Mystery Visitor

Hmmm, a mystery visitor...

I went away,

but for an hour

While gone to foray

for canning power.

Upon return I

looked down to see

that someone had been

to visit me.

Settled on

my little chair

sat a bag 

to cool my fare.

with plates and forks,

napkins and knives.

Even some Vex

for party to en-live.

Alas, no note;

No scribbled scribe

for me to know

whose thanks I describe.

So cheers to you

my mystery friend

A picnicing we'll go and

your presence heart lend.

thank you stranger

Loving Kindness

I suppose that some day my sensitive edge will be worn down a little. I am not always sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Sad movies, sensitive comments and poignant recollections can all bring me to tears or at least the brink of. I think that is just who I am.

Today I was praised for my efforts to help another soul at a time when they have need. I am doing some gardening for a woman who is dying of lymphoma. I reflected on where this woman and her husband are in their life and how it felt when I was there (tears in memory and the back of my throat). Nothing can change where she is, but sometimes kindnesses can make it better. I have been shown kindnesses from extraordinary and surprising people. Giving to Michelle in some ways is giving back to me. While in my weekly yoga class, I was reminded to be kind to myself, as well as others in our world. While a general thought put out there in class, I felt like it could have been directed solely at myself. I have a hard time being kind to myself, but am trying to work on that. First step is recognition that I am harder on myself than I deserve.

I was also touched by an old friend's step out of her comfort bounds (feeling like it had a teensy wee bit to do with me). Life hands everyone challenges. I do not have the hardest or saddest story out there. We all have our stories to tell and crosses to bear. Do I truly know this? For a long time after Brad died, I honestly did not care about other people's miseries and trials. I have been told that is typical of grief and normal. In beating myself up and challenging my confidences, am I just fooling myself that I have that saddest, worst story to tell? Poor me? I want to let it go, but that is the cross I have chosen to bear at present. If others can see my worthiness and strengths, perhaps some day the shackles of my biggest enemy, mine own self, will fall off and be set free. Perhaps I do not need to share these deepest darkest demons, but I know we all have our demons. I believe that speaking them and exposing them takes some of their ultimate power away. At least that is a hope and faith that I carry.