I have been working on my personal website, and have now moved my blog to my site. The content is the same…so please visit me at my new home.
I swear I’m making this blog only about my children. But it’s what I’m feeling and thinking about in this moment, so here goes…
A child’s love is unconditional. Looks don’t matter, talents don’t matter. They love you all the same. My daughter will come running with her arms spread as I arrive from work, smiling ear to ear, eager to give me a hug. As I walked up the path yesterday, she yelled from the window, telling me she had a gift for me (of course a small treat my wife had bought, but it was suppoused to come from her). What a beautiful thing a child’s love is.
Today at work, a co-worker’s son-in-law was diagnosed with cancer and will need to undergo surgery. Even with everything the doctors say they can do, there is not much hope, that after the surgery the cancer will not recur. (The surgery is in his head and half of his face, therefore there is also a good chance that he will never look the same.) The interesting tidbit about this story, is that he has 3 month old daughter. My co-worker calls her his guardian. And all that made me think of my daughters. How they love unconditionally. No matter what I look like. No matter what I do. Even after a stern look and forceful words (every once in awhile discipline is neccesary) she will still crawl next to me on the floor to watch tv, or ask me to read her one of her books. When I think of him and his daughter, she truly is his guardian. Because no matter what, everyone will look at him differently after this surgery. Except for her. She will still see her dad. And she’ll continue to love him as her dad for as long as she lives.
Despite what he may look like. Despite of what he might have. When I was young my father had back surgery and truly was never the same man. He could no longer toss me in the air, or give me rides on his shoulders. He couldn’t wrestle or play fight. But all that was ok with me. In my eyes he was still the strongest man I knew. Even still at times today, I think of what a great man my father is, and how much I want to be like him.
It truly is remarkable to be able to have that love in your life. To be a father. To be a son. Wouldn’t things be so much better, if we all loved as children do? As parents do? The irony of it all is, that at one time, we may have…
After reading Sharon’s post on the Google searches that lead to her blog, I thought it would be funny to post some of mine. Although mine lack the obvious humor that was apparent in Sharon’s, they are equally odd.
inside the leo mind (inside the leo mind? can anyone explain this?)
leo girls (looking for a specific type are ya?)
my girls (I put this in the search bar and came up with some interesting hits)
Cousin thoughts (which cousin? and what thoughts?)
With depth, and eternal light
the sorrow pours over me.
Who can pull away this veil
that no longer lets me see?
The pefect heal, eyes closed
all and all, life is the fee.
The world revolves around writing. Isn’t it amazing? Talented artists can say what they want, but ultimately what sells is the writing.
An actor reads dialogue. A writer provided the dialogue.
Television or movie producers envision the scenes on a script. A screenwriter wrote the script.
A singer belts out lyrics. I don’t think I have to elaborate.
Books, Magazines, greeting cards, advertisements, speeches, declarations, announcements…the list can go on forever.
The bottom line. Writing is part of life.
It communicates to us. It tells us the morning news, and what the weather will be like this afternoon.
It announces a new product, or reinvents an old one. It introduces us to history, or gives us a glimpse of the future.
It teaches proper grammar, algebra and ethics.
It promotes an ideal, or bashes an opinion. It expresses love, hate, passion, disinterest, indignation, praise, scorn, life and death.
I don’t know why I’m raving about this. I think because I just realized what an important job we have.
And I say we very loosely. Only a selected few get to write for the world to read.
But if deep down inside, you cherish every word. If in the pits of your soul, you clamor for a pen and paper (or a keyboard in our day and age) to truly express yourself.
If the only way you know to tell everyone what you think, how you feel, what you imagine is through words, then most likely you’re a writer.
And as writers, we need to continue writing. In a society where it seems that words get lost in the media, I think it’s important to still see the greatness of the written word.
Lets instill it in our children. Let them love reading, and they’ll come to appreciate writing.
My daughter goes to bed with a book clutched under her arm. It warms me to know that she loves her books, and never will there be no time for reading in our home. I think I’ve started a tradition.
Hopefully from my household will stream a slew of readers.
And maybe a few writers.
My daughter comes to me with a pen and asks for paper.
Can I write too daddy? She asks. I can only smile as I hand over the paper.
Time for writing….
All the time in the world.
I long for blush wines
and lush countryside
For warm humid skies
and the taste of salty skin.
I long for dusted roads
with yellow horizons
For summer dresses
and rowdy walk besides.
I long for fresh coffee beans
and four in the afternoon tea.
For quiet nights of reflection
and loving in the early morning.
For sweet and subtle days
For peace and desire to savor.
I long for special times,
the rich with life rhymes,
for those sought after quiet times.
As I struggled to keep myself from falling, the edge of the mattress cut off the circulation to my legs. The fan spun mercilessly above me, blowing cold air against my uncovered back. What is going on? As I pull on the cover, I feel the tug back, and a small elbow crushes the back of my neck.
I lift my head and look around, only to be met by hair. Lots of hair. I immediately realize what has happened. I try to push her towards her mother, but she squirms closer to my side.
My daughter. Crawled into bed without waking us, and now fights for her spot in between us. I dread this, it causes me to lose sleep. I rise to lift her up and carry her back to bed. Its where she needs to be, its her own place. She was invading mine. Before I do, I momentarily stroke her hair, which covers her face. She smiles in her dreams and places her tiny fists under her chin. As I pull her close, I can only smile. I used to do it, and I’m sure my wife did as well. I arrange the covers around her shoulders and fold my pillow in half.
She feels safe with us. Warm with us. And for now, that’s enough for me…