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I am standing at a crossroads.

Unsure as to which path to choose.

One path leads to a familiar land.

A land once filled with joy.

But, in more recent times, it is a land consumed with anger and frustration.

The other path is completely unknown.

I have no idea where it leads.

One false step and I lose everything.

Or, by choosing that path –

That path to uncertainty –

I could find myself

On the road



You Can’t Take That Away From Me

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 We were robbed.

I mean that in the literal sense. Not in the idiomatic “We were robbed” after one’s favorite team has lost (yes, FSU, I’m talking to you).

I mean our home, Happy Monkey Land itself, was broken into, searched, and had things removed from it. Someone we do not know smashed a window, crawled through, slinked through our safe haven, rifled through our drawers, and took our THINGS.

I know we were lucky.

We could have been home. But, we weren’t. We were at our respective schools.

We could have walked in on the offender. But, we didn’t. We came home to discover the broken carport door window, well after the event.

We could have walked in to find everything we own had been loaded into a truck and carried away. But, we didn’t. We are missing only the electronics the offender could load into the backpack he found in my room and carry out with him.

The Wii, the games, the girl child’s DS, my camera, and yes – even my laptop – can all be replaced. The THINGS can be replaced. But, yet, I mourn.

I mourn that someone, some criminal, touched my things. I am tempted to burn all the panties that had been in my top drawer, but were carelessly tossed to the floor, all because he touched them whilst looking for hidden gems. (Thank you, Mr. Burglar, for leaving my vintage silver jewelry collection)

I mourn the pictures “saved” in my laptop. Pictures of our past two and a half years. Pictures of birthdays and special events and field trips. Pictures of our vacation this summer to Washington and New York. Pictures from the vacation my former love and I took with our children. That amazing week on the beach. Not that I looked at those images from that summer. I didn’t. Why dwell? Those pictures were tucked away in their own little folder, but they were there. Visual proof of what we once were to each other. And while I no longer mourn the loss of the relationship, the fact that I no longer have that proof, that data, that EVIDENCE, has hit me harder than I ever could have imagined. It is as if it never happened. I have lost them all over again.

But, mostly, I mourn the loss of The Monkeys’ sense of security in their home.

The Girl Child didn’t want to sleep in her own room last night because the offender was in there. He took her DS from off her bed. She made sure I not only reported the DS as being gone, but also its Hello Kitty case. She counted all her American Girl dolls and has proclaimed them all present and accounted for. She wants to inventory the “buddies” on her bed, just in case some rogue stuffed-animal-thief comes and takes THEM, she’ll know what is missing. You, my dear baby girl, know what is important in life.

The Middle Monkey is quieter than usual, none of the trademark arguing with his sister. He quickly ran upstairs to count his books, and check to see if the Kindle and HIS DS were there (everything was, the boys’ rooms were unscathed). He will randomly come up to me and hug me and say, “I hate burglars.” It’s happened about 10 times since yesterday. I understand, baby. Really, I do. So do I.

Monkey #1 has taken it upon himself to be The Man of the House. He has been updating me on the value of all the missing items, especially the missing games, “so we get the right amount back.” He allowed his little sister to sleep on his futon last night, even though what he really wanted was to be left alone. When I came out of my room this morning to let the dogs out, he was standing in his doorway, holding the dowel that keeps his window shut, standing guard. “Just let anyone try to come in.” He has spent the day with his Nerf gun always by his side, threatening to “shoot in the brain anyone who tries to hurt my brother or sister.” My sweet little man. Excuse me. My sweet almost-full-grown-man-who-shouldn’t-have-to-feel-the-weight-of-the-world-on-his-very-narrow-shoulders.

We all took the day off from school today, The Monkeys and I. A day to clean-up and call insurance and make lists of missing items. But, most importantly, a day to heal and cuddle and to try feel comfortable in our own skins again. A day to reclaim Happy Monkey Land as our own.

So, Mr. Burglar, you may have broken our door. You may have taken our things. You may have pawned them for a quick buck. But, Mr. Burglar, you will NEVER take our love for one another. For, you see, we are the Mighty Monkeys of Happy Monkey Land, and no matter what happens to us, no matter what is taken, we will ALWAYS have each other.

No, no. You CAN’T take that away from us.

Not now.

Not ever.

Lessons from Sochi

I haven’t written in a while.  Not just here on the blog (to those who followed me, and have missed me, I am deeply sorry), but NOT AT ALL.  It just seemed like the prolific words which flowed off of my fingertips simply vanished.  Nothing.

Ok.  Well, maybe some of it was intentional.  I needed to keep some thoughts private.  And you know me – once I start writing, there ain’t much I keep private.

With that being said, something did come to me tonight.

Like most of the world, I have been watching the Olympic Games in Sochi.  Not that I am a huge winter sports fan, or anything like that.  I mean, I grew up in South Florida, for God’s sake!  I still can’t handle the “cold” of Atlanta!  But, there is something about watching people put on the uniform for their country and “go for the gold” – even if their “gold” is the simple fact that they are in Sochi – and not at home.

And while it is always lovely to see someone win, I am particularly taken by those athletes who don’t.  Those who falter, yet some how manage to pick themselves up and go on.

Jeremy Abbott

During the men’s figure skating short program, one such event happened to a US athlete,  Jeremy Abbott.  He went up for a jump, missed the landing, fell on the ice, skidded about 10 feet and SLAMMED into the wall.  The poor man was obviously in pain.  He laid on the ice for a few moments, clutching his ribs – as his music continued playing.  When he got up off the ice, he appeared to be skating towards the judges to withdraw.  You could see the process running through his mind.  As his music continued playing.  But, then the most amazing thing happened.  The audience started cheering him on, encouraging him to continue.   And he did.  He finished his program.  Oh sure, his scores weren’t great, but he finished.  And the next night, he set a personal best for his long program.

He finished.  In the face of injury.  In the face of the humiliation of lying on the ice in front of the world.  He finished.

Those moments were repeated time and time again during these past two weeks.  Snowboarders who fell from the top of the half-pipe getting back up for their next run.  Bobsled teams flipping their sleds getting back in for the next run.

How many of them wanted to say, “I don’t want to do this anymore.  I’m done” and call it a day?

There’s a lesson for me to be learned in this.  To get back up.  To not let that fall, that setback, that disappointment, keep me down.  It is far to easy for me to say, “I don’t want to do this anymore.  I’m done, and have no intention of ever doing it again so I won’t get hurt (disappointed, etc.) again.”  Especially when it seems like every time I set foot on to the proverbial ice, I slam into the wall.

Maybe the next time it will be a personal best.


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Melancholia – (n) – The state of being melancholy.

I have been in a state of melancholy recently.

Maybe it has something to do with school being out, and having way to much time to think.

But, mostly, it is because I can’t seem to turn my mind off.  Oh, how I wish there was an off switch.  Better yet, I wish there was something I could do to wipe my brain.

As the “summer” progresses (being the school summer as technically we are still in spring), I find my mind going back to where I was last summer.  Things that I was doing.  Things that we were doing.  And that causes me to become melancholy.  Dates on the calendar, or events that have passed, or songs being played, bring me back to what at the time I believed was the most magical time of my life.  A new beginning.   A new life.

To paraphrase that song by The Kinks – “Melancholia will destroy you.”

Now, to get to work on developing that mind-eraser…


Out from Radio Silence

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Calming the bees

My dear friends.  I am so very sorry I haven’t written in several weeks, but my mind has either been blank – or too swirly to write.  You know, that chaotic jumble of thoughts where you can’t even begin to pick out ONE to focus upon.  Kinda like bees swarming in their hive.  I feel like I have needed one of those beekeeper dudes to bring a smudge pot to calm the bees so my thoughts can easily bee extracted (pun intended).

Recently it has also been hard for me to write about the events in my life without sounding too whiney or too weak – two character traits I abhor in myself.

However, I think the main reason I have been unable to put fingers to keyboard isn’t that I don’t have anything to say – but more because of who reads this blog.  Well, specifically ONE person who reads my random musings.  And since thoughts of him, of us, of what we were, and of what we never will be again are at the center of the vortex of swirly thoughts, I knew that by writing them down – I was actually sharing them with him.  And as we all know, sharing thoughts about another is so very hard to do.

The true irony is that he once called me the most open person he had ever met.  He was awed by how I will say whatever is on my mind.  He was both fascinated and frightened by it.  Terrified because I could also tell exactly what was running through his mind – even things he couldn’t verbalize.

Yet now, I hold my thoughts for fear of him running off.  Spooking him – like some hungry orphaned kitten who runs off as soon as you try to handle him.  ZIP!  Right back into his hiding place until the next time you manage to coax him out.  No sudden movements!  Or he’ll be gone again!  Running for his life – or maybe running away from the new life.

But, while he may at times act scared and confused with me, he is not that little lost kitten.  And if reading my words spooks him, so be it.  Hopefully, he will remember that my frankness is one of the many things he fell in love with.

So, my dear readers, back to my writing.  Back to voicing my mind.  Back to expressing myself in the only way I know how.  With words.  Many many words.

Oh, how I have missed it.

I lied.

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You were right.

They are about you.

The words bounced around in my mind.


You were right.

They are about you.

The words censored by my mouth.


You were right.

They are about you.

The words unheard by your ears.


You were right.

I lied.

Now what?

Things Left Unsaid