Welcome to My Randomness

In my younger days, I kept a journal where I wrote letters addressed to nobody. Sometimes I would address them in the name of a boyfriend. Sometimes I would use the name of a stuffed animal of mine (Aldanr). This section of my blog is like those letters.

I wanted to write about all I've been doing in my life since breast cancer. Marketing geniuses tell us that when we blog, we should stick to one topic. The problem is my life is full of randomness and nothing is consistent other than daily hygiene, eating, and sleeping. (And eating and sleeping aren't all that consistent either.) 

Here's what I know for sure.

Read more: Welcome to My Randomness

Hot Flashes, Anger, and the Raging Volcano

love volcano(I found this buried in my archives and thought I would share it.)

I came to the realization at age 40 that most of the older women I knew were angry, particularly at men, but maybe at life in general. I didn't really understand why.

I came to the realization at 50, that after 25+ years of marriage, most of the men in my life, even the really considerate ones, had no clue what it was like to be a woman, what our responsibilities really were, or why we periodically became irritated at them.

At 53, I began to understand the hot flashes I was having. They were anger. I couldn't help but remember the words of a writer friend of mine, Isabella Quimby, who likened hot flashes to volcanos. "I'm an erupting volcano!" she would say each time a hot flash erupted within her - and they were frequent. I suspected that Isabella, who had gone through a nasty divorce, knew a little bit about the anger women repress (well usually) and the ever-building incidents women endure due to the lack of understanding of men.

Read more: Hot Flashes, Anger, and the Raging Volcano

Synchronicity - Two Entwined Hearts

An amazing sequence of events entwined two hearts with love, surprise and synchronicity. It did not start out that way, though.

Back in November, I left for a ten-day trip to Florida with my BFF, leaving Dear Hubby, Tim, home alone to care for the cat, manage the house, and go to work. All should have been well, but ten days, it seems, was way too long for the both of us to be apart. (Later we realized, neither of us had ever been away that long in over 35 years.) 

He ended up facing the week from hell; one of those weeks where every imaginable thing that could go wrong—did—including spilling his coffee while driving (not once, but twice). This is something he's probably never had happen in all his years of driving.

Read more: Synchronicity - Two Entwined Hearts

The Heart of a Dancing Princess

AnnJimmy-smOnce upon a time, there lived a young, dancing princess. When she put her tap shoes on, audiences were mesmerized. She and her partner, Tommy, kicked up their heels and "cut a rug"—just as they'd been taught by their famously-known teacher, a one-time dancer from moving pictures and vaudeville shows.

Deep in her heart, the princess longed for her life to stand for something. She wanted her life to have meaning. She didn't know how to accomplish this. (After all, she was only nine.)

She wrote in her diary, "Ask for more things that show other girls that someone has been there."

It was her only entry.

One day while waiting for the school bus, the dancing princess slipped on the ice and was hit by an oncoming car. Her daddy carried her into the house. The ambulance rushed her to the hospital. But the doctors said there was nothing they could do. She died that same day.

Neighboring parents soon picketed the streets demanding changes in how bus stops were created. They fought to protect their own children from tragedies such as this. The newspapers ran stories about the young, dancing girl who died at the bus stop and soon the parents won their debate.PostGazette-BusStop-sm

Because the dancing princess died, other children would be safe.

The story could have ended there, but it didn't.

Though gone for three years, the dancing princess had not been forgotten by her mother, her father, or her big brother—but her mother remembered her most of all.

And even though Mother had nearly past the age to do so, and doctors told her it was unsafe, she gave birth to another little girl.

momjamie61 2When she turned nine, the living daughter found her dead sister's diary.

She stealthily crept away to her bedroom where she could read it in private. She turned through all the pages one by one. She wanted to know more about the dancing princess who she'd never met.

She found her sister's one and only entry.

Touched by the sister she'd only seen in pictures, of whom her parents rarely spoke, the living sister's heart opened and she received the message written on the page.

It was as if she'd known all along it would be there.

Around this same time, she read Anne Frank, The Diary of A Young Girl. She felt akin to the story because her sister's name was also Ann. She thought that, like Anne Frank, she could use writing as a means to reach out to others and to make sure her sister's message wasn't lost.

Yes; she decided, one day she would write books too—and so it was.

When she turned fifteen, her father died.

He had been ill for a very long time. Many times she had sat beside him in the hospital. He had suffered much. He'd stopped dancing, stopped playing the saxophone, stopped laughing. She did not cry when he died. She knew he had gone where he could dance with her sister and others who had passed before him.

Because she grew up in a family that had been greatly scarred by illness, tragedy, pain, and death, the living sister went in search of healing—not only for herself and her loved ones but for any and all who could be helped.

Along the way, she fell victim to cancer and faced other near-death situations as well. More than once, she placed her fingers on the threshold of heaven's gates. Yet she pushed back, her sister's words forever etched in her heart. 

"Ask for more things that show other girls that someone has been there."

With great faith, she reached out to God and asked for help—and He responded:

[amazon id="0974064254" style="small" width="250px" imagealign="right"]

He gave her a method and passion.

He showed her how to heal and transform her life.

He taught her lessons to share with others.

He gave her words to write down in a book.

In that book, she began to talk about Swans.

Why Swans? Because with the advent of the Ugly Duckling story (a Hans Christian Andersen classic), she was reminded of the beautiful, symbolic metaphor of the transformed Swan. A gift of redemption bestowed upon all those with an open heart who had faced tragedy, hardship, abandonment, illness, or abuse—particularly as a child.    

Thus out of tragedy, a miracle of potential appeared.

Out of the ashes, a phoenix bird arose.

And the simple request of a dancing princess was exchanged for a life-long quest to help others dance their dreams and live life to its fullest. 

pagebreak

 

butterfly books

butterfly sessions

butterfly blog