The Artist's Way

Artist's Way
Smartest Way?
Yes, smartest Way -
Artist's Way!

Freebies - Abundance -
Strength - Compassion - Power -
Possibility - Safety - Autonomy -
Self-Protection!

Dates and pages
the heart engages.
The blurts want to numb!
Yet the freebies come!

Dates and pages
the heart engages.
Fear says, it knows.
Yet Abundance shows!

Dates and pages
the heart engages.
Measure not the length,
Just go Strength to Strength.

©Fran Martin, 04/03

Like Mom:

More than one family friend has called our house recently and said, “Oh, you sound just like your Mom!” And, I wonder, “Do we ever really know how we sound to others – or to ourselves for that matter?” I’m still jolted each time I call my answering machine and hear myself -- “Is that what I really sound like!!!???!!!”

It begs the question, “Well, what and who is in that voice anyway?”

The answer is a fundamental part of ourselves. Our voice print is like a fingerprint – uniquely our own. And yet there’s something else, too – imparted, engrained, bequeathed perhaps even before birth. It’s a mysterious echo in our inner ear beyond mere hearing, an invisible but very discernable legacy, a gift there for the taking -- should we choose to listen.

It’s the sound that we as newborns yearned for to comfort us before we could speak or “knew” what we were hearing. That cadence which read us to sleep. That modulation as we fearlessly and ruthlessly ran towards the street. The half-broken choke when we struggled with little, great adversities, the glowing tone which accompanied our small victories as if we’d taken that first step on the moon. The timbre that never stopped radiating love no matter what we’d done, which continued to believe – when we’d all but given up on ourselves.

And even as adults living far away, it is that resonance we crave, which soothes like no other when grownup life seems too big to be managed. It helps make the existential Boogie man lurking under the bed dissolve. It’s the expression that lets us know we’ll always be her kids, but that belies that we’ve simultaneously become peers.

Yes, the sound of her voice has always had that magical power.

And when she’s not there, we conjure it up in our heads, thinking “If Mom were here right now, what would she say?” In playing it back to ourselves from memory or from imagination we feel better, loved, safe.

When we speak, we may not hear it in ourselves – but others do. We may not hear it, but secretly we listen for it. Yep, they say I sound just like my Mom. I guess I just might, in my own way.

I hope one day someone will pay my daughter the same compliment and my Mother the same tribute.

By TLMonroe, May 11, 2003 ©

David's Poem

Children don’t mind getting up early…

for a good cause.

I used to sneak into the living room

as quietly as I could.

It’s Saturday morning and cartoons start pretty early.

My Father sleeps in there on the couch.

I think he’s slept there since the day I was born.

He works three different jobs, late into the night.

Still… we never have any money.

My mother yells at him a lot.

I don’t think it’s strange that they don’t sleep together.

I don’t realize they’re supposed to.

Before I turn on the television I carefully turn the volume down really low.

As the screen comes to life the room fills with an artificial glow.

This wakes my father…

He smacks his lips and sighs with disgust.

I turn to face him…

I see the disappointment in his eyes.

I imagine he thought:

“ How could you be so inconsiderate.

Can’t you see that I’m trying to sleep?”

I wish that I had said:

“Cartoons are on Daddy! I love you. Come and watch with me.”

I said nothing…

Excitement turned to shame.

He rolls over, puts the pillow over his head and goes back to sleep.

Sometimes it’s the smallest things that, over time, can cause the greatest rift.

David Gallus

With Dying

With Dying

Being with dying is not a haunted house.

Not an empty shell of creaking doors
and leftover spirits.

It is more a walk on a rocky shore,
tide high, storming,
feet kissed by icy water and chilling wind
all through you.

At the edge of the great ocean,
emerald and azure waves pound.

And the world,

with it's houses and radios and restaurants,

melts away.