I don't know about you, but I can tell you right now that there are times when I could really use a hug.

No, its not as if I go down the road and all the sudden I feel like I need a hug from someone so I find the first stranger I can and ask them for a hug.

But when I have had a bad day and feel as if the world hates me or I hate it , there is nothing better than a good hug from someone you care about and you know cares about you.

I don't believe it says anywhere that needing or getting a hug makes you weak or needy.

There are some people that you hug that you wish you could hug forever. It maybe someone who you don't see very often or maybe just someone who you love a whole lot. Who cares, hug them as long as you would like. They'll let you know when it's enough. Maybe it just so happens that they really needed a hug to but just didn't know how to get one or ask for one.

Do we put ourselves out there to those that we say we love, and care about, enough for them to feel comfortable to ask for something as simple as a hug?

Our are we to consumed with our own selves, and can't spare the energy to be huggable.

What is it about a hug that makes a person backup or feel uncomfortable? Is it the possibility that we are afraid that the person who wants to hug us has major B.O.?

Is it that the thought of being that close to another person for even a short amount of time means that your weak and fragile.

I think that a hug is the symbol of caring for another human being, of empathy. I think that it shows that your happy to see someone you haven't seen in a long time.

When someone gives me a hug, I feel happy inside and smile, in fact come to think about it most people I see that hug, wear a smile on their face, unless their sad and crying.

The sad condolence hug is the hardest to deal with I think . You never know how your supposed to feel and how long to hug. If you don't hug long enough ,the person your hugging might not think you care very much or have much compassion. If you hug to long the caring gets louder and harder, and you want to turn and run from embarrassment, for making them cry harder.

I think my favorite hug is from a child. It doesn't matter if it's a small child or my big grown child. Those hugs can be few and far between.

The saddest hug that I can think of is the hugs that we'll never feel again from our friends and loved ones who have left this old world for a better and brighter place. Although sometimes if your real quite, you can feel those hugs to, if your ready for it.

So my last words to you are, Hug, Hug, Hug, let the ones in your life feel how you feel about them with a hug.

Black Knight, White Knight

Where is the voice of wisdom when it comes to my own path?
Why can't I help him.I feel him so strong most of the time, so angry, so tortured, so incapable if being the kind of friend, lover, and sounding board, he used to be with me. I was told that I never see two sides to anything, that I jump to conclusions and "only see my side of the page". I don't stop and think.

I am tyring so hard to hold on and remember in my heart of hearts who I am, and not to loose myself in the coldness that comes from the one I always thought I could count on.
Sometimes I feel myself start to slip, but I pull myself up by my boot straps and trudge on through another altercation.

I can feel him wanting to break me, I feel it strong, clawing at me when I fight against the persist ant attempt to swallow me up,he becomes angrier.
I feel this strong and furious, but I am guided by the lady of the lake and all of the princess's of Avalon.

I cling onto the knowledge that I am strong and even at times wise beyond my years.
Because of my ability to be empathic, I feel the fire that is burning from his eyes when
he looks at me and again tries to engulf my soul into his vial, angry pit. To do battle with the inner demon in him, is sometimes a long and painful experience, sometimes lasting even after all of the words of damnation and regret are said. Leaving me drained and speechless.

How do I speak words to a wall and be heard, I stop, and give him, what he thinks is the victory, the battle won, I have conceded. I have in his words "finally shut up"!
But you see, he has not really won the battle, but instead, he has slowly darkened and torn apart his only lifeline,and has more of a reason to hang onto the vileness that lies within him.

Not always was he this blackened soul, like a warlock. But even a warlock has his pride and boundaries , with these he knows he has steady ground.
But instead the black knight slowly sinks deeper into his own angry inner spirit.
At times I want to run. Find a higher ground or a darker cave, to hide from his continuous wrath.
I long to find and break out that shinning white knight that I used to feel.

When he spoke to me I felt uplifted and free, when he touched me I felt safe and secure.
He remembered and trusted in me. The real me, that could only be with him. I felt safe to be able to do so.
I miss him, I long for him, he who told me he loved me and I knew and trusted in that, it showed in his actions.I knew and felt that I was his muse, his inspiration to get through the day.

I try to find that white knight I dreamed about as a girl. As a woman, I thought I had found, after so many previous battles with the indignities that past partners had brought to my table,
my banquet table of life.

My banquet has become sparse and lean, there sits a vase of wilted roses where there used to be
a bouquet of crisp, scented roses.

Time has allowed my white knight to turn into the black knight, battling against me, instead pf waiting on the right side of me to make sure that I was not injured by the other forces of the black knighthood.
My beautiful white knight is gone and in his stead he leaves a wild animal, with whom I am not sure I can continue to stand my ground.

I live with the knowledge that weather I win or loose the battle, I fought with self pride and wisdom.

I feel as if I am grieving death, two actually, one for the man who I looked in his eyes, without a need for words, I knew he loved me, just the way I am. And for the impending death of the flame inside myself, praying to the gods or goddess that rule the earth, moon, sun, and stars, that I might be granted one more day before I realize that I must let go, for my own sanitys sake.

I know that I am worthy of being loved and cherished, or at least revered as a good woman.
He is able to make me wonder and doubt myself for a short time, each time finding it harder and harder to crawl on my hands and knees out of the damp, cold, lonely existence he knocks me into with his words of cruelty, followed by a cold toned, under lying anger and the empty words, "I love you" .... "But..."

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your hearts longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking a fool for love, for your dream,
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me want planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by lifes betrayals or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fix it.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not everyday, and if you can
live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand of the edge of a lake and shout to the silver
of the full moon, "YES"!

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised
to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own.

If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips
of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember
the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul, if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.


(Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder)

Am I blogging correctly???

I better than anyone knows that I have along way to go when it comes to knowing weather or not I am blogging correctly. Or if I am blogging about what I should be blogging about.

This is a whole new experience for me, I have always loved to write. I would write things like journal letters or my own personal thoughts, or If I got angry about something or at someone I would write the ever popular letter filled with opinions and abusive verbal that I would never send to the one it was intended for.

But now it's time for me to learn how to become a good writer.
I envy those who can put their thoughts and words on paper or keyboard ,as the case may be and have it read with so much ease and understanding.

My brother is that way, and I am hoping that we both share that common gene. Our mother did write, she wrote a couple poems that I have, but other than that I don't know. We have different fathers so the male gene has nothing to do with this.

I have always tried to speak properly and to use my vocabulary in the right way. Probably alittle bit to conscious about it since I have a bad habit of correcting others English.
Actually we don't speak English we speak American. We used to speak American English but that has been a thing of the past for sometime. With all of the inapropriate slang from our younger generations, or English language has seen better days.

Now the word bad means good and sick means great or neat. I always thought if you told someone they were sick it meant they were ill or crazy. It's all very confussing.

In order to be able to write a book and have it be of any interest to alot of people you would need to do alot of research on the language itself. I relize you have to do alot of research on any subject you write about, but the change in our everyday verbal from one group of society to another makes it harder to write a piece everyone would enjoy.

Blogging can be really fun for me if I don't have to worry about what and how I write, maybe I am worried about it for nothing . Maybe I am a better writter than I think I am.

Maybe....

Grandpa

There you were a constant in my life, thinking of more than yourself on more than one occasion. If it was a child you were there with open arms;, never questioning. You gave my baby brother a home without reservation .

You were always as funny as you could be with your stories of surgeries or mishaps that came to you in your like.

I remember you very quite, hardly spoke a word. But you were there readily and willing if someone needed your help.

Now your ill and it tears my heart in two. Two think of you not in my life is a pain that I don't want to feel.

My Grandma who I love and adore as if she were my mother, a link to my mother, will surely hurt as she watches the love of her life slowly leave her.
How she will endure this I do not know, Hopefully with as least pin as possible.

Please Grandpa if you leave us on this world, remember that you are loved and Yes, adored. And you will be greatly missed and thought aboout often.

You always told me you loved me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek , this I will never forget.
I wish that I could give you the strength to rejuvinate and be well again, but I can not. So my prayers are with you and my thought as well.

I wish I could be closer, to help where I can, But know that my heart and my thought s are with you always and you are loved.

They tell her nothing

"Come now sugar, take my hand, it's time to go." "You'll be fine, we're going for a little ride now". The little girl reached up and took ahold of the gray haired lady's hand. Why she wasn't sure,but she knew that she was supposed to.

They walked out into the night and she could feel a light breeze blow a strand of hair across her face. The tears that had streamed down her little face caught the strand of hair and it stuck to her cheek.

"Why was this happening did I do something wrong?'' was the question that rolled through her mind.

She felt cold and scared . She wanted to scream out, to stop this from happening but the words would not escape her lips.

"Here child put your seat belt on". She felt like it was strangling her,keeping her from escaping, keeping her from going home.

The car ride seemed to last forever. The car was quite and she could hear her own heart beating.

"Where are we going"? She asked herself, not able to open her mouth to let the words out. But no answer was given.

The car stopped and all she could see was the outside of a brick building and some lights that shone in the windows.

"What is this place?" "Why am I here"? "Where is my mommy"?

"Come child ," again she felt compelled to take the gray haired ladies hand. Up the stairs, through the door.

"Come child" again the gray haired lady said as she led the little girl up the stairs.
"Put this on" she said.
"Climb on up in this bed and go to sleep now", "Goodnight"....

"What is this place"? "Why am I here?" "Where is my mommy"?
"Why is this happening, did I do something wrong"?

As she drifted off to sleep in her tear soaked pillow.

I just wanted to be a writer

When I was a child and going to school the two subjects that scared me the most were Math and Reading, or more precisely English. I fumbled through those subjects like walking through a riverbed in a rushing stream, with great difficulty. I never thought that I would catch on. But yet when I became a young adult I wanted to be a writer. Iwanted to be able to put words on paper and have those who read them,be able to visualize what I wrote. To be able to build a story and have it unfold in the readers mind and make sense. Maybe even be able to write something that might actually help them in some way. But first I had to learn how to spell and use words correctly. I had a English class in 8Th grade and the teachers name was Mr. Sullivan. He was a tall, silver haired man with a small moustache. H reminded me of a British professor. Not because of the way he spoke but because of the bow tie that he wore. A little red bow tie. Anyway I had a good feeling about this class and I was determined to learn anything and everything I could that would help me to become a great writer. Weather or not that ever happened is a whole other story. Mr. Sullivan would start every Monday morning off by handing out a list of vocabulary words. He told us as he was handing these out,that we had to learn how to spell these words and look them up in the dictionary, write the words and their meanings down on paper five times each. Then we would have a spelling test on those words on Thursday. Then on Friday we were to write a story using these words in there proper form. I think that assignment was the greatest and most beneficial I have ever come across. I not only learned how to spell hundreds of words, I also learned what they meant and how to use them. Thanks to Mr. Sullivan I was on my way to being a writer and broadening my vocabulary ten fold. Kudos to you Mr. Sullivan for caring enough to make us work for our creativity.