Really? Forbes hires gypsy writers? Well, not yet, but they will.
“Did you know the Huffington Post is looking for writers right now?
So is Forbes, Lifehacker, Problogger, and even the Harvard Business Review.
There’s only one tiny problem”
This is an interesting article… Must read when there is time…
Galatians 5:4
I don’t have to talk the same as you, nor do you have to think like me either. I don’t have to dress like you either, nor do you have to look like me. As a matter of fact, we can resemble Renoir or the opposite, Picasso.
You are free to be yourself. Please, don’t look like the guy on tv, and please, don’t talk like her either. I might judge you wrongly.
We all judge. It is innate, intuitive, god given and it is protective. However, while deducing a circumstance or person subtract your personal possibilities of error from the equation. Figure out the percentage of miscalculations or delusions that are made within your assumptions and subtract them from your/my judgements.
Deducing renders grace and mercy. The two are not in the absolutes of black or white judgements. Grace and Mercy are found in grey ares.
Then, I consider killers and murderers. I think they are subject to God’s hands; I’m not equipped to see the whole picture, lucky for them.
I was leaving then, on a day such as this, with my suitcase in my hand.
But a tsunami came and took me away thus leaving my portmanteau behind.
If you find it dear, please, know you were near to my heart break at that time.
Treasures of gold and diamonds of blue are not fond memories, I held of you.
Old Dear John letters within the luggage were left on the shores, in lieu ~
WP©04/30/2015
The scripture I’ve chosen is one of those lines that can condemn; however, I’m going to apply it in a positive manner and only point it at me, myself and I. This will be one of those times one can write about the self and hopefully not have too many “sighs.”
So here goes my application of applied self to scriptures that can condemn.
It is no surprise that when I read this passage it clearly explained that teaching, preaching or giving scriptures to others are meant first for the self and if (this one in particular) directed at someone else is judgmental.
Having written this above statement please note that the verses mean something to me as well as others and is there for individual interpretation for self reflection. In other words, the meaning and content will be individually comprehended and the message given to me will not necessarily mean the same to you.
So I thread lightly when giving the words and use them carefully for myself.
How often have I created harm rather than good in the name of God. The way that I now interpret God is far different than the way I felt 45 years ago, which was a condemner, and now, I see him/God in a masculine/feminine presence as a lover and encourager of mankind who loves all men and women no matter what their condition of their soul/ego maybe sojourning. Because he loves me, just as I am, so I know he too, loves you, as well.
So, having said all this, God and I begin again. This is my second day to reunite with my lord.
Grasping God. To know him is to love him…
By Bonnie Jennings
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There was a time that I believed just like you.
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We believed that God was good and He would help and protect us.
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Like children we had magical thoughts and fairies and angels played with us.
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We made Daisy Chains and crown our heads with the delicate flower wreaths.
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We sang KumBaYah with gentile smiles around campfires with the strumming guitars.
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We believed that all was well. Now days, where ever one turns, someone is saying come this way or that. Believe, their way or else.
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The voices are thousands and peace from within is lost.
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So, turning away and finding the fairies and angels lost in time of my childhood is where you will find me.
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There I’m not lost, but are found with my familiar friends.
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Performing our magic when it seems dull and impossible is a concentration of our wills.
In quiet “boring” times,
When there seems to be nothing, but nothing, to do
It is then that we can create a masterpiece.
We illuminate the darkness that seems to surround us.
We make it our heaven, and if we lack vision we perish.
So, rise your wand,
Make your life, that which you’ve dreamed of..
Cause it to happen.
You can do it.
Believe, because you must.
Make it as you envisioned and thought of yourself.
Before the world of voices told you, “no, you’re nothing.”
Don’t believe a word of it, the world’s lies, because it’s not truth.
You are exactly what you imagine.
Nothing greater or less.
It is how you think of yourself.
Your beliefs will lead you.
So, change your beliefs for change.
Cause your world if you so want.
You have the power
God gave it to you.
It is in the tiny mustard seed of faith that will move mountains.
They will lie down in green pastures
Winter is the writer’s savory confections.
Grey days, rain, ice and snow evoke emotions.
Aroma’s of soup, candles, and fragrances allure affection’s
However Spring’s hope invite relief, from winter’s burdens.
~
Sometimes, in winter humans cry.
Grey clouds hover, as if, a veil dropped
A dullness covers the mind from on high.
It seems that, creativity and sanity, somehow swapped.
~
Oh, but I love Winter, Spring and Fall.
Grey summer sun rising, illuminates The Earth’s horizon,
and witnessed, temporarily, in the summer’s squall,
Nevertheless, the amber fire warms’ emotions of the winter writer’s action.
Goon-Ghok came with Jacob
on December 7, 2010. They entered our world.
Goon-Ghok
He popped into Jacob’s world.
before Jacob was merely one,
They gibbered about topics and things
that Jacob thought was fun.
He laughed at the entity
That no one else, could see
And, baby talked with Goon-Ghok
I asked, “Would you introduce me?”
Then, Goon-Ghok stayed
until Jacob turned three.
Jabbered over his tasks in life?
Saving, only, that Jacob could see.
One-day, Mimsi asked, where’d Goon-Ghok go?
“I don’t know.” Jacob replied,
He forgot about life’s entrance friend.
And, Earth time began, sadly, when Goon-Ghok died.
Our childhood angels.
Jacob says, “no, Mimsi, that’s not Goon-Ghok (in the above picture that I drew). This is.”
Jacob points to the purple aliens and names them in the bottom picture.
Imagination, it’s a terrible thing to loose…
And, Jacob? Mimsi thinks Jacob will one day create a fabulous story.
The gift of the writer’s is Imagination,
IT was summer of 1976, The Bicentennial year of America (USA) that I walked the tarmac at Walker’s Key Bahamas with Janie’s Crazy Salt in my back pocket. Growing from the grass that lined the tarmac were wild tomatoes. Plucking a few and salting them, we gobbled the delightful little mattoe’s up. Oh, those were warm kind and innocent days, so it seems now.
The path that I followed in the desert dissipated under my feet. Then, three old friends joined my side. Their names:
Faith, Hope and Love. They said, “we will escort you. Do not fear. God is with you in the forest deep and dark. Every man must go alone. You must trust.”
Trust, another entity, took the lead. I began the journey.
The forest is dark and deep and the trees, which some are dead, vastly grow. Some trees young and some old and some rotten share the space. However, together the enormous group of all types become one. It seemed they all have a role. None are common, even though, some appear handsome, some grand and some quite irrelevant, all are a piece of the puzzle. Despite their outward appearance, in totality, they represent the whole of this forest. Each are profound.
This is when, I decide to wander deeper into the green forest mystical fog. It seems the woods call me by name and they whisper wisdom and truths. I can’t resist the call nor the hypnotic beauty they pocess. To some in the desert, the forest seems mysteriously evil and frightening. But I, find it breathtaking, alluring and magnetic. I know I belong inside. This is/was my home but, knowing too, I was/am a mere babe, returning to my origins. Simply, there was/is no other choice. The heat of the years cause me to wilt.
And~ (switch to past tense)
The temperature dropped as the shade of the canopy of trees welcomed me back. The coolness of shadows and the humidity embraced my body. Comfortable now, as the parched desert took a toll on my skin. It looked like a saddle and the sun did what it was suppose to do and cooked the frailness of human existence from me. The heat was the “refining fire” that The Bible, explains.
The tropical birds flew by my head! Oh my! I forgot about them and their array of colors. Greens to match the forest, oranges to show god’s royalty and blues to give me inspiration and my own palette of designs. Smiling at the gifts, I pressed forward.
The monkeys did not trust me. So, they watched my movements. Suspicious of my intentions, good or bad, they would find out my purpose. I greeted them honestly with a nod, “hello, I mean no harm.” They let me pass for now. They did not offer me food. They ate the fruit which their many bodies protected. “Food will come later, maybe.”
The flying creatures of the forest flitted contently from flower to flower, from creek to the water falls splash. Amazed, I stood watching. Delighting in that which others in the desert so feared. Bending down by the water’s edge, I cupped my hands and drank the fresh cool water. To my surprise, I drank with another animal. It shared. This was the rule of the forest. The rules were not written or displayed. But, the rules were understood within the heart of everything that lived. And, if the rules were not abided by, then, the creature was expelled to the desert with “the humans.”
The humans, I dare say, captured, enslaved, ate and killed them for sport. The humans were considered, the demons. “The humans are to be feared.” And I, a human in their forest, recognized the fact, I am an intruder. But, they will trust me for a while. I will have to prove my integrity as a creature of God’s.
Needing a rest, I sat at the edge of a tree’s roots. Before falling soundly into a coma of sleep, I noticed the multi-colored green moss. It was damp, cold and sprung to new life. Small and delicate, the tiny leaves of multi greens invited me to observe it’s world. I looked harder, further, and magnified the mosses world in my imaginations. I saw another place, another home for strange odd life. Much different than my own, but also, dynamic, I saw. Then, fast asleep, I submerged.
While sleeping, a man stood by my side. He is familiar. Quiet and male by energy, he stood with dowsing sticks. The sticks circled around and around, then, rested pointing west. With a look to the west, his eyes pointed. “This way is best.” This time, I chose not to rebel. The last time I said, “No,” I was his teenage daughter. This time, I will listen. Though he a man of few words, he will show me the right direction. We will not make the same mistake. See, I learned that lesson. I take my nap sack and head west. Then, my next snore occurs.
There are several dimensions here. This is only two; shown me. The ability to sleep and travel at the same time. Here in The forest, I know this is true and possible. In the forest the hidden mysteries are revealed.
It is also made known, I may return to the desert at any time. The choice mine. No one makes another. There is no one to blame there is no control, by another. Choices for good are here. Choices for destruction are in the desert.
“And Ruth was a lady. And ladies know when to leave.”
Fried Green Tomatoes
I am like Ruth
From a six year old’s eyes the pool was humongous. The fountain was the center and maybe I could reach it, I would have to swim like the mermaid my mother bragged, to all the pretentious competition. Life was like the caste system though no one dared accept this truth. Southern living and social structures in the 1950’s wasn’t far in comparison to India except the clothing, hairstyles and color of skin were an ocean apart.
Neville Pool was breath taking. An architectural ingenuity that marveled this child. It was heaven. Babe’s teenage playground, and Uncle Tim’s and Uncle Bill’s feed. It lured and provoked demure subtle seduction in teenagers. Even in the late 1930’s, it was sultry and hot and the Southern Wisteria vines draped the back drop. The aroma of Magnolias and Jasmine permiated Louisiana.
The fountain still spewed cool fresh water. Cleaning of sins with mouths wide open filling souls with fresh spring water ritualized the gardens youthful women of sixteen or more. There in the golden age, seen through an amber lens and pressed into a dust filled scrapbook life comes alive for the viewers. Neville Pool’s ghosts are displaying their stories and trying to hold onto life as it played out, then. It’s surrealistic whispers beg the audience to listen, to hear, and to tell the story. Step into my brown aged pages. Look back into time. There you will find romance and mermaids, the ponies at the track and men wearing white suits. Life is someones dreams and memories. So, it is the same here at Neville Pool in Monroe, Louisiana.
And, the pointed cups of their swimming bras were simply and innocently virginal. And, every man had one or two etched on the men’s bathroom wall. Well, this was understood and on Saturday night’s the men branded notches in their belts sharing stories of their conquests. Maybe true. Mostly, not. But, it didn’t matter, after all, it was just a tale similar to the largest fish in the pond tale. The sad part was the young male listener’s believed the fabrications. And on occasion acted out on those wild tales and try to recreate them as their own. Many of the young dames at Neville Pool fell prey to lies of the ego and some yeilded to physical man handling. Thus, forcibly giving up their tails of mermaids and unicorns. Southern gents sometimes take the childhood imaginations from little girls.
It was Christmas again and this time Uncle Tim and Uncle Bill invited these beautiful women to our Christmas Evening meal. several of us gathered around, young and old. I remember they wore a lot of red velvet and their hair was very blonde. They had large breasts that seemed to squeeze out from tight corsets. They were way too small for their bosoms. But, I found delight in all their colorful ways. Big Mother served dinner on fine Christmas China, silver, and handmade table linens and nothing was out of place or sordid. She always found presents even for the women in red. And, Babe was most curious like a child at the circus.
Mom thought for a moment of running away just to live the life of a gypsy. She always amazed me. Babe was much more free spirited than her mermaid child.
“Hmm… I can’t explain this to a four year old. One day you might know why. Gypsies always have music. They dance every night under the stars and they travel everywhere.
So, that’s why.””Oh.” I didn’t understand why she didn’t turn the phonograph on and go outside and dance. That made perfect sense to me. The traveling? Well, I just wanted her to stay home and raise her little mermaid. But, Babe had the wandering star guiding her. She couldn’t be content with anything mundane. It wasn’t in her. She wasn’t milk toast. This record she would set straight. Life was meant to live loudly.
Awe~ the summer memories of Neville Pool~I’m not certain if Babe was a debutante of Neville Pools. I don’t think she was and it doesn’t matter. She never snubbed her nose at Neville’s female sacrifices. No, when Babe became a sacrifice it would be private. No one’s tale but hers and the tongue that lashed vein glories would be cut out deep at night. One swoop while he slept and he would speak no more. Babe wouldn’t tolerate anything but cool operators. No one who had to shine their egos publicly would accompany Babe anywhere. This was a fact. They might as well slither off like a snake than meet the likes of her. Babe could beat the tar off Tar Baby any given day and boys knew this. Only real men dare entered the green eyed beauties turf.
At Christmas Eve Dinner again~
Her breasts poured out and bountifully from the crimson red velvet dress. Little mermaid just looked at her beauty.
Uncle Bill comment, “little fish, what are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a woman before? Well …. Quit staring its impolite!”
The ladies of the night, giggled.
“Uncle Bill, she’s wearing the most beautiful Christmas dress I’ve ever seen. She looks like Marilyn Monroe.”
In Uncle Bill’s deep polite southern drawl he says, “yes, yes~ she is beautiful like Marilyn. ” Devilishly, he chuckled and pinched her red velvet dress where little mermaid shouldn’t have seen.
After all, this Christmas she was eight.”Mother, may I have a red velvet dress like theirs’ ?” Mermaid politely whispered to Babe.Babe said, “yes, I’ll make you one. You’ll look like a Christmas angel for certain!”
That Christmas Big Mother gave the mermaid a box filled with fabric. Red velvet material. Babe cut the pattern and made a fairy dress. No longer mermaid, but now, “Fairy Princess.” she even made wings and a halo.One
Halloween, years before Babe made mermaid a Medusa head piece. Mermaid loved the stories of mythological beings. Babe loved to read the fables to her little fairy princess and then make elaborate costumes to match. Sometimes mermaid wore them to school. Even though, the school children laughed at her.
Babe taught mermaid how to think magically. It was easy for Babe to think of mermaids. After all, gypsies, Medusa and mermaids were featuring characters in my mother’s many bedtime stories. Even women of the night were giggled at when Babe told the legends of Neville Pool.
*Although this story is a work of fiction, the medusa headdress was not, thanks to my creative mother… RIP, Babe
Gee Wilikers
Sometimes that’s all that can be said and this too shall pass.
About Mondays.
Mimsi Flowers and Notions 