INCONCEIVABLY BLONDE....

                                                                               I got a shave cut it all off. All of it. Done. So what? It's just hair.... They call me brave but I'm not, not really.... The one who is is the one who lives each and every day in pain, in knowing that she has one less day to spend with us here. Now, that's real. That's brave . Just so ya know.... The one who raised me just the way I am bold, free, unafraid of what you think or say, teaching me that I am more than the sum of my parts. I am more than the sum of these little stubbles of hair on my head Why do you look at me like that? Don't you see the glow around me as I channel her strength to me and become what she already is and more. She's seen, done, and made more than I'll ever be able to-- not that I'd try to duplicate or copycat her vibe, her style-- not by a mile! I have a bit of her in me, in here, inside, sure, no long

What a difference a day makes. Earth breaks, buildings shake people awaken mid-nightmare by screaming, waves, mudslides, and fires teeming far, far away on the other side of the world. Ripples carry worry, building momentum, carrying shockwaves that level everything in their path, even rice paddies and bullet trains. Unstoppable. People making for higher ground, wise and foolish men both, confounded by Nature stretching, shifting, and scratching gashes in the man-scaped cities and towns All without social media, wi-fi or wikis-- whirlpooled, swept, flung all around like toys broken, dropped, left discarded across the majestically mountainous countryside-- Not mine, not yours, not theirs, but HERS.  All HERS. Standing so still, so quiet, at the shore. Faint ripples lapping lightly in the sand, yet stuck in the calm that's the eye of the storm on camera or on screen-- So misleading to lure you to come on out and see the mayhem, transfixed by the

I actually was requested to write something for an end-of-summer/back-to-school  Church family (Ward) social several years ago.... A sprinkle on the cheek, a rumble in the sky. Pack up all the baskets, Fall will soon be nigh. Some sand sweeps past my face, a gust blows through the trees. Shake out all the blankets, Summer's on its knees. Much shorter days of light, an empty beach by day. Tie down all the umbrellas, Fall is on its way. The kids will be in school weathering the storms, while everyone else works, and the toursists start to swarm. So wipe of all the sand, while the setting sun becomes a promise to remember 'Til next summer comes. Written by Eliza Jane Farley (Gomez) August 1999

This is a little something I dug up and resurrected from the deep, back in 1997, actually, LOL.... I am almost there, where I can turn in the sunshine, wearing a grin, and stop. And laugh at the journey I've taken so far. The journey-- But how did it start? From the starting blocks at swim practice-- Did I warm up enough for the race of my life? Did they teach me that holding my breath, blowing bubbles while I flip-turn would thrust me into my journey so far? The journey-- But when did it start? From the tape marks on the lighted stage at rehearsal-- Did I practice enough for the play of my life? Did they teach me that staying in character, singing while my hat fell off would twirl me into my journey so far? The journey-- But where did it start? From the cutout names stuck on weathered doors at check-in-- Did I study enough for the class of my life? Did they teach me that sneaking out trays and sledding down hills while cutting class wou