IN A GARDEN . . . AS IN LIFE

We don our gardening boots and floppy hat

and brave the sweaty burning sun.

.

With aching knees and blackened hands

we love the dirt

that nourishes all our promises.

.

From the coldest winds

and driest heat

we protect our unborn bulbs

with acceptance

and a smile.

.

And long before she bursts open

and into glorious song

already we are in love

with the dream.

.

In a garden . . . as in life

our toiling makes no guarantee

of fairness or reward

.

but we do it anyway . . . on faith.

.

And sometimes . . . we are allowed

to glimpse

the gloriousness of a precious petal

only to have it

.

quickly fall away.

.

That is when

we must close our eyes

to see the flower.

Dedicated to all Mothers suffering the loss of a child.

I’M NOT NEEDY

I DON’T NEED TO . . .

. . . ALWAYS BE RIGHT. Sometimes being kind is more important.

. . . ALWAYS DO MY BEST. Sometimes less than that is okay too.

. . . ALWAYS GIVE MY OPINION. Sometimes it’s not needed/wanted.

. . . TALK SO MUCH. Sometimes listening is more important.

. . . BE AN ADDICT in order to cope with life.

. . . CRITICIZE OR DIMINISH OTHERS to feel good about myself.

. . . STEAL YOUR THUNDER. I will always let you shine.

. . . ONE UP YOU. Our friendship is not a competition.

. . . BE IN A RELATIONSHIP to feel complete. I complete me.

. . . JUDGE OTHERS. I will tend to my own garden.

I DON’T NEED TO . . .

. . . BE A SIZE 6 to feel good about myself.

. . . UNDERSTAND ART to love it.

. . . AGREE WITH YOU to respect you.

. . . ACCEPT ABUSE FROM ANYONE. You do NOT have my permission.

. . . PROVE MY POWER. Having it is good enough.

. . . BE VALIDATED by anyone.

. . . BE EMBARRASSED. It’s good to laugh at myself.

. . . HAVE A DESTINATION. Sometimes the joy is in the journey.

. . . UNDERSTAND YOU to love you.

. . . LAUGH AT YOUR EXPENSE. Although I love to laugh at mine.

I DON’T NEED TO . . .

. . . LET BIPOLAR DISORDER DEFINE ME. I am so much more.

. . . LET GRIEF DESTROY ME. I embrace the love and the pain.

. . . ALWAYS BE STRONG. I can ask for help.

. . . BE LIKE YOU. Being me is just fine.

. . . CLOSE MY EYES to see your face.

. . . LIE. I am brave enough to be honest and gentle.

. . . HAVE A LOT OF FRIENDS. The ones I have love me well.

. . . BE GRACEFUL to be a lady.

. . . TALK SO MUCH. It bears repeating.

. . . EAT A SHIT SANDWICH to know I wouldn’t like one.

THE OTHER SISTER

There were four daughters born to my parents. The eldest died of lung cancer at the age of 52. The second eldest took her own life at the age of 39. Then there is me. And then comes my youngest sister who, although very much alive, has always seemed fragile and unreliable.

I was the strong one, the confident, unshakeable, unafraid, independent middle child and the fixer of all things unacceptable or unjustified. And I proudly wore that label for most of my life.

Until it caught up with me.

Until all of that self-imposed responsibility chipped away at my boulder-like core and I began to diminish . . . one small piece at a time, until finally crumbling, when I was needed most.

I am great in a crisis. No kidding. Point me towards an explosion and within minutes, I will assess the situation, determine the damages, and map out a plan of action. Because that is what I do. I fix things.

And I expected no less from myself when my Mom recently suffered some sudden and very serious health issues.

The moment she arrived at the hospital, I went into work mode. I made inquiries, recited the millions of memorized bits detailing her medical history, confirmed information, and ensured that the greatly appreciated hospital staff was doing their jobs.

I did not know it, but that was the easy part.

What I did not anticipate was the change in Mom’s behavior. It was due to hospital psychosis, a temporary psychiatric condition that affects many older patients who become hospitalized. I learned that it is an elderly patient’s involuntary negative reaction to the overstimulation, confusion, and unfamiliarity of a new and hectic environment, coupled with the debilitating effects of their physical ailments. Its symptoms present in irrational and sometimes violent behavior such as hallucinations, depression, attempts to climb out of bed, removal of intravenous tubing or other devices, paranoia, fear, or a demand to return home.

And Mom delivered it all . . . full blast. And man, was I unprepared. And ill equipped. Even though I knew that this new condition was not her fault, I reacted badly.

I suffer from bipolar disorder. (Read, “Being Bipolar” at: http://wp.me/p2ckKM-hF ). I am hypersensitive to sounds, my brain obsesses, races, and rarely stops, I’m over-emotional and often prickly and annoyed. Hospitals, grocery stores, and nightclubs are three of my most difficult environments, in terms of sounds and the frustrations and difficulties of interacting with the public.

Now, take the unique ingredient of hospital ambiance: the bright, harsh lights, the steady barrage of sounds – like beeping machines, sounding alarms, blasting intercoms, and the boisterous staff who assume that everyone has a hearing deficiency, and add to that the challenges of having bipolar disorder, and then add to that the stress of a critically ill family member who now suddenly seems out of her mind . . . and what you have is the perfect recipe for a mental breakdown.

Mine.

I am not kidding. I am terrified that I will awaken one morning in unfamiliar and padded accommodations and not know how I got there. I’m pretty sure that’s how it happens – you just awaken in that room. I don’t think you feel it coming on. And if so, it probably feels something like this.

I remember standing, trembling, in the doorway of Mom’s hospital room. She was on a ventilator and could not be sedated because of her dangerously low blood pressure. She was highly agitated and was trying to remove the vent. She was still irrational the day after its removal and was demanding to leave.

Everything negative and bipolar triggered in me. Even though I knew that Mom could NOT help it, I was angry with her for being difficult and for struggling. I was horrified at the tubing, the fluids, and the sound of the ventilator and her gurgling. I felt tortured by the alarms that went off each time she tried to sit up. I resented that she had not taken better care of herself. Hell, I even resented her for being old. And then I really saw her . . . looking so thin, frail, and helpless, and I hated myself for feeling as I had. The guilt was overwhelming. I wanted to run away and hide. Or to just die.

I watched Brenda, my remaining sister, the younger less competent one, as she stood at Mom’s bedside and gently held her shoulders down while explaining to her why she could not leave. She stroked her hair and lovingly whispered her reassurances. And Mom quieted.

Hysterical and unable to bear it, I went home and cried myself to sleep.

But Brenda stayed at Mom’s side and calmed her down, over and over again, throughout the entire long night.

The next morning, I arrived early to find my sister exhausted, but still there.

I hugged her and began to cry.

“All this time . . . I thought I was the strong one. But I was wrong. You are. I have never given you any credit for anything. I have always criticized you and judged your choices. I am so sorry. I was wrong. I didn’t know.” I said.

In the days since then, Brenda and I have talked more and have become closer. We know that when it comes to the medical care and daily living assistance now required by my reluctant, stubborn, and sometimes selfish parents, we both have different strengths. I am the one who remembers every single medical detail, handles the quick decisions, and ensures a plan of action; and Brenda is the one who is patient and compassionate. She is the understanding and calming force, the one that gets my parents to listen and to accept. After all, none of my action serves any good if they will not listen or receive our help.

I was the fixer for way too long. It was impossible for me to learn anything new because I already knew it all; I had the answers to everything. My ears were not listening and my mind was not open. Nor was my heart.

But I have corrected that.

Mom is currently, somewhat stable. But she is not well and she is not out of the woods yet. We have a long journey of unknowns before us.

And I am suspecting that along with bipolar disorder that I may be suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder. I have seen first-hand, too many dead bodies, sat with too many dying ones, and witnessed too many collapses and injuries. The images flash through my mind. I jump out of my seat if someone twitches. My heart races if the phone rings. And I cry the moment I open my eyes in the morning. I do not know how long this level of anxiety can be sustained or this constant stream of adrenaline can be tolerated before something in me just . . . goes.

But I am trying to take care of myself. I have an upcoming appointment with my therapist, and meanwhile, I have learned to say a few things I have never said before:

• “I have a mental illness. I am bipolar. I can’t handle someone else’s instability.”
• “No, I am sorry, but I can’t do that”.
• “Please, help me”.

And I am not alone anymore.

I have some really terrific friends who love and accept me, keep me in check, and sometimes can even make me laugh; they are good medicine . . . I call them my happy pills.

And I have a really wonderful and compassionate little sister who steps up to the plate and accomplishes what I cannot.

Her name is Brenda.

She is the strong one.

WE ARE ALL RESPONSIBLE

I had a brief unpleasant encounter with an obnoxious drunk person at a social thing recently. He kept punching me in the arm, and he loudly got right up to within inches of my face. Others dealt with him pretty well and seemed able to shrug him off; I could not.

I have tried to let it go. But it won’t go . . .

Why?

Because I suffer from BIPOLAR DISORDER and the encounter rattled me and then took hold. It triggered my latest downward spiral and I am having a really hard time pulling out of it.

A few moments of someone’s drunken stupidity messed with my state of well-being and opened up some old “mean-drunk” wounds and memories of abuse. Not to mention the effort and energy it took for me NOT to smack him and tell him to grow the fuck up.

Being exposed to these careless kinds of people really takes a toll on me, and I’m beginning to think I need to stay home and isolated from the rest of the world. And that breaks my heart.

Honestly, I love to party as much as the next gal does, maybe more even, and I understand that not all of us deal with our problems in the same way, but aggressive and intrusive behavior is just not acceptable.

A few weeks ago on Facebook, I witnessed a friend bully someone who she knows has mental health issues. She disagreed with his inappropriate and offensive post so much, that she jumped on him HARD . . .  and she became an abuser. Afterwards, I asked if she thought her behavior would affect his mental well-being and she said that she could not be responsible for how someone reacts to what she says.

Bullshit.

We are ALL responsible for our words and actions and how we affect those around us. Seriously, do you think your right of free speech entitles you to say anything to anyone, and not be held accountable?

Double bullshit.

Almost a week later, I finally forced myself to leave the house and decided to deliver three crocheted afghans I had made for some friends. I put each into a white garbage bag, attached a note, and threw them into the car.

                 

I drove to Trenton and stuffed one in the door of a friend, and left. I then crossed the Grosse Ile Bridge to deliver the next one.

Afterwards, while crossing back over, a thought crossed my mind.

“I could drive off of this bridge right now. Today could be the day I drive off of the Grosse Ile Bridge.”

Although the thought was hardly a consideration, and I couldn’t actually drive off of the bridge even if I really wanted to because it has long been reinforced with concrete barriers and high railings, I glanced at the last remaining bag in the front seat.

“I can’t”, I thought, “She would wonder why everyone got their afghan but her.”

The thought seemed silly and I almost grinned.

But I didn’t.

Because the truth was right there . . . teetering on the edge.

My point?

No matter your intentions or how your words come wrapped, in spirituality, positivity, in the name of everything love and light, in your own cloak of self-absorption or instability, or even wrapped in the name of God, you had better be careful with them. Because you are responsible for your impact on others.

That’s not my opinion. That is the truth.

Although I won’t go so far as to say that someone else is liable for my action of, say, driving off a bridge, I will take the leap and say that they can certainly be the car behind me, riding my rear bumper and giving me that extra little nudge into nothingness.

We are all responsible for what we do and what we say. We have the potential to cause pain. Everyone affects everyone else.

I completed my goal that day, safely making all three deliveries, and later that evening, I wrote my daily post-it note for my “2013 Kindness Jar”.

IF THE SHOE FITS

I had an epiphany.

Yeppers.

It came to me when I cleaned out my bedroom closet and discovered all of the once worn or never worn shoes I had. It caused me to wonder.

Later, while reviewing my Contacts list on my new cell phone, I was again surprised to discover how many of the numbers I no longer needed, because they belong to people who are no longer friends. This also caused me to wonder.

Thus was the birth of my epiphany.

Friends are like shoes.

When we buy shoes, we try to pick out the best pair for our occasion and need. We look for them to fit well and be our style. We try them on, and we walk around in them, and see how they feel. And then we hope for the best.

Will they be our next favorite pair?

We really won’t know until we live with them a while.

The same is true of friends. We have to let them in, try them on, and wear them around for a time, to see how they fit and how they are going to treat us.

There are different kinds of friends . . . and shoes.

Both pair pictured below are beautiful and sexy. When I tried them on, they felt good, but after wearing them for an hour, my toes starting popping out of the straps all mish-mashy. It wasn’t pretty. Or practical.

 

My lesson: A friend can have all the right characteristics and just not be well suited to us. They may fit perfectly with someone else though.

*

These are shoes that I fell in love with, but hardly ever wore. Now I have outgrown them. They are age-appropriate, if your ankles, knees, and hip joints will tolerate the heels. Mine adamantly refuse.

 

My lesson: A friend can be young, spirited, and beautiful to behold, and although we admire them, it doesn’t mean that we will be able to keep up, or that we even want to. Sometimes, we change. Or they change. Sometimes, sadly, we grow and our friends don’t.

*

Here are some shoes that dazzled me with their beauty. But, ultimately, I couldn’t wear either pair. I kept falling out of the gold ones. And the beaded ones gave me blisters.

 

My lesson: A good friend will always have your back and help you feel secure. And beauty doesn’t count for much if your friend causes friction and gives you a blister.

*

These I adored! I wanted to become the woman who belonged to these shoes! But I wasn’t. Unfortunately, I discovered upon wearing them, that when I walked, the black pair SQUEAKED, and the grey pair SQUEEZED.

 

My lesson: A friend is a wonderful gift, but there are deal-breakers. Some just whine or gossip too much, and some can’t give you room to breathe. A good friend gives you a moderate amount of both.

*

Some shoes are for special occasions or are seasonal, and are not meant for everyday use or for all types of weather.

   

My lesson: Some friends are only present during celebrations or special events, and some only during certain seasons. If we know that from the start, we can usually accept it and love them as they are.

*

I bought these shoes even though they were an ENTIRE size too small!

My lesson: No matter how pretty they are or how much you love them, if a friend does not accept you, and fit into your life in a healthy way, you must walk away. A friendship cannot be forced.

*

I keep these displayed on my bedroom dresser. They serve to remind me that no matter how loud, confident, or tough I act . . . I am still a girly girl.

My lesson: Good friends remind you of who you are, celebrate who you are, and help you become more than who you are.

*

Some of my favorite shoes are not fancy-shmancy at all. These are light, effortless, dependable, and just damn comfortable.

 

My lesson: Our favorite friends are kind, consistent, and easy to be around. We are at our most natural and genuine when we are with them. They are NOT going to surprise us too much, and we can take comfort in knowing that they won’t let us down.

*

We wear our all-time favorite shoes constantly. They have been to hell and back with us, through all the good and the bad, down miles and miles of rough road. And it shows.

We will wear them long after they have stopped functioning well or looking pretty. We will wear them until they literally fall off our feet, and even then, they will not be discarded. We will even reminisce with great affection, “I had this great pair once . . . “

 

My lesson: Our best friends are the ones that fit well, accept us as we are, and don’t run out when times get tough. We look at them and fail to see the wear or scratches, the worn spots, the scruffiness, and the funny way they bend . . . all we see is the friend we love.

We treasure the way they make us feel.

They don’t have to be perfect, but they are.

They are perfect for us.

Yes, friends are like shoes.

And as we age, we may not feel the need to purchase as many new shoes, but when we do, we shop smarter, we know more about what will work and what won’t, and we try to make better choices.

And along the way, we learn the meaning of value.

Because they can all talk the talk.

But only the good ones can walk the walk.

THERE IS NO TIME

We contemplate but do not understand

We try to control but settle for measuring

Like day into night

Summer into winter

Life into death

*

When joyfulness visits

we cling desperately

trying to preserve it

and hold it still

but it takes flight

and vanishes into happiness

*

And when the sadness comes

as it will in life

as it should

it stands forever frozen

full of emptiness and sorrow

*

The twisted tragedy

is that we fight to hold on

and struggle to let go

*

It teases and tortures

*

Years have passed since I lost you

Or was that just a breath ago?

I close my eyes and live a lifetime

and then I blink . . . and you are gone

*

In this magnificent remarkable life

there is sweetness in the rain

and comfort in a quiet winter morning

There is wondrousness

in birth, growth, change

*

And there is healing

in the laughter of friends

*

And there is love

*

These things cannot be frozen

but they can be captured and embraced

and treasured

forever

*

The bitter sweetness in the grieving

is that the greatness of our pain

is the measurement of our love

*

It is a blessed and glorious grieving

There is no time . . . there are only precious moments.

FROM PUMPKINS TO PYTHONS

I think I’m turning into a bit of a Blog Attention Whore.

Good grief. I wonder if there is a support group for that.

In my quest to keep things interesting and fun, and in an effort to lighten up and step outside of my comfort zone, I’m finding myself doing some pretty unusual things.

Since I use my own pics in my blogs, I now carry a camera everywhere I go. Everything I see is a potential photograph, and every photograph, a story.

Much to my chagrin, and the chagrin of others, I’m discovering that there is nothing I won’t do for the sake of the blog. Well, almost nothing.

One night while partying with girlfriends, one of them said, “We’d better cool down or we’re going to end up in jail!”

My response? “Oh, that would be a great blog!”

Sheesh. I seriously may need help.

On Halloween, a holiday that I’ve never enjoyed, I made an attempt to funny-up and embrace the day. While driving about with my good friend, Patti Petroline, we passed a side-of-the-road pumpkin patch.

“We should buy a pumpkin, carve it out, put it on my head, and then snap some pics for my blog!” I screamed, as I pulled the car over and turned it around.

Patti, the forever spontaneous and always-game adventurer, and my self-appointed personal Smart Phone Photographer, was up for the challenge. What resulted was, “A Halloween Dream”, http://wp.me/p2ckKM-jM.

Who would have guessed that this crabby, claustrophobic, hot-flashing, quirky old beotch would end up doing this?

We had a blast and laughed for hours. It was truly one of my finest moments.

That brings us to this past Friday night at River’s Edge Gallery in Wyandotte, for the opening reception of “Pure Genius”.

And it was.

Pure genius, that is.

That “River’s Edge Gallery Gang” just makes me all crazy. Crazy excited. And crazy inspired. But be warned, you’ve gotta watch these folks, because before you know it, you will be seeing, feeling, and experiencing all sorts of unexpected things. You’ll find yourself crying over things you don’t understand, falling in love with things that you can’t explain, and dreaming of things you can’t imagine.

Sometimes you might even see yourself up on the wall . . .  being displayed through someone else’s eyes . . . in their art.

It blows me away.

This show was outstanding. But it was different from others I’ve attended. Actually, there was one REALLY BIG difference.

And her name was Cinderella.

She is a beautiful Albino Burmese Python snake that is NINE FEET LONG and WEIGHS 45 POUNDS. She and her owner were given permission to attend the show, as an opportunity to educate those attendees who were willing to walk over to her table and meet her.

Not me. No sir. No thanks.

I’m not a snake person.

Are you kidding me?

I SCREAM AT THE SIGHT OF HER FOOD!

When I found a mouse in my apartment, I called the Landlord, hysterical and from high atop a dining room chair. And afterwards, I sat in the same chair sweating, panting, and sobbing over my plight of husband-less-ness and my involuntary independence. I experienced it again when I discovered a large colony of gianormous slugs on my patio. And yes, I know they like beer. I supplied their slimy nasty-looking asses with a can of Budweiser one night. Sure, they drank it. And then they sludged away back home . . . all slow and buzzed up, while leaving a trail of ik.

But I digress.

So, there we stood, in awe, at Cinderella’s table. Patti stood much closer to it than I did. She’s the calm one. I am not. I would be the sweating, hyperventilating, twitching one.

At heart, I am an animal rights advocate. I don’t agree with wild animals being kept as pets or being hauled around from place to place for display, but honestly, I didn’t consider any of that.

She was beautiful. And I was mystified, captivated, and horrified, all at the same time. Her owner seemed to adore her and has been in the business of educating people with reptiles for many years. And I kind of agree with that.

So, in the spirit of stepping out of my comfort zone and pushing my limits, and being the Blog Attention Whore that I suspect myself to be, I said, “I should hold her and snap a picture for my blog!”

So I did.

I didn’t anticipate her weight or the feeling of her incredibly strong solid mass of muscle wrapped around my upper body.

It . . . freaked . . . me . . . out.

*

I don’t think I was even breathing.

*

In this photo, I was smiling through gritted teeth and begging Patti, “Did you get the pic? Did you get the pic?”

*

As soon as she said yes, I panicked inside and had to get the snake off of me . . . like, right now.

*

It looks like I’m pretty upset, but I was just in a hurry.

As soon as I got away from her, my adrenaline soared, my heart pounded, my knees began to shake, and my hands visibly trembled. I kept saying, “I did it! I did it!”

And I must have looked every bit a wreck, because the owner kept saying, “You did great! You did great!”

He knew how frightened I was as I approached their table. Later he told me that I was really brave. He said doing something risky isn’t brave unless you’re afraid. I agreed.

Much later, Patti and I determined that the series of photographs was taken in approximately 20 SECONDS. That’s how long I lasted. 20 SECONDS.

Several hours and a half a Xanax later, we were looking at a couple of pretty amazing photographs that I deem frame-worthy.

Because I did it . . .

. . . even though I was afraid.

*

And it was a good thing.

**********

SIDE NOTE: The next day I Googled our little Cinderella, and read this, “The Albino Burmese Python are readily available but grow up to be huge snakes. This is one of the snakes that needs a healthy dose of caution, so think twice (or more) before getting one as a pet. Although Burmese Pythons are generally quite docile, they are incredibly strong, and it just takes a single mistake in handling them, to have disastrous results.”

**********

Nice.

**********

THE WHITE SHIRT

There he is, so handsome in his dark suit and white dress shirt. Even the sun celebrates our reunion as she bounces off the skyscrapers and dances teasingly on the rim of his glasses.

“Julia!” He calls to me.

I love the way he says my name. It sounds so eloquent and romantic, adorned in his educated accented European-ness.

I go to him and climb into his open arms.

My hands slide beneath his suit and pull him close. My face finds that place where his neck and shoulder meet, and nestles there. His shirt is crisp, cool, and fresh. I like its starchy white formality. His muscles tighten beneath my hands. I like that, too.

We stand still in our embrace. I could stay this way forever and live a lifetime with my face buried in the safety of his shirt.

Passion, like hunger, will subside if you ignore it long enough. Things go silent. I thought them departed, but they were only dormant.

Now he is igniting me; like starting a car . . . or a fire.

Through closed eyes the moments come, overwhelming me, reminding me . . . of all the wanting, of all the empty nights, and the eternal missing hours.

“Uhhh . . . I forgot how good this feels” I whisper.

He pulls me closer.

“I’m so glad I forgot”, I whimper, “It would have been excruciating”.

Remembering that this is just a visit and our time limited, a feeling of dread washes over me as a new thought comes. I say nothing and quietly fight the tears . . .

“Now, I will have to forget all over again.”

A WALK IN THE PARK

I have been coming to Elizabeth Park for almost 40 years.

I grew up across the water, on Grosse Ile, so the park was close enough that when I was young, I would often walk across the bridge and go there to skip school and hang out. And believe me; I was not alone.

Those were the 70’s, the birth of my hippie days. My first taste of the Beatles was at this park sitting with friends under a big tree, playing guitars and singing songs.

Now in my fifties, I will occasionally come here in the summertime to go walking. I don’t see too many hippies though. Nope. I must be the last of them, huffing and puffing and walking in circles around the park. I don’t usually notice my surroundings too much either, I’m too busy trying to breathe and not get run over by a car.

Funny thing is, in all these years I have never once come here in the wintertime.

Until now.

I awake on this morning in the last week of December, to a light and beautiful snowfall, and snap a couple of pics outside of my patio door before getting the idea to venture out on a picture-taking adventure.

I text my good friend, Patti, who is usually game for such spontaneous abstract-ness, and before long we are sufficiently outfitted in proper winter attire, holding cameras in excited hands, and in Elizabeth Park.

*

And let me just say that when Elizabeth Park is all dressed in white . . . she is Pure Michigan magic.

*

She’s a winter wonderland and simply takes my breath away.

*

Her bridges are quite romantic and photogenic.

*

You don’t have to be a great photographer or even have a good camera to capture all her glory!

*

We view another bridge and its visitors.

*

Our proud and glorious American flag.

*

The snow is wet and continuous, so we wrap it up and call it a day. This is from inside the car on our way out. Our day is over.

*

Now, it is a couple of days later . . . actually, the last day of the year, and this crabby old gal, feeling emotionally upset, restless, and in a funk, ventures back to the park alone.

It is early morning, very cold, and divinely quiet.

I stop at the entrance to the park. Here you can see Grosse Ile on the other side of the bridge.

*

Meet a few of the locals who are just hanging out.

*

I drive on, passing the location of my previous visit. There’s a bird’s nest high up in a tree near the road, so I park the car and walk over to snap a pic of it.

Instead I make a joyful discovery and spend most of my time shooting these little darlings. I wouldn’t call them hippies. How about naturalists?

*

*

*

I have to really zoom in to figure out what this jet-black furry mass is located high up in the tree. My camera blurs but I swear he’s making a face at me. And he doesn’t look all too pleased! Yikes!

*

I remind myself to look up even further . . .

*

Past the trees . . . to the skies.

*

I look down just in time to catch a rare glimpse of the ever- elusive Michigan Blue Bunny.

*

I’m missing my bff and partner in crime right about now and thinking what wonderful pics she would be capturing with her high-tech fancy-shmancy CELL PHONE! We are like two peas . . . the same, but different.

Just a couple of old . . .

*

I smile, shrug it off, and get back into the car.

*

These are in hibernation. And waiting.

*

I drive to the other side of the park.

In the background you can see the Wayne County Bridge, commonly called “The Free Bridge”, which connects mainland Trenton to Grosse Ile.

*

Here’s a close-up of the Free Bridge.

*

This one is taken through a hand railing.

*

The waterfront is cold and lonely.

*

Sometimes it’s good to remember to look . . . down.

*

I begin my drive out of the park and pause to reflect back on all the incredible sites.

*

I exit the park with intentions of re-entering from West Jefferson Road, and see this snow covered gnarly looking tree while on my way.

*

I call these Whispies. I’m just too lazy to find out what their real name is. I climb into them and take a pic.

*

The bridge from the other side. It’s romantic and wistful and magical.

*

The irony of this experience has not escaped me.

Today’s pictures of Elizabeth Park have been viewed and taken through old and new eyes. I guess it just goes to show you that it’s never too late to rediscover something that you’ve looked at your whole life.

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” – Heraclitus

With these final photographs of 2012, I leave behind a very challenging and difficult year . . .

. . . And swim towards the future, and a brand new day full of hope, opportunity, and potential.

MY KINDNESS JAR

This is my 2013 Kindness Jar.

Each day I will write a note about a kindness, a good thought, or an inspiration and I will put it in this jar.

At the end of the year I will read all 365 notes and see how I have done. At the very least, for a moment or two each day, I will focus on something positive long enough to write it down.

And that is a good thing.

I found this container at my Grandpa’s house after he passed away several years ago. I use it for post-it note-ideas, but will empty it to make room for all of the upcoming daily bits of happiness.

Notice the jar’s label. Appropriately named. Just for me. Ha ha. You gotta love it.

2013 is going to be a great year.

And this nut wants to ensure that she takes a moment out of every single day to notice and appreciate the good things.

So here goes . . .

And Happy New Year, my friends! Thank you for your laughter, inspiration, support, and comfort. You mean the world to me. Please be safe and be well.

Until next year . . .

(p.s.  This is not my original idea. I saw this idea of a jar online, tweeked it, made it mine, and ran with it!)