The Beauty Pageant Dream

Walking my dream

I dreamed I was at a church camp and busy with many things, mostly talking to and doing projects with children, but also just learning about my own deep, still waters. I felt fulfilled, peaceful, and calm. I realized at one point, that I'd been entered in a beauty contest. I didn't give it much thought, though, and continued my projects. I ate a good meal, which I could feel nourishing all of my cells. I ate everything on my plate; there was no waste.

Then I noticed that the other girls were getting ready for the pageant. They had their make-up on and their hair styled just so. Their mothers were there helping them into their formal gowns.

I was alone in the dream but didn't have that empty-alone feeling. I felt solid and whole.

The others were fretting over questions they might be asked and how they would answer. What were they going to do for the talent portion, I wondered.

What was I going to do?

I caught an image of myself in a mirror. I wore denim pants with a common sort of top, draped with a shawl or scarf of some sort that shimmered in the light. I arranged it carefully around my shoulders and, looking in the mirror again, decided it would work.

One side of my hair hung stiff and wiry while the other side held its usual natural curl. I must have slept on it funny. I ran a wet comb through the straight side and then twisted it around my finger. Much better.

"I don't have a formal gown or make-up or my hair sprayed into some professional 'do," I told myself, "but I do have me. I am beautiful inside and out. I have sincerity, strength, and integrity. I am enough."

I stepped back from the mirror. It was time to go on stage.

I woke up to a beautiful autumn morning. The wind gusted and golden maple leaves drifted through the air.

I pulled on my blue jeans, an old T-shirt with remnants of a once beautiful butterfly on it, one of my husband's long-sleeved western shirts, and my lace-up boots, and started to go check my heifer, but it was plain to see, my husband informed me, that she still had not calved. The dogs informed me, with much enthusiasm, that they would like to go for a walk.

We took off down the runway, I mean the driveway, the dogs bouncing for joy and wagging their tails, me with my head held high, knowing that true beauty lies within me. Beauty is the joy coursing through my veins, the faith pulsing in my heart, the solidity of sincerity, the poise of integrity, the grace of living my truth day-by-day, releasing yesterday and laying the foundation for tomorrow. I braided my hair as I walked and pulled a piece of grass to tie it in place. 

I am more than enough. I am beautiful.

If the pageant judges had asked me what I wished for the world, I think my answer might have been that every person would see their own true beauty within themselves, that we would all be winners.

Healing Thoughts...

 

                                    Lonesome Oak, Late Summer

A Prayer for Adi

Sing! Sing again,

Beautiful one!

Relax.

Faithful heart,

be her drum

send the breath throughout

from lungs,

to heart,

to brain

and back,

to knees and toes

oxygen riding

through vessels' melody

whispering joys

of memories

of more life to live

of beautiful days

of children's laughter.

Beautiful One,

Sing! Sing again,

Beautiful One,

of children's laughter

of beautiful days

of more life to live

of memories

whispering joys

through vessels' melody.

Oxygen riding

to knees and toes

and back,

to brain,

to heart

from lungs:

throughout!

Send the breath.

Be her drum,

Faithful heart!

Relax,

Beautiful One.

Sing. Sing again.

In Memory

 

Sunset at our farm

Technicalities Aside

Technically, he wasn’t my grandpa,

but I remember:

The fun the family had when my dad

Dated his daughter,

Like “taking pictures” with a spoon

And getting my dad to hold a cup of water

On the ceiling with a broomstick.

I remember helping

“The ladies” in the egg-packing plant

And unpacking bales of egg cartons,

Which we stacked in the old schoolhouse.

We swam in his cow pond—Yuck!

And I caught little bluegill 

from the same pond,

Then watched him fillet his big catfish.

He took us golfing

And taught us to replace the turf

We tore up

And let us drive the cart.

I remember that after lunch

He had an ice cream

And melted it in the microwave.

I had mine hard.

Then he took a thirty-minute siesta

And I learned to help load

And unload the dishwasher

And talked about how to fix my hair.

When I was grown up,

He welcomed

Our little family of three

to visit in the mountains.

He took us to see the wild horses

And let me get out of the jeep

While he backed up on the precipice

Because I was afraid we might go over.

Later, at the house,

Grandma shared her brownie recipes

And they told me how they taught

My younger cousins a lesson about giving.

I remember picnics and volleyball

And anniversary parties

With singing,

Especially patriotic songs,

America, the Beautiful

The Battle Hymn of the Republic

God Bless America

My Country ‘Tis of Thee,

But at church

He sang with his sons,

Amazing Grace 

When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.

Oh, and did I mention?

The bear he carved

With a chainsaw for me

Or the beautiful necklace holder?

He made it from cedar

With seven golden hooks

To hold my jewelry

When I’m not wearing it.

And he made a plant stand for me

From a cactus—

Saguaro, I believe.

It serves well in a corner between windows.

Just a couple of years ago

He cut geodes open with us

And shared what he taught

The youth in his church,

That you never know

When you look at a plain old,

Homely-looking rock

What beauty lies inside.

I remember

The light in those blue eyes,

His patience,

And the love he shared.

Blast it!

Technicalities aside.

He was my grandpa!

Poetry to Grow On

Growing Patience
     By Vicki Dawn Arnett

I am a seed
     a little seed
     of thoughtful endurance     
     and strength
     and fortitude
     and yet, compassion,
buried just below the surface.

Alone, I wait.

It is cold
     dark
     dreary
     while I wait

alone

     and the weight
from above rests heavily on me.

What is that I feel?
     It is warmth.
     Something inside me vibrates,
     loosens my walls.
I stretch and reach for more warmth,
     but also anchor myself
     'round a tiny grain of sand.

My eyes are opened
     so now I see
     the glorious light,
     heater of my heart,
     stirrer of my soul.
I watch, in wonder, its trek across the sky.
     It is dark and cold again. 
     Once more, I am

alone.

     What happened?
     Where did my light, my warmth, go?
My head drooped, and weary,
     I rested.

While I rested, I heard a cry,

"You are not alone!"

     I reached farther down,
     down below the surface
     through moist soil
     clinging to bits of sand
     for comfort
     peace
     strength
and when yesterday was but a dream,
a finger of light caressed the sky.

Joyfully, with all the world,
     I wept
     dewy drops upon my brow,
     magnifying the light's gentle touch.
     I stretched to meet the sun,
     to join his journey again,
     but today, it wasn't to be.
A curtain pulled across the sun;
I could not see his smiling face.

I shivered and dug deeper down,
     down into the earth,
     her silence somehow comforting
     and in the stillness, 

I waited.

Light faded,
     faded dimmer
     as the curtain thickened
     and no trace of his journey permeated.
A chilly wind swept the land.
I resisted it with all my strength;
     still it persisted.

And then came the storm.

Quick flashes of light
     roared through the sky.
The wind whipped at me;
     hail mixed with rain pelted me
     and pushed me to the ground.
Rivulets of water etched canyons
     around my roots.
I, willing my tiny tendrils to dig deeper still
     and straining my stem
     to stand straight and tall,
I fought for my survival
     the whole day long.

Finally, the rain lessened
     and the wind bore the clouds away.

Exhausted, I lay
     with my head in the mud
     and barely caught the
     motion of sun's fingers dancing
     as they slid over the horizon.

In the cold dark,
     my roots went down,
     down into the wet soil.
     I let my head rest
     on Mother Earth's breast.

The moon shined, a thin crescent,
     mere reflection of Sun's glorious rays,
     and stars glittered
     in their own galaxies
     so, so far away,
     and I knew

I was not alone.

The lilting song of the whippoorwill
     and the incessant inquiring of the owl
     rang from the hilltops
     and resounded through the valleys.

I fell asleep then
     and dreamed of knights and ladies,
     and fairies and trolls
     and garden gnomes
     until, at last,
I awoke to the morning's song,
     of birdy trills
     buzzing bees
     and the tentative breeze of new butterfly wings.

And the Light peeked up out of the east
and blessed all life with his touch.

I raised my head
     from the muddy earthen bed.
     My eyes trailed the sun
     as he rose higher,
     higher into the sky.
Before I knew it, he was right overhead
     and I—

I stood straight and tall.

Sunrises came, and sunsets, too.
     Joyful dewy mornings,
     hot days, cool nights.
     I stretched up,
     up and reached for the light.
     I dug deep and anchored in the soil.
     I sang my own songs
     of courage
     of laughter
     and delight.

Then cold bit deep;
     my leaves fell at my feet
     and I was stiff
     and I rattled rather than sang.

Rain turned to snow,
     which drifted around me.
The sun distantly swung around,
     east to west.
While the birds, bees,
     and most of earth's beasts
     rested and waited
     and sighed.
The moon turned full,
     then new again,
     full and new, full and new,
     I didn't count the times.

And then, one day the wind shifted;
     Sun's light thawed my branches.
     Birds sang again.
     Snow melted.
I stretched my trunk up
     and my roots down
     and followed the light
     through the sky.

Buds grew on my outstretched hands
     and bloomed fragrant flowers.
     Bees visited my blossoms,
     breezes pranced 'round me,
     birds nested in close to my heart.

I was not alone.

We sang the songs of summertime
     and watched the days come and go.
     Fruit set in where
     springtime buds had been
     and grew heavy,
     bowing my limbs.
     Ripening, it smelt sweet again,
     and bees swarmed busily around.
     Squirrels played in my branches;
     children laughed and chanted in their playhouse
     near the stream.

Now my fruit fell.
What wasn't carried off or eaten
     rotted and stunk. The flesh fell away
     baring the hard stone hearts within.

The cold bit deep.
Rain turned to snow.
Birds, bees, and most of earth's beasts
     rested and waited and sighed.

One day, the wind shifted
     and Sun's light thawed all he touched,
     waking us with his might.

Snow melted, birds sang,
     bees buzzed and children played,
     but not one of my fallen stones
     could I see
     amid last year's leaves
     matted down upon the earth.

I remember a time when
     I was a seed,
     a little seed
     of thoughtful endurance     
     and strength
     and fortitude
     and yet, compassion,
buried just below the surface.

I warm with the Light
     that guides my days
     and hold fast to the wisdom
     of my Roots.
I relax and float upon the wind.
Flowering, I feed my friends.

And somewhere down there—
     down under the leaves,
     a tiny seed
     digs a little root down to grip
     a grain of sand.
It stretches up,
     up to reach the warmth and light.
When the storms come,

It is not alone.

We will sing songs of summertime
     and greet the days to come.

Increase Your Flow: Add a Blog to Your Website

 Every business constantly assesses the health of its cash flow. Just as scientists sample our rivers and their tributaries to ensure they're running cleanly and with the proper diversity of minerals and organic components, CEOs want to know that their proper tributaries are clear and flowing readily. One of the large tributaries to your business cash flow is your marketing strategy. It in turn has its own tributaries. This article focuses on blogs—one of the possible contributors to your marketing tributary.

Blogs are like springs, contributing fresh, nutrient-rich flow to your business by attracting people who share interests with your company. For instance, say you have a dry cleaning business. Initially readers may visit your blog post about clothing styles. While the post isn't an in-your-face advertisement for dry cleaning, it entices style-conscious readers to check out your website where they see evidence of the knowledgeable and skillful care you provide your customers.  In other words, blogs provide an avenue to create awareness of your business that is attractive and inviting.

Often businesses start out with basic websites, just to get their feet wet and have "something" out there. There is nothing wrong with this, but later they see that a blog would inject more life into their marketing strategy. New questions loom.

Can I add a blog to an existing website? Absolutely! Whether your site is a DIY project or you hired a web designer, you can add a blog.

Is adding a blog to my site difficult or expensive? There isn't one right answer for this question. If your site has a content management system (CMS) such as WordPress built into it, you could be a YouTube video away from adding a blog page to your site. If you had a professional web designer build your site for you, they may help you add the blog yourself or, depending on how they set up the site to start with, they may need to write some new code for you. You might want to discuss whether it would be more beneficial to add the blog to the existing site or do a major overhaul on the site. While the major overhaul can run into more money up front, Ryan Hilton of Global Web Design says that having a more up-to-date website will likely benefit your company in other ways besides having a blog to attract traffic. The initial cost of overhauling your site may be the most cost-effective boost to your over-all marketing strategy.

Where do I get content for my blog? One option is certainly to write your own text. If you enjoy writing and possess the skill and time, writing your own blogs gives readers the opportunity to know you better. A second option is to outsource to a professional writer. There are web-based companies that hire pools of writers to fill their subscribers' needs or there are free-lance writers you may hire directly. Hiring a free-lance writer is an attractive choice because you can build a relationship with the writer, who can then relate your style and voice to the readers in a personable manner much as you would if you were writing the articles yourself. Content companies are great if you don't have direct access to a writer, but they lack the personal touch since the writers are generally not allowed to communicate directly with the subscribers.

Mother Nature doesn't have the alternative to just add a spring to flow into an old, stagnating river, but you can choose to boost your internet traffic (and thus, cash flow) by adding a blog. If you're interested in directly hiring a writer, please email me at vickidbennett@hotmail.com.

Talking Leaves

These delicate sycamore leaves jumped up and waved to me along the bridge at Misssouri's Mule Shoe Conservation Area a few days ago. As I took pictures, I was reminded of Sequoyah and his "talking leaves," referring to pages of written language. What if these sycamores could talk? What stories would they tell?

There were a lot of leaves there, actually, and as a matter of fact, they were in a talkative mood that day. As many in the area have noted, it is dry this year. Hot and dry. And the Little Niangua River, flowing through here has provided cool refreshment for both wildlife and people for centuries. But as you may be able to see in the pictures, this talkative sycamore is young; its jabbering stories are limited to the traditions of its elders (sycamores as well as others) surrounding it.

There were stories of previous droughts when the river's flow slowed but never stopped, floods that rearranged the river, adventurous youth, foolishness of generations, and, like the underlying riverbed itself, wisdom.  

Well, it happens that one of the others on the bank of the little winding river was once the manager of the Mule Shoe Ranch, Robert Arnett, or "Bob" as a lot of folks know him. I know him as my hubby, and, as I knew he would if I waited long enough, he augmented some of the gibbering sycamore stories.

"A lot of water has passed under that bridge since then," he says motioning to the concrete slab lined with young saplings. "Of course that bridge wasn't here back then. It was just a gravel bar." Tales of the old days on the ranch began meandering through the evening, a river of words cutting through the dwindling sunlight and birdsong, carrying thoughts and memories, conjuring pictures in my mind of days before we met.

Horseback rides, hay hauling adventures, children exploring, work, farmers retrieving machinery after dark (Lucky he didn't get shot! He really should have called first.) 

I listened to the stories of the trees, the birds, the rocks, and my sweetheart as the sun fell to the horizon. Then, I gathered them up like precious gems and stored them away to look at and share another day.

Memory Lane and Onward!

Up in the middle of the night again, when I should be sleeping. After completing my "Lumosity" workout (Brain games, as I call them), answering a few inquiries about tractor tires I've posted for sale on fb and writing 3 or 4 pages on a story I started several months ago, I found my self beginning to mourn the fact that I let go of my blog at truthmusers.

That's when it hit me! Blogspot! Then, thinking I'd start a new blog, I typed it into the URL and what do you know? My first ever blog adventure is right here waiting.

It doesn't look as pretty as the one I paid dearly for, but here it is, holding that space and time nearly four years ago when, aching in the pain of my oldest son pulling away from me and trying to rationalize it and find meaning in it, I reached out to my own writing to soothe my soul.

Well, since then, I've gone through all the what-ifs and if-onlys. I've turned my house upside down looking for relief to should'ves and could'ves.

What I've learned is this: Life is truly an adventurous journey. I've been through so many other adventures since then too.

And all here at the beginning of a new year (well, very close to the beginning anyway; it's still January another 22 1/2 hours), just in time for a new beginning.

A victorious new beginning. Like my name, Vicki Dawn.

So I set sail again. Singing new songs; solving new puzzles; dreaming new dreams; creating a new me. Come, sail along with me. There's plenty of room for another boat in the sea.