Missy O'Neil

Barb was a fiery Irish red head who occupied the cubicle beside me at work for seven years. Hot tempered and reclusive as she was, I felt honored to be one of the chosen few allowed into her world. We shared so many special moments together both inside and outside of work. The love of our grandchildren was perhaps our warmest bond. Barb's two grandchildren lived in California, which made her heart ache to see them more often than she could. Over the years, she became my dearest friend and closest confidant. Every night, as I passed her cubicle, I shouted out "Good night Missy O'Neil", and she'd smile and wave goodbye.

Two years ago, she traveled to London with her nomadic son Patrick to enjoy a three week vacation. They called it their trip of a lifetime. Pictures from their adventures abroad are some of my most valued keep sakes. During their final week in London, Barb became seriously ill. The moment she arrived back home it became apparent that she needed immediate medical attention. Within a matter of days, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was given less than three months to live. Her addiction to cigarettes demanding the ultimate sacrifice. My last visit with her took place at the Cleveland Clinic. I told her I loved her and we said our last goodbyes. I never saw her again. She died the following week while I was on vacation in Cancun.


The next two months were an agony for me. I needed to know that she was at peace. She haunted my every thought. I would pass her empty cubicle and whisper "Good night Missy O'Neil" and wonder if she heard me. And then she visited me in a dream.

I'd never known Barb as a young woman, but when she appeared in my dream as a radiant young red head I recognized her immediately. She was wearing a stunning red dress with red heels and a smile that would have lit up a room. I ran toward her with the intention of embracing her, but she raised her hand indicating clearly that I was not to approach or touch her. So I stopped and took the opportunity to ask her if she was going to be all right, if she was at peace. She smiled her wicked little smile and nodded yes. Then she waved, turned on her heel, and walked away. I no longer felt sadness or loss, just pure relief at knowing my best friend was at peace, and happy at last. I never dreamed of her again, and I no longer agonized over losing her. She had come back just long enough to give me the comfort I needed.

I still pass her cubicle every night and smile and whisper "Good Night Missy O'Neil".

Mother Ocean

I was first introduced to the ocean in 1997, on the beaches of Cancun. A late night flight had me arriving after dark, so her appearance was hidden from me. I say "she" because in my mind, the ocean can be nothing less than female. With only a black moonless sky and thousands of brilliant stars as whitnesses, we met under the cover of darkness. From the moment I heard the roar of her voice and felt her siren like pull, I became bewitched by her power, love and majesty. Though I could not see her.....the dark vastness of the water drew me in.....seducing me with the danger of coming in to play in her waves. Out of respect, I declined the offer, deciding, wisely, to wait until daybreak to join her.

The sunrise seemed to warm and calm her ,and she appeared to be a more gentle playmate. So I ran to meet her. How truly beautiful she was. She met me with a powerful embrace, nearly knocking me off my feet. I laughed and dared to push deeper into her grasp. Like a mother lion batting at her cub, she tossed me lovingly about. We wrestled like this, with total abandon until I no longer had the strength to resist her ability to pull me under. Oh how I wanted to win against this worthy opponent; but I knew I was not, and never would be, her equal. And so I conceded the tug of war, and left her embrace.

Maybe it's my Pisces birthright to claim the ocean as Mother. All I know is that I draw strength from her each time we meet. And when I leave her behind, as I always must, I walk away with a sense of renewed spiritual power that helps keep me strong all the days between our visits.

Commin' Home

There are places in my mind........
The Mountains of Tennessee,
A log cabin in Arkansas.
Places I once called home .

I can't go back there now
Because they are gone.
Remaining only
In my memories

There are places in my heart..............
Grandpas loving embrace,
The tears of a dieing friend.
Places that make me ache with longing.

I can't go back there now
Because they too are gone.
Remaining only deep
Within my heart.

And I wonder sometimes.......
Will I ever find home again?
That place where love is kind and
Unconditional.............

I see your smile, your warm eyes,
Feel the Flutterbys in my stomach.
I'm beginning to hope, perhaps believe
I'm commin' home at last.

I Miss Arkansas

Sometimes I miss Arkansas. That tiny cabin built of logs and stone, and filled to the brim with the love and gentleness of my grandma and grandpa. I remember the smell of grandpas pipe, the warmth of a crackling fire, the twinkle in his eye as I sat on his lap and listened to his stories. I can almost hear the constant chirp of the crickets and the occasional sweet call of the whippoorwill. Almost see the flash of the fireflies, smell the pipe tobacco.

For two blessed weeks every year I found shelter from my fathers drunken rages and my mothers cold indifference. I received enough love those few days to carry me through the other 50 weeks of the year.

At dusk, grandpa would match his long strides to my short ones, and trust me to walk beside him as we gathered the cows from their day of grazing. He'd sit me on a wooden stool in the barn, and guide my little hands to the warm teats of a swollen udder....teaching me how to coax milk from a stubborn Guernsey. There were no harsh words, or scolding slaps. Only gentle hands and soft words guiding, teaching, lifting and encouraging me. I felt so loved and protected.

I have never since known such peace or felt such protection from life's harshness. We simply lived those two weeks enjoying the bounty of fresh meat and produce that farm work provides. Chores were done with laughter and pride. As long as one was kind and tried ones best, nothing more was asked. Perfection was not even considered , much less expected. Love was good enough. I was good enough. I never seemed to disappoint my Grandparents.

I want to be that same shelter for Boo as she goes through life. The log cabin in Arkansas is gone now, but perhaps someday Boo will look back and remember the warmth of my tiny apartment. The laughter on my balcony as we blew bubbles and did chalk drawings. The smell of popcorn in bed as we snuggled beneath the blankets watching a Disney movie.
Sometimes I miss Arkansas

Three Daughters

I have three daughters who have grown, under my care, into women. They each sit beside the river of life and gaze across at the future which awaits them. Each sees the river in a different light. Each makes an individual decision of whether or not to cross over. I watch in awe, as they struggle, unable to choose for them the direction they must take.
Wendy waits calmly at the edge of the water. She can see the other side but it has no hold on her. She appears content to sit among the reeds and flowers preparing a quiet nest for herself and her family. There are sights and sounds from across the river that call to her from time to time but she is not a strong swimmer and knows her limitations. She waits patiently for Gods direction, assuming that he will either build a bridge or send a ferry for her to cross, if infact, that is His choice for her. Her faith allows her to seek comfort in the knowledge that God is in charge of her future.
I admire her faith. However, I worry that perhaps it is fear and not faith that ties her so closely to the shore, and that someday she may have regrets.
Mari Grace takes one longing gaze across the river and plunges head long into the icy waters. She is a strong swimmer, but doesn't take the time to prepare or to check the danger before she leaps. She has, on occassion, worn herself out mid way across, and would have drown if someone had not rescued her. Once safely back on the shore, she sees the successs of other swimmers and plunges in again and again. Her near fatal attempts have left her scarred but never discouraged. She blindly races toward the other side no matter what the dangers may be.
This is not courage and it frightens me. Perhaps one day there will be no one keeping watch and she will indeed lose her life to the struggle. I cannot bear to watch her, and yet who am I to say that the future she seeks to win is not worth the price she may have to pay? I only hope she realizes the cost.
Sarah studies the shoreline carefully, measuring the distance between the banks. She has seen the struggles of her sisters and others who have made choices, and paid the price for those choices. She does not look to God or anyone else for help or advice, but rather looks within herself and judges her own strengths and weaknesses. She knows only one thing.....she cannot remain on this side of the river. She must find a way across. She may have to swim, or build a bridge herself, but she will find a way to cross the waters. She has counted the cost of her crossing and is willing to pay the price. She knows she can do it, and when she is ready, she will begin her journey.
This truly is courage. There are times when I must close my eyes and bite my tongue because I know she cannot accept my help or advise. I also know that she is strong enough and wise enough to make her way into the future. If the journey is costly it will be paid without complaint or regret. I only hope that someday she will seek devine help to make her struggle a little easier.
Three daughters, three decisions, none wiser than the other, none claiming a quarantee of happiness or success. I am filled with both pride and pain. I am grateful that the responsibility of their futures no longer lies within my grasp.

You Are Beautiful

Are there no mirrors in your world?
Or are you afraid to see your own reflection?
Have you never listened to yourself?
Heard the wisdom that flows from within you?

Do not be afraid....nor mute, deaf, or blind.
Stand before the mirror I am holding in my hand...
Listen to yourself with my ears.

Get up off your knees and soar above your fears.
See yourself, hear yourself, as others do.
As I do.
You are beautiful and wise!

Written to Susan with loving friendship
Flutterby

The Price of Being Me

I sold my soul once to be loved by someone who never realized my value.
Possibly, because I did not realize my value.
Regaining my identity was even more costly,
but I was worth it!
After 10 wasted years
and gallons of unshed tears,
I ransomed my soul back.
I found freedom in the silence of being alone once again.

From flutterby to the caccoon of someone elses whimsy.
Then breaking free,
Crawling....learning again to walk,
and now to fly once more.
I have learned to allow the world to influence me
but never again to change me.
I am and always will remain
winged,
beautiful,
and free.

A Flutterby