by shards of small things
like war
oh, it is small
and blustery
and frail

days full of pumpkins 
are strong
like straw
meant for building
and peaceful resting
under trees and blue skies

Let's all try it, shall we?
Next Saturday, Nov 4, is as good a day as any to start.


Somewhere in the world today
there is a boy
who just wants to climb a tree



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