When The Siren Sings

A small sail boat weaved from grocery coupons, and coloring book pages bobs up and down on the Sea of Motherhood,  and there I am sitting in the vessel-just waiting for water to seep in and consume me.
It’s a sad sight-a weathered sailor staring off into the horizon as her boat is tossed around carelessly.
I don’t look around me, I already know there is nothing but me and the sea.  I don’t even blink when Sadness’s clouds blanket the sea and cry on my shoulders.

I am headed to Independent Island-it’s where I live.  It is a lush island, with trees of Life sprawled throughout it’s interior; peppering the land with the cover of experience. I am the queen there.
When I am ashore, enforcing my rule, each day is mine and mine alone.  The sun shines every day-even when it rains-and the breeze from the beaches taste like Freedom.  I walk the entire island as I please.  I venture it’s twisting and turning paths through Friendship Forest, climbing various branches and reinforcing the bonds that have been there for ages.  I am not burdened by the responsibilities of maintaining the stability of Independence Island.  I love my title and my rule.
I am proud to say I have created the perfect balance of peace and adventure.

Now I just look at it from my tiny boat; it is but a small speck on the horizon.
So how did I get here?


When the shores of Independent Island were first flooded with the Sea of Motherhood, I couldn’t have been more happy.  It was the pinnacle of existence for my thriving island.  I thought since I had conquered the island, the sea would be no problem for a powerful queen like myself. Sometimes being queen of your own Independence Island can make you overly confident and under informed.
This was one of those times.
My shores foamed with promise as the sea waves pulsed upwards; splashing only what I wanted to see upon the sands.  Each wave brought new hope, new challenge, and I was steadily watching them roll in while packing for when the tide was high enough to carry me off on what was sure to be a conquest.

I was eagerly packing my inner belongings in a fabulous yacht-completely different from my current sailboat, which was now starting to show signs of water log.  My yacht was lavish and new, filled with things I was certain I needed for my epic voyage.  After anticipating and celebrating the approaching tide for months, it was finally time to shove off.  I, Independence Island’s Queen, took one last entitling look around the landscape before pushing my foot deep into the soul sands in order to heave myself into my new, flashy (and a tad expensive) yacht.
I never looked back after that.
I almost laughed at the idea of missing the island I governed.
The Sea of Motherhood had a current that grabbed hold of my opulent ship and whisked it far away from the island with great haste.  I brushed the sand off my feet, completely unaware, at how precious those bits really were to me.

At some point in my journey, my lavish yacht was capsized-surely by a Practicality Squall, which ravaged the Sea of Motherhood quite frequently. I managed to barely stay afloat in the difficult waters, find a sailboat drifting aimlessly, and climb aboard.  Without giving a second thought, I pulled on the main sheet to adjust the main sail.
That was the magic of the Sea of Motherhood; once I set sail, I realized I knew how to sail the whole time.
It came naturally to me.
Once my yacht had been swapped out for my current sail boat, I started achieving tasks I had only read about.  I was able to steer my sailboat using the winds of Intuition, I prevented further capsizing using various knots of Love to hold my sails tight.  At some point I even became a master at scrubbing the infamous Poop Deck.

During a dead run, I sliced through the sea with ferocious pride.  I perched myself to the right of the Nurturing main sail, with a steady hand on the tiller.  I could hear the faint sound of a ukulele strumming in the distance; the soft melody was the soundtrack of the Sea of Motherhood.  I poked my head over the side of the boat to see the famous Reflections of Love race past my vessel. The sea sprayed my face with memories and treasured moments-each drop sweeter than the last.  I soon learned that this was the allure I needed to stay on my boat; to keep sailing through the challenges and sacrifices needed to complete my voyage.  I became so engulfed in the adventure that I was oblivious that I was slowly losing all memory of Independence Island-and my rule over it.

Years went by before I realized I hadn’t been anywhere near Independence Island.  My epiphany was accompanied by the recognition of what I had become. I was bloated with Bitterness at the sea for taking me so far away from the island.  My hair felt long and stringy; a product of endless sea spray.  As the shroud of the sea is lifted from my eyes, I saw that not only had I not seen my island in years, but I was nowhere near it-I had sailed painfully off course.
I had somehow, somewhere, submitted myself completely to this adventure.
I had somehow, somewhere, focused my attention more on maintaining the integrity of my meager sailboat and it’s buoyancy than the well being of it’s own captain.
I had given up my queendom for life on the Sea of Motherhood.

It was time to open up the nurturing main sail and take back my throne.



Detox Just to Retox

Title credit goes to Fall Out Boy, “Disloyal Order of the Water Buffaloes”


Many of the details are still hazy, like trying to focus on an object underwater.

I woke up because it was hot.
Too hot.
And I couldn’t move.
I twisted and turned to try to figure out why before opening my eyes-I realized I was stuck.
Not stuck-tied.
I opened my eyes and saw the horror that was my situation.
I was suspended horizontally over a pit that generated intense heat, illuminating everything in a sharp orange color.  The fumes burned my eye and nostrils.  I panted frantically.  How did I get here?!  I wondered.  I looked around desperately, I saw no one-but heard rhythmic chanting all around me.
Sweat dripped down my nose and my hair blocked my view.
I started to call out-I didn’t know to who since I couldn’t see anyone standing anywhere.  My calls turned to screams as I became increasingly terrified.  My skin was a bright shade of pink from the heat of the pit below me.  The mysterious chanting increased and I looked around-My eye caught a twinkle in the torch lights that surrounded pit.  I let out a scream from deep down in my belly.

From off in the distance a giant pair of sharp-pointed, silver scissors floated towards me. I couldn’t believe my eyes, How is this possible? I thought.  I could almost hear it’s warped hum as it sliced through the air; pointed straight for my middle.
The fear was crippling.
I jerked and pulled at my restraints as hard as I could with no resolve.  I forgot all about the molten pit beneath me, I was fixated on the new fear of being impaled.
Slowly, ominously, the scissors began to open.
I was screaming so hard that my stomach burned, my ears rang and my throat gargled with strain.
What the Hell is going on?!  This can’t be happening!!! Are my thoughts as the scissors reached my middle and before I could plead a prayer- they snapped shut.

I flinched my eyes shut-I expected blackness and emptiness, what I imagined sudden death was like before you were ushered to wherever you believed you ended up.  A moment passed and I realized I was NOT dead!  Confused, I flashed my eyes open to see my body in two pieces and something pouring out of me at a pace that reminded me of tears. I noticed the substance pouring from my two halves displayed images; familiar images-people I knew, places I had been, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that they were memories.  I was being robbed of my memories!
A moment later I realized they all had a familiar tone; they were of Him!!
I was being drained of all memory of Him.
“NO!” I cried out, “Not Him, please, someone help me!  I can’t forget him, I can’t lose him completely!!”
Of course my cries were futile.
I watched in agony as the last drop of memory rolled out from my soul.  It was of his face; long, triangular, with all the curves and surfaces I cherished, smiling and a twinkle in his rich, brown eyes.  I sobbed heavy heaves as it broke free from me and fell, almost peacefully, into the heat-it let out a hiss as my very last memory of him incinerated it in an instant.
It was done.
His memory was gone.
I had nothing left.
I was empty.

I felt my halves move together.  I hung my head, my hair covered my face almost completely but I didn’t care.
I didn’t care about anything anymore, nor did I feel anything anymore.
My halves began to fuse together and once I was whole again, was lifted from my bondage and set on the ledge of the pit.
I slumped to my knees.
Numb, I  stood up.  My chest pounded as I slowly walked to the ledge of the pit.  I looked down with solemn eyes, stretched my arms out and leaned forward; falling into the bubbling heat, chasing his memory.

Check This Out–>How Billy Joel Taught Me To Write — Discover

At Lit Hub, novelist Benjamin Wood explains how the Piano Man shaped him as a writer: “Any good sentence I’ve composed as a novelist (there must be one somewhere) has a lot to do with the unwitting tuition of Billy Joel.”

via How Billy Joel Taught Me To Write — Discover

This is a must read!  I listened to each song mentioned in the blog before I read Benjamin Wood’s elaborations and it was almost absurd how emotional and invested I had become.  I will be following Mr. Wood’s writing as well as evaluating my own personal appreciation for The Piano Man.


To Squish or Not To Squish


I went for a walk with my children yesterday.
The sun was shining for a bit, and while it was windy, I figured it could blow away the cabin fever.
As we walked, I struck up conversational topics about the different things we encountered.  I like to do that from time to time, I feel like it gives my kids something tangible to connect life lessons to-so they can actually see the lessons in action.  On this particular day, the topic was bugs.
Why do bugs crawl? And where are they going?
Do they live in houses or in the trees?
Which bugs bite?
Do they like ice cream?  Did I mention my kids were 4 and 18m?  So that was a valid and important question for their judgement on the topic.
The concept of the value of Life also came into question.  I can’t remember, now-sitting here, the exact way it fell into our discussion’s lap, but there it was:  Are bugs’ lives important?  And at first you say yes-all Life is important.  It is one of the first lessons people teach you to teach them.  I went through my Parenting 101 speech outlining the preciousness of each life-lacing it with the connection each bug has to another; larger bugs eat smaller bugs and bugs help plants grow and so on.  Next came the Mecca of all parenting lessons for teaching children about bugs; if you leave them alone, they will leave you alone.  That was about the time I noticed that my oldest child strolled right passed a bumble bee sitting on the sidewalk.

It was huge, as most bumble bees are, and if it had been in flight it’s buzz surely would have been deafening.
But it wasn’t flying.
It was just sitting there, on the concrete.
My eyes darted from one child to the next hoping they had, in fact, not seen the fuzzy behemoth which was now showing signs of alertness.  It must have been picked off by a bird or fell victim to the chill in the breeze.  It was clear that neither child saw the black and yellow monster.  All at once my heart felt the surge of adrenaline as I made the split second decision to overstep my youngest child, cutting across him and nearly launching him across the lawn which followed the sidewalk, and stomped on the unsuspecting bee as hard as I could while maintaining as much subtlety as possible.  Thor would have been proud of the might my shoe had upon the bee that was salivating at the sight of my ripe and pink offspring frolicking, unaware…according to my wild, protective, imagination.
I gave my foot a decisive twist, feeling the bee’s body compress and smear against my shoe, pivoting on the confidence that I had undoubtedly just saved my children from certain death.

Thankfully, my children were relatively oblivious to what I had done, but as I lifted my foot to continue walking, I could hear the residual crunch of the bee’s body and I asked myself that exact question: What had I done?
It dawned on me that I had completely contradicted my speech on the value of life.  Apparently, not all life was important.
Apparently it wasn’t “leave it alone and it will leave you alone”.
Based on the slight stick my shoe had against the sidewalk, as a result of the bee’s innards, my overactive mother-imagination was more important than the bumble bee sitting alone on the sidewalk on a breezy late Spring day.
I was able to reinsert myself into my children’s discussion, but I had to split my thoughts between that and the complexity of why I had completely annihilated the bee.
We rounded the corner of the block and approached our house.  I held the door for the kids who trotted inside to pick up whatever activity they had dropped in favor of the walk, and I let out a long, motherly sigh.

It was the sigh that knew I was not going to ever mention the incident to the kids.  By the time it would have any meaning to them, it would be meaningless.  When it was time for them to dwell on why society reserves the right to decide which lives are precious and which lives are worthless, me stepping on a bumble bee would be trivial.  On the other hand, if I sat them down and told them what happened and why I felt the primal, instinctive fear-urge-to protect them from a potential bee sting that may have or may not have led to an allergic reaction; it would have been so far over their heads, their hair wouldn’t even move.  I knew that this whole experience was one of those defining mother moments.  I would carry the weight of today’s lesson on my shoulders and simply watch my kids grow up waiting for them to come to the same realization.  After all, isn’t that what parenting is all about?  We protect them from our worst fears until they are able to face and deduce those fears on their own?

Sadly, I don’t think anyone told that bumble bee.

A Night of Young Love…A Continuation of Rekindling the Flame

*A year and a half into Eric and Rosalyn’s relationship*

The moonlight spilled into the room carelessly.  It had no regard for Rosalyn trying to sleep.  She tossed and turned, throwing her arm habitually over a body that wasn’t there.  After a while, she rolled onto her stomach; face half smashed into her pillow and thought for a moment.
I wonder if Eric’s awake.
She looked at her clock; 1:00am.  With a groan, Rosalyn picked up her cell phone and opened it up to check if she had any text messages.
She snapped the phone closed and rolled to the middle of the bed, becoming tangled in the blanket she usually shared.
I wonder if he is busy.  I shouldn’t bother him so much, he needs this experience.  But I wonder if he is thinking about me.
Rosalyn reached over and opened her phone once more.
She sent one text.
Then two.
Three or four texts went by and Rosalyn laid the phone down and peered into the bluish, gray hue that coated their room.
A single tear rolled down her cheek.
She missed Eric more than she realized.  Every moment that he wasn’t next to her, laughing at a joke, or discussing serious issues was agony for Rosalyn.  Her heart felt like it was only half beating when she was without him.
He truly completed her.
She knew he was trying to improve their quality of life by getting his degree, she knew this was what they had planned together from the very beginning, but she had no idea how being away from him would affect her.
A number of minuets passed and the only thing that broke Rosalyn’s absent stare was the sound of the window sliding open.
Her heart leaped about inside her, with excitement
She popped straight up out of bed and quickly cleared the nightstand of all debris.
Eric was sneaking into their room!
When he closed the window behind him, he turned around and gave her a very confident smile.
“Hey, you awake?”

“Oh my God, you actually came!”
“Oh yea, sorry.  Eric, I am so happy to see you.” Rosalyn bounced while sitting cross legged on the bed.  She leaned over and threw her arms around him.”So what’s the matter?  You said in your texts that you needed me to come home.  Is everything ok?”  He asked hugging Rosalyn back.
“Yea”Rosalyn released Eric and slunk back to where she was sitting. The moonlight shifted and hid half her face as she looked down. “I didn’t realize how much I needed you with me”
Eric frowned slightly, “Rose…we talked about this.”
“I guess I am upset because I feel abandoned.  I feel like you are off having this amazing experience and I am left behind; part of your past.”
“But Rose, you aren’t my past, you are my right now” This made Eric concerned.  Rosalyn was not taking the distance well, despite only being a 10 min car ride away from each other.  It tore him up inside to see her unhappy, but he had to try to make her understand how important it was, for him, to finish the plans they had made together.
Rosalyn took his hand in hers and started to rub it rhythmically.
Eric sighed.
She was so good at that, she never gave any warning when she was going to take his hands and rub them, but Eric was always so happy when she did.  Rosalyn knew how to work the stress and frustration of the day out of each finger.  Her hands had the right amount of pressure on his palm that sent relaxation washing over his body.  She focused on one finger at a time, working her way from knuckle to the fingernail, then engulfing his whole hand with her warm, loving hands.  Eric was surprised to hear what she said next,
“I am worried you will find someone better than me.”
Rosalyn jumped a little when Eric jerked his hand back from her.
“How could you say that?  Rosalyn, don’t you trust me?  Don’t you trust our relationship?!  I am not there to meet other girls, I have you.  I am there to experience the college life and get my degree so we can have a better future.” He reached through the moonlight and cupped her face with his hands, “I like being at college, but I LOVE you.  There is a big difference.  I came home tonight because as much fun as I have there, I miss you just as much as you miss me.”  With that, Eric pulled Rosalyn into a warm kiss.  He forgot how sweet her lips tasted and how well her lips molded to his.  She kisses so well, he thought, I could kiss her all night long.

After some time exploring each others kisses, Eric traced up her arms with his hands.  Rosalyn placed her hands on the back of his neck, half tangled in his hair, and tugged gently.
Eric could feel his body ignite.
He broke from their oral embrace and took off his deconstructed, black and gray hoodie, knocking his military style cap to the ground.
Rosalyn began to help Eric undress.
The pair stood on their knees, not saying any words, but speaking volumes to each other.  Their eyes met and the whole room lit up with the love, laced with lust, they had for each other.
Eric, now baring his torso, stood tall over Rosalyn. She looked up at him, letting her blonde hair fall back to be washed in the moonlight, and never broke his stare as he lifted her shirt over her head.
A quiet whoosh made them smile as he tossed her shirt hastily on the floor.  He bend down to her neck and lightly breathed along it’s length.
Rosalyn let out a shaky sigh.
She juggled her focus from Eric’s kisses and the heat she felt for him in her sleep shorts.
She returned the gesture, finding his collar bone with her lips and traced it to his shoulders.  Eric wrapped his arms around her middle and slid his legs out from under him causing them both to lay back on the pillows.  With Rosalyn sitting on top of Eric, the two massaged each other.
Eric’s firm, but gentle, hands found Rosalyn’s breasts.
She let out a tiny moan as he applied steady pressure; feeling her curves in his hands.  Her voice sent steamy adrenaline down Eric’s back and he used that adrenaline to flip them over. The moonlight peeked through the window, watching them as they became intertwined in each other.
Rosalyn begged Eric for bliss.
She whispered in his ear provocative promises that made Eric groan, almost growl, with excitement.
In their tangled embrace, they became completely honest to each other; baring themselves on the sheets of their bed. Rosalyn reached down and held Eric in her hands.  He let out a small gasp, but dove back into the nape of her neck to muffle the moans she was triggering.  A few minuets later, without a word, but with complete understanding-the pair, became one.
Rosalyn’s body was hot and excited, and she could feel Eric’s love plunge deep into her.  Eric’s body was glistening in the moonlight, Rosalyn was overcome with emotion and arched her back, giving Eric direct access to her own love.  He took full advantage of her offering and pushed harder, faster.  The two created a pulsing motion that, when mixed with the sounds of their breathing, turned into music. They listened to the love song their bodies played for several minuets.
Suddenly, Rosalyn felt that familiar tingle.  She reached above her, her body matched Eric’s glisten and her bare breasts erect from the soft breeze caused by their movements, and grabbed their black wrought iron headboard. She began to rock her hips back and forth against Eric’s love and before long she felt the rush of her lust surge down her body; engulfing Eric.  She let out a soft cry as her body became tense with ecstasy and Eric looked down at her and grinned.  He loved watching her love flow for him.  She was so beautiful as she lay beneath him, soft and sensual.  He had never felt love like hers before.
A moment later his own lust surged for her.
He bent down and clung to her as his body expelled his emotions to her.  Despite the two being exhausted and covered in sweat, Rosalyn smelled sweet against Eric’s nose and her hands softly caressed his brown hair as he lay on top of her panting for a moment. He brought his lips to her ear and softly whispered,
“I love you.  With all my heart.”

(He Was To Remember) — Discover

“The prose is so thick that to me it has the closeness of a summer day; you can feel yourself choking on the humidity, feel the grit of Macondo sticking to the back of your neck, and all you want to do is lie on the tile floor, eat a banana, and sweat.” Honoring literature with pie — a frozen banana pie, for One Hundred Years of Solitude.

via (He Was To Remember) — Discover

I love this little blurb.  I have never eaten a frozen banana pie, but after reading this, I can taste the heavy banana and cream flavor swirling around in my mouth.  As we all know by now, I am huge on description, and this one certainly takes the cake….er, pie!