Surviving

Feeling the warmth of the sun on a cloudy day. A glimpse into a blind billy goat's unique, ever changing perspectives.

2014 07 08 Pop Quiz July 8, 2014

So, like, now I’m all set, right? Everything’s in order, right? All my little quacky ducks are in a row, right? Have I thought of everything? Have I left anything out? Is there something that I’ll come across and then say, “I can’t believe I forgot that!”?

Some days, as I gather up my stuff to head into my day, I am met with a never ending barrage of feelings like I have left out something of major importance. You know that feeling, like perhaps you left the stove on, or left the front door open, or forgot to shut off a switch or maybe you didn’t change the dog’s water?

I used to get these doubtful thoughts quite often when I could see, and now that the old billy goat eyes ain’t working too well, well, well, well, let me tell you, it’s a never ending rummage sale through the old noggin, trying to find clues that lead me towards things that have been left undone. The old saying, “Out of sight, out of mind” really is true. It’s not just a saying. It’s pure, it’s true, and it holds more factual crap than you could ever imagine.

I’m getting better at it though. I’m learning to sort things a little better as time goes by. I’ve learned how to categorize and columnize and group together and list and shuffle things a little differently. Matter of fact, a lot differently. Back when this big, beautiful blue marble darkened on me, I had a hard time remembering a phone number for more than five seconds. Now, I’ve learned how to turn the number into a rhythmic melody that somehow makes sense and stays with me a little longer. As I move through my day, I picture things in my head and build a never ending and constantly changing map of my day. From the rug on the living room floor, to the rug on the floor at the bottom of the ramp in the garage, to where the recliner in the living room has been recently moved to, it’s a world of adaptation, and like I’ve said a few times before, you can’t advance until you absorb and adapt. Oh, it’s possible to trudge on ahead, but believe me, if you’re not prepared, you’ll eventually pay the piper, and these days, he’s a greedy son of a flute playing biscuit.

We all have to make adjustments. We all have to learn how to manipulate. We all have to learn how to study our surroundings and put it all in perspective. We’re all constantly changing, evolving, noticing, learning, anticipating, reacting, gaining knowledge and recognizing the better choice of the two.

I’ve always liked mind bending puzzles. I’ve enjoyed a mental challenge from time to time. Having limited vision is the mind bending, brain twisting puzzle of all puzzles. The challenge is there, some days more than others. The tests, the pop quizzes, the unannounced Friday exams are all lined up, ready to challenge you, challenge me, and it’s up to me, up to us, to make the most of them. I’ve learned how to make the best of mine. Some days I don’t do too well with what’s been put in front of me. I’ve got the broken toes, bruised shins, knees, hips, forearms, busted fingers, scraped wrists, bent nose and dents on the noggin to prove it. I guess you could call them the outcomes of the tests, the performance rankings, the grades handed down from the instructor on high. When you look at me, you’re getting a pretty good look at my report card.

Back in the day, when report card day was at hand, man oh man, was I ever filled with anxiety. Usually though, my grades reflected on how well I studied and how hard I worked.

With all the bumps and bruises these days, you’d think I’d be getting an A, or at least a B+.

Ya, ya, I know. Some of you out there are shouting, “The bumps and bruises are cuz you didn’t apply yourself enough!”

Here’s a little hint. The tutoring never stops.

No matter where you go, there you are, so, take advantage of it.

Thanks for stopping by, have a wicked good day, and please, don’t ever think you’ve studied enough.

Now then, let’s go see if we can find the corner of the couch, or the cupboard door that I left open, or the computer desk drawer that’s pulled out, or the corner of the freezer in the garage, or maybe, if I’m lucky, the back of the text book where all the answers are.

dp

 

2014 07 03 High Tide July 3, 2014

I guess I’ve always liked the sea. No matter where its amazing force could be found, I felt the same about it. It doesn’t matter where I am, DownEast, Belfast, Rockland, Old Orchard Beach, Reid State Park, Popham Beach, West Palm Beach, Jacksonville, Stockton Springs, Tampa or wherever I have been where the rippled waves of an incoming tide rolled up onto the shore, it all felt wonderfully comfortable and incredibly right.

There’s something about the sounds of a wave rolling in along a sandy shore, or the unforgettable excitement coming from a group of kids digging in the sand and writing their names along the smooth sands of a long, inviting beach. Some things are made to go hand in hand, and the union that’s born lives on forever in the winds of time. All I have to do is stop, take a second to listen, and I can almost hear the bellowing boom of a high tide wave pounding in through the caverns of a rugged, rocky shore.

I remember one summer, back when they seemed like they never ended, I was sitting in a little hollowed out cave of rock on the shore of an island. The island was off the coast of Maine and I was with my father. I think I was about ten or eleven years old. I loved climbing on the huge rock formations along the shore, and this island had a multitude of amazing formations that kept me climbing and jumping and exploring for an incredible week. The waves were getting fairly close to where we were sitting. The spray from the crashing onto the rocks in front of us was cooling, as it had been a hot summer’s day. We were both sitting silently, as one usually does when the ocean has taken advantage of it’s hypnotic grip on you. The setting was perfect, the sea was showing off the only way a sea knows how, and its audience was completely captivated. With the crashing and the booming of the white foam spray, if I had of been alone, I probably would have been petrified. I don’t think I had ever been witness to such an amazing display by the ocean, and as the waves kept getting closer and closer, my heart and soul soared along the winds of high tide.

All of a sudden, the ocean unleashed its marvel upon us. An enormous wave swelled towards us and came crashing down on the layers of huge rocks in front of us. The next several seconds was like something out of a movie. The white foam came tumbling in on us, and we were completely covered by its biting grip. I tried to catch my breath as I screamed out loud and I could hear my father hollering as he reached over and grabbed hold of me. The fury of the moment swept me up and carried me to places I never knew existed. My mind was a surge of electricity, swirling me back through time and straight ahead into the amazement of the moment.

It was one of the most incredible experiences I have ever been involved in, and although it scared the crap out of me, it lifted my spirit to a new height that I didn’t come down from for a day or two.

As the water slowly subsided away from us, I heard my father laughing out loud. He held me close as the crashing wave moved back away from us, and I almost thought I could hear the sea laughing at us, as if it had been toying with our emotions. Well, if it had been, it did a fairly good job at it.

My father looked me over to make sure I was ok, and when I looked up and saw him smiling, I started to laugh, because I knew everything was alright.

As the water subsided down the huge rock faces and back into the sea, we quickly got up and headed back to safer grounds. With my soggy sneakers, drenched shorts, soaked shirt and water logged mind, I couldn’t get the experience out of my head the whole night. I don’t think my eyes closed until the next night.

I had always loved to climb and bounce along a rugged coast line, and after this incident, I loved it even more. It was as if I was darting in and out of the rocks, nearing the water, then darting quickly away as though I was daring the ocean to give me her best again. I had seen, felt and tasted the enormous strength that mother nature can unleash upon us at any time, and there’s no feeling in the world quite like it.

I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve gained so much perspective from just sitting and listening to what it has to say. The view is incredible, the tales that it tells are unforgettable, the experience is incomparable in so many ways, and wherever I go, I can always feel a piece of it rolling up onto shore, right in front of me.

Do you like the sea? Do you have an amazing tale of your own about the sea? Can you sometimes smell the salt in the air, no matter where you go or where you are?

Thanks for stopping by and leave a comment if you wish.

Have a great Fourth and I’ll catch up to ya later.

dp

 

2014 06 24 Conformistificational June 24, 2014

Well hi there, and how the hell am I anyway? It’s been a while since I posted a regular entry in my blog, well, that is, I don’t think any of them have been regular, right? I mean, look at me! I’m rather irregular looking and full of things that are far from conformistificational. I don’t look like others, I don’t act like others, and you can ask my wife about that. I don’t sound like others, and my feet got longer when I turned forty. Yep. That’s me. An unnatural, rare oddity that eludes all logical explanations that have anything to do with whatever the hell it is that I’m writing, because I don’t have a frigging clue.

I suppose that a lot of us wander around our lives, trying to act like this person, or look like that person. We want to purchase things that this guy has, or that woman uses, or what those folks are listening to. With all the input and expectations and gimmicks and billboards pointing you in this direction and tugging you in that direction, how the hell can we ever figure out what it is that we really like? How do we ever know what makes us tick when we’re paying attention to someone else’s clock? When the sun comes up, do we get up because we want to, or because they tell us we need to hurry the hell up and get our lazy cabooses down to McDonalds and grab a dollar coffee? Is my mini van maroon because I love maroon, or because the dealer told me it looks good on me?

I suppose, once again, that I have never been really comfortable in my skin. Is it because of who was staring back at me in the mirror, or is it because the mirror was tuned into channel thirteen and they were discussing how fat to not get or how ugly I wouldn’t be if I bought this or used that?

It’s maddening to try and figure out who to be if we just don’t stop for a moment or three and figure it out ourselves. Why do we need someone else to tell us or show us or explain to us or persuade us or conceal from us or elude to us or condemn us or someone please stop me or I’ll probably never find the end of this stoopid sentence!

Phew. Ok, then.

Back to reality, or whatever that thing for sale was on that last commercial.

I have been searching for myself, for who I am, for what’s inside me these past four years. I suppose it’s been probably longer than that, but who’s counting.

I have always wondered what others see in me, but I think I have always paid more attention to how they express themselves around me, because of me. How I am interpreted by outside influenced dudes and dudettes has played such a vital role in my own perceptions of me, myself and I. If I was able to resemble a smart person, I would have figured out a long time ago that what matters most is how we feel about ourselves, because of what is inside us, and not what is fed to us by external sources.

I never liked who was staring back at me, and it was due mostly to visual persuasions. I didn’t like what I saw, so I became exactly what it was that I was only able to see. I was never that same person in the mirror. I never felt like him or wanted to pretend to be him. Who I felt like on the inside was always ass backwards from what the reflection held.

Hey everybody! Listen up! You are who you are, no matter what we think, or what we say, or how we act! I am who ai am, she is who she is, he be who he be, and they better get the hell out of my way, because these canes are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do. One of these days this cane is gonna walk all over, umm, walk all over, err, umm, walk all over, huh?

Where was I?

Non conformistic, pre-determined conditionary maneuver number 433.952 complete. Please return your trays to their upright positions before landing, and thank you for flying feet first.

Well, there I go again with another irregular post.

It’s pretty safe to say that I’m lost, so, I’m gonna go out to look for myself. If you should see me return before I get back, please ask me to wait, ok?

 

014 06 22 Blog Tour: Bruce Atchison June 22, 2014

Bruce Atchison 25jan06Hello Readers and Happy Summer.

Last week, I posted some informations and answers that promoted a Blog Tour which described my writing process. I promoted a couple links to a few other writer’s blogs that I know. The following post is a re-post from a friend of mine’s blog. His name is Bruce Atchison, and he has also given a brief bio, plus answers to the writing process questions.

Thanks for dropping by, and thanks to Bruce for taking part in the writer’s process, and the Blog Tour 2014. Have a great day, and here we go!

***

Bio:

Bruce Atchison is a legally-blind Canadian freelance writer with articles published in a variety of magazines. He has also authored these three paperbacks:
“When a Man Loves a Rabbit: Learning and Living with Bunnies” is a memoir of the surprising facts he discovered about house rabbits.
“Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School” is his
recollection of being sent five hundred miles from home for months at a stretch.
“How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity” shows how God led Atchison out of a legalistic house church.

You can contact Bruce at batchison@mcsnet.ca
Also via Facebook or Twitter.
Bruce also posts regularly on his blog sites at the following addresses:

http://www.bruceatchison.blogspot.com and:
http://www.bruceatchison.wordpress.com

Atchison lives in a tiny Alberta hamlet with his house rabbit, Deborah.

***

Bruce Atchison WRITING PROCESS – BLOG TOUR

Thanks to Traci Macdonald for letting me be a part of this blog tour. It’s my first time at this so please be lenient with me if I mess up. Thanks.

1) What am I working on?

At the moment, I’m promoting my most recent book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. As the subtitle suggests, it’s my testimony of being in a toxic house church and how God led me providentially to the correct understanding of himself as well as the Bible. Because nobody mentored me, I knew nothing about dangerous false gospels. No one invited me to church either. I found my spiritual nourishment through radio shows, particularly The World Tomorrow. When a friend finally did invite me to a Bible study, it was led by a self-proclaimed prophet with decidedly unorthodox views of Scripture. Now I want to warn naive believers away from the false gospels which the apostle Paul spoke of in Galatians 1:6-9.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Instead of a didactic exposition of the wrong doctrines I learned and the correct ones biblically-literate teachers taught me, I believed that showing how I was deceived and then corrected would be a better way to instruct people. Unfortunately, various apologetics radio hosts and teachers didn’t help me promote my testimony. Neither have many Christians expressed interest in my story.

3) Why do I write what I do?

I’ve always liked telling stories. As a boy, I couldn’t play sports with the others due to my poor vision. So I ended up telling funny stories to the girls at recess. I love the process of converting ideas into articles, reviews, and stories. Fiction is particularly exciting for me since I can let my imagination loose. It saves a lot of research work.

4) How does your writing process work?

I usually get an idea and let it ferment in my mind. If it seems exciting enough to write about, I type a rough draft on my PC. Then I listen to my screen reader speak what I’ve written aloud and make corrections as needed. Once I’ve used the spell check function and made it as cohesive as I can, I submit it to a publisher or upload it to my blog. I also query editors before I write articles so I won’t have a great bit of prose with nowhere to send it.

On June 30, I hope to have Ruth Snider, a member of the InScribe Writers Group, with her replies to the questions for this blog tour. Ruth L. Snyder was privileged to spend the first 10 years of her life in southern Africa where her parents served as missionaries. From there her family moved to Canada, settling in Three Hills, Alberta. Ruth enjoyed her years as a “staff kid” at Prairie and is grateful for the biblical grounding she received there. She now resides close to Glendon (the pyrogy capital of Alberta, Canada) with her husband and five young children. Ruth enjoys writing articles, devotionals, short stories, and Christian fiction. She is a member of The Word Guild and The Christian PEN. Ruth currently serves as the President of InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship.

On July 6th, I hope to have Michael B. Birtchet’s answers here. Mike is a musician living in Portland Oregon. He also is the author of Slow Time, a science fiction novel. I don’t have the link for his book at this time but I’ll be sure to put it here next week.

***

 

2014 06 16 Writing Process Blog Tour 2014: From the Ridge June 16, 2014

Good morning readers.

I was asked a few weeks ago to take part in a Blog Tour, which promotes what’s called “The Writing Process: This effort is a collection of blog site writers who are asked four questions pertaining to their own writing processes. In addition to gaining insight to others writing styles and approaches, we are very glad to promote the web addresses of some amazingly talented writers who have crafted their own blog sites.

This first writer I am acknowledging is a very talented writer in her own rights who introduced me to this Blog Tour. She is the published author of a wonderful collection of works and her name is Traci McDonald. She is a member of the first writing group I joined back in the early summer of 2011.

Go to the following blog site to read her blog:

http://www.tracimcdonald.blogspot.com

Her post title referring to the Blog Tour is #Monday Blogs

Please take a click over to her site and have a read. It’ll be well worth your time.

***

I’d like to thank you all again for visiting my page. I appreciate your interest and invite you to leave your comments, suggestions, critique and some of your own experiences with life.

Below you will find my answers to the Blog Tour’s Writing Process questions. This is the first time I have tried to explain my styles and approach to the madness that is my writing.

Following this Q&A section, please find a few more links to a few more incredible writers that I have met through my writer’s groups.

And now, On with the show.

***

Blog Tour 2014
Writing Process

Question 1: What am I working on?
Answer: At the moment, I am working on a sequel to my Sully Street novel. The story, entitled Good Bye Savannah, is a story about the days of Southern plantations, slavery and the amazing strength of the human spirit. It’s a story about a family that finds a way to stand together under incredible forces that consistently attempt to rip them apart. It’s about how bred ownership of the human spirit can manage to be disrupted by a change in direction that brings the heart back in line with the goodness the world has to offer. I am having a hard time keeping my emotions in check while writing this story, as it has a habit of picking me up and carrying me back through time to a place that I believe we all can feel from the inside, out.

I am also continuing to write posts for my blog, pieces for my two writer’s groups, and my poetry continues to sprout new visions from deep inside my soul.

As time goes by, my passion for writing continues to grow, and as I learn the craft from some amazingly unique perspectives, I realize that as I grow, my writing will also find growth.

Question 2: How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Answer: Well here comes my embarrassment. I don’t really know how to answer this question, except to admit that I have not done much reading over the years. I did read a little back in my younger billy goat days, when I was just a kid, but that was a long time ago. I read the Hobbit and The Lord of The Rings, and a few other authors, such as Ray Bradbury and Howard Fast, but going back to the genre question, I’m not sure what genre they wrote in, what genre other writers wrote in, and what genre I am writing in.

One thing that I know for certain, my style of writing must differ greatly from others, especially those who write the same types of stories as I do. I write the movie that plays in my head. I sit, I think, the movie starts to play out and I try to keep up with it. Some days, it comes as fast as I can type, other days, it comes in chunks, but it always comes.

I recently finished a chapter for submission for critique, and one member commented that she hated a character in the chapter. I told her that as I pictured that particular character while typing, my heart pounded and my teeth clenched, as if she was real. She was real, and she came alive as I typed. It was an amazing feeling, and I relish those moments.

I also tell folks that I feel some times as though I am a portal, a conduit if you will, a channel in which an event takes place through me, onto the screen. When I go back and read some of my works, its as if someone else wrote the piece. It’s an eerie feeling sometimes, but it’s also an amazingly inspirational feeling that I can’t escape, and choose not to want to escape.

Question 3: Why do I write what I do?
Answer: When I first learned touch typing after my vision loss in 2010, I started to write emails to notify folks back home how I was doing at an independent living program at the Carroll Center in Newton, Mass. I wrote to thank folks for their support, but I also wrote because I fell back in love with the process of writing. I had always had a passion for writing as a child, but never explored its possibilities.

I quickly found that as I continued my writing, I learned from my experiences. I learned about myself, how my vision loss had affected me, how much I was inspired by folks around me, how much family meant to me, how much I had to learn about myself so that I may continue to move forward with the next chapter in my life.

My writing became a form of therapy for me, and as I became a member of two writer’s groups, the therapy became a passion once again for me, and I had found a purpose in my life that had both direction, and meaning. My writing became a part of me, and I, a part of it.

I have grown from my writing. I have been able to discover things about myself that I had never paid attention to. I finally started to understand who I was, who I am, and who I was working to become.

I imagine everyone receives some form of medicine from their writing. I know I do. I think some times that it’s as if I became blind, so that I could see, or write.

I’m still working on the medicine, and the task is continuing to prove itself worthy.

4: How does your writing process work?
Answer:
Well, this is an answer that can have many different directions. As I listen to the different styles and characteristics of folks in the different writer’s groups I belong to, I understand that my style is my own. It’s unlike anyone elses that I know. Some folks need to create full, detailed outlines of their stories or pieces before they start to write them. Others write of what they know and understand. It’s factual and constructed from pure evidence. Some write from emotion and some write from hate and discontentment.

My writing starts from within and creates emotions inside me that stem from the movie playing out in my mind. I swear, some days it’s as if I am at the theater with a box of popcorn, watching the big screen tell a big story. I hear it, I feel it, I sense it, understand it, try to avoid it and run towards it. It becomes a moment of my life that carries with it the memories similar to those of my own personal life. In a way, it becomes my very own personal experience, and then, I write.

My poetry comes at me in flurries. The rhythm flows with a melodic motion that carries the tune of word.

My essays, blog entries and short stories are formed the same way. I am a creative writer, and my passion is expression of emotion and feeling. I tend to write all over the place, like a ping pong ball, but I continue to write. My blog tells so much of what I have been through and how the inspiration seems to matter more today than it ever has before. I am grateful, and my writing tends to define that fact.

The message is always pure and concise. The meaning sometimes eludes me, until I go back and read it, for what seems like the first time. Again, it’s as if I am reading someone elses typed words. I talk of this phenomenon quite often, but that’s only because it’s so prominent. It always is, and I always am right there, experiencing it all.

I have a process, this I know, but I’m not sure what you would call it, other than my style. Someone in my group, earlier on, told me that they understood Stephen King used to write this way in his earlier days. I couldn’t believe I was being compared to the great master of Eastern Maine. I was humbled and speechless, but I was also a little embarrassed because I didn’t know anything about this amazing author, other than he was definitely rich, and from Bangor.

I’ll stick with the process that seems to work for me. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s all I have for the time being.

***

Are you still here? I hope so, because there are a couple more blog sites that you need to check out.

The first one is from a writer that I met through a writing group that is called, Behind Our Eyes. The address to our group’s site is as follows:

http://www.magnetsandladders.org

This next talented published writer’s name is Abbie Taylor, and her information about her published author’s works, as well as her crafted insights and touching tales and recollections of her life’s experiences can be found here:

http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com/

***

This second published writer is a Canadien gentleman I also met through the writer’s group. He is one of the first members who reached out to welcome me to this amazing collection of incredibly crafted writers. His name is Bruce Atchison, and his written insights and experiences can be found at the following link:

http://www.bruceatchison.blogspot.com/

***

The final writer I am promoting today is an inspirational builder of words that joined our writer’s group a year and a half ago. She is well versed and an experienced instructor of education who is quickly making a name for herself in and around our writing community. This wonderful published writer’s name is Alice Massa, and you can find her collections of stories, poetry and essays at the following website:

http://alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com/

***

Well, that’s just about it. Again, thanks for stopping by and I appreciate your support.

Writing for me has been an incredible journey through my heart and my soul, and hopefully will continue to grow for the remainder of my sunrises here on this wondrously spinning, blue marble we call home.

I hope you all have a remarkable day and always remember, while you never forget, no matter where you go, there you are, so take advantage of it.

Bye for now.

dp

Deon on bench

 

2014 06 15 Father’s Day Essay: Smiling Sun June 15, 2014

In honor of Father’s Day 2014, this post is dedicated to my father, Kenneth Wayne Lyons.
I love you dad and thank you for the inspiration.
You are the reason for what I have become.
dp

***

So there I was, shuffling through my day. It was a year or so ago, and I was a year or so younger than I am on this day. I probably was very similar to how I am right here and now, but my billy goat vision was a little bit better back then. My white’s were as white as white should be. My blacks were a snapshot of a pitch black night. My blues were just as blue as I remembered a cloudless sky being. The edges of my vision were more defined, the light coming in through the window explained more about my day, the shadows stretched out more vividly and the faces of those I love, although dull,murky and only vaguely familiar, reminded me of my past. Every so often, with just the right light, at just the right angle, I could catch a glimpse of my wife’s face. I could see her strong cheek bones, her thick eyebrows, her incredibly beautiful head of long, thick, dark hair, and for a brief moment in time, I could almost see the whites of the most beautiful Italian eyes I have ever gazed into. The snapshot was a memory, the still image was a heart full of what I had fallen in love with, and the moment was all mine.

Those moments were but a year ago, but the memories will last forever.

My memories also take me back to a similar day a year or so ago when I caught hold of a vision. This impression that took hold of me one day did exactly that, it took hold of me, completely and totally. I was held frozen, motionless for what seemed like eternity, although I’m sure it was only a second or two. My breath was taken away and a bright light shone down through me that totally illuminated my searching spirit.

I saw a flash, a short video clip of incredible brilliance that stood me up straight and made me say, “Wow”, under my breath. This moment in my mind started out on a heavily wooded dirt road that felt believably familiar. It felt like an early autumn day, almost like the first day of school used to. I had a rush go down through me, as if I was indeed headed straight towards that first day of elementary school. The feelings were all there, the new Sears corduroy pants, the new Thermos lunch box, the new pair of Tom McCann loafers, everything was in it’s place, and right on time.

All of a sudden, a bright yellow school bus drove up directly in front of me. As I looked at the bus, my vision took me out across the front hood of the bus, and a brilliant sun was rising up just behind it. It was perfect, almost as a moment of deja vu might be. It all fell into place and none of it caught me by surprise. This quick as a cricket moment was as if I were expecting it.

As I stared at the soothing sun rising up from behind the bus, the sun started to turn. It morphed into one of those smiling suns that you see hanging on an old barn wall. the kind that are made out of tin, with the long, fingered rays of the sun pointing out away from the sun all the way around. The strong, vivid, distinguished face of this earth warmer was looking sideways, smiling. A pleasant, soft, warm grin that would make you smile just looking at it.

You have to remember that all of this took only a moment or two, but it seemed to slow down time and for the life of me, I felt as though it was exactly what was supposed to happen, right there, right then, no questions asked.

Well, as the sun shiny smile took hold of me, it transformed into another very familiar face. I knew it was going to happen, and I knew who the new face was even before it came into view. A strong, proud, warm and caring face took hold of the moment and lifted my spirit up to new heights. The face belonged to my father, and he was as I had pictured him a thousand times. My father from my youth, my protector from my birth, my gentle guiding hands that had helped me and nourished me and taught me how to be me.

His face was looking sideways, as the sun’s was. I think for a split second, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and he winked, like he had done a million times before. That wink, that smile, that friendly face came to me quickly, and then, it was gone. The face was gone, the smile was gone, the bus, the sunrise, the country dirt road were all gone, but the feelings that had stirred up from deep down remained.

I held onto those feelings, as strong as it was at that moment, for a few days. I couldn’t get it out of my head. the image became part of me, and I, a part of it.

I haven’t had that experience since then. Perhaps it’s because I’m trying to create it in my subconscious or something. Who knows.

I have heard of folks with vision loss having these flashes of vision. It has happened to me a few times since my vision loss, but this particular encounter is definitely one that stands above all the rest.

One thing I do know, that window from another world, that glimpse across my past, that wonderfully amazing encounter was meant for me, and no one else.

Of all the things my mind can still see, this is one that will stay with me for all eternity.

***

I would like to wish a very happy Father’s Day to all the dads in the world.

Thanks Dad.
I love ya.

Thanks for stopping by my blog, and have a wicked good day.

dp

 

2014 06 14 The Bridge June 14, 2014

It’s a long journey across the great divide, or so it seems. The path across is dotted and speckled and colored with so many questions I have always asked, but never stood still long enough to gain possession of the answers. The doubt belongs to me and lies only with me as I look out and gaze at the anxious sight. The boards are weak, the railings, weathered, the suspended steel cables,rusted, frayed and stretched over the carved gorge of nature’s wrath.

Crossing should be an easy task, a simple quest, a goal truly reachable, but no one has told me so on this day. I only seem to hear the voices as a cluttered, echoing hall of envy, jealousy and vain. With all the eyes of the world doing their own impressions of their daily rituals, they all seem to somehow find time to focus on only me. I am the center of my world’s attention, and it comes as no surprise.

Could this be the bridge over troubled water that I have heard of so many times, or is the rising melody from the depths below another life choice towards the rest of my tomorrows? Could they be one in the same? Is this unappealing route a way across an unknown barrier, or has it been brought to me so that I may finally start to figure it all out? Am I supposed to be where I am, or am I wearing someone else’s shoes? The broken boards, the twisted hand rails, the heckling sounds of the ravine below, they taunt me and dare me to get on with it all.

One step at a time. One, frightful baby step at a time. That’s all this is going to take. That’s all I need to do. That’s all there seems to be to this next gift of the present, but there is so much more that I don’t even know.

I shudder as I step out onto the creaking path towards a future full of my existence. I cautiously shuffle my feet and timidly slide my steps, not daring to pick my feet up off the worn wood. I cling tightly to my past as the rushing torrent of yesterday’s water flows far under foot. The opposite side seems so far away, but then again, it always has.

I breathe and I step. I step and I breathe. Closing my eyes and slowly spinning underneath a searching sun, I hear faint whispers of encouragement, but I’m not certain if they are coming from across the passage, or from behind me. I dare not look down for fear of where I may end up. I can only look forward with guiding hope, and up towards the sky with courageous faith. Faith, guidance, courage and hope. Four bastions of sanity that have eluded me on more than one occasion are waiting patiently on the other side of the door at the other end of the bridge.

The bridge is the chosen way. The bridge is the next step forward. The bridge is resemblance of everything I have done in my life that has led me to here.

The bridge is here, and so am I.

And so, I take one more step.

 

 
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