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.

Mistakes do not define us, but they do help shape us. They may be ugly, yet strengthen us. They may be uncomfortable, yet become a point of beauty within us, as a pearl within the oyster.

My son is

            Wise

            Strong

            Intelligent

            Caring

            Creative

            Intuitive

            Imaginative

            Beautiful

These are the tools he has in his toolbox to help not just “make it” in life, but to succeed and prosper beyond my wildest dreams.

I will not hold him back because I am hurt and sad (read “victimized”) or because I know better than him (read “I am more than he is.”)

I lovingly release my son to soar.

If I Had a Choice, He Wouldn’t Have Soared

If I had a chance

I would have stopped him.

No. It’s too far, or

No. It’s too high.

But I didn’t see him

Prepare his leap. It

Happened so subtly.

Then He spread his wings and

Flew.

Photo by Jim Behl

Early breast cancer detection

Why have your breasts amputated because you might get breast cancer? No thank you.

Why have your breasts smashed to see if there is a tumor? Couldn't this spread a tumor if there is one? and Doesn't more radiation in the chest region raise the risk of developing cancer? Again, no thank you.

At a young age, I decided that by the time I was 40 (the recommended age in the US to start having annual mammograms) there would be a better way to check these things. And just in time, when I turned 40, I met Linda Bamber, who had just purchased a thermography system.

Using this system, the technician can--without touching you, much less smashing you--detect through infrared images whether or not there is any inflammation in your breasts. A camera takes an infrared "picture" which can be seen on a computer screen. It's kind of like looking at a radar image on the weather. The technician looks for a big difference between the two sides. If one side is showing hotter colors, there may be a problem. Cancer apparently grows in hotter places. In my case, Linda took one look at the images and said, "We've got to talk." There was a major difference, one side being very inflamed.

I chose not to report the findings to a doctor. (See my previous post titled "My Turning Point.") Linda, who is also an experienced nutrition counselor helped me find appropriate things that would nourish my body so that my body could fight off any possible cancer cells. I listened to only positive, uplifting music. I exercised like a crazy woman--walking 2 miles a day and doing the "Tibetan 5" also known as the "Fountain of Youth." I laid out in the sun, exposed, first for 5 minutes a day and building up to 15 minutes.

Within three weeks a new thermogram showed the "hot" side had cooled considerably and was almost as "cool" as the other side. Did I have cancer when the inflammation was first detected? I don't know. I did not go to a doctor and get diagnosed. Do I have cancer now? No. I'm sure I don't.

Would I go about it this way again? Maybe. Maybe not. You never know. Something even better might come up...

Please note: I am not a doctor or other health professional. This is my personal experience and is not intended to diagnose, treat or cure. If you have a concern about your health, please consult a health care person whom you trust.

Herb Fair

Today we visited the Herb Fair at Evening Shade Farms, Osceola, MO and had a grand time. There was a nice variety of vendors, including potters, a woodcarver, greenhouses, a blacksmith/artist who specializes in sculpture, a rug weaver, and jewelry. There was bluegrass music on the porch of the Soap House and a Jingle Dance demonstration by Chante Falcon, the princess of the upcoming PowWow in Columbia, MO. Everybody was friendly and there was something for the whole family. We came away with a book about organizing spaces, a little clam shell of beeswax moisturizer, and our brains and minds full of new information and ideas. I call that a successful day!

Romancing the nursing home

     Should people with Alzheimer's be holding hands and courting each other in the nursing home? When a spouse dies, we can more easily reconcile it for ourselves. But what if the spouse is alive and well while the other has dementia and is in a residential care facility? It isn't like they're being intentionally unfaithful. What, if anything, should the staff do about it? What can the staff do when the courting goes "too far," becoming socially "inappropriate," as it very well may. People with Alzheimer's and other dementias are often confused. It is no different when it comes to their romantic feelings. Can we lovingly distract them with something else as we would a young child?
     So far, in Inter-Active Music, it hasn't gone beyond hand-holding and looks of adoration. Thankfully, the music and activities keep the minds and the bodies busy. And often, the emotions seem busy too, as we sing and listen to songs from their past. Today, for instance, I learned all about one gentleman's time in California--surfing! With his mind on the waves, the beauty, and yes--even the taste of the sand--there was no time for this guy to romance the ladies around him today!

My Turning Point

            I used doctors and “western” medicine like some people use alcohol. It seemed like I was always running to the doctor. I had sore throats, earaches and stomach pains. If it wasn’t me, it was one of my kids. We religiously took whatever medicine was prescribed. Even though I was still being faithful to this regimen, however, I began to notice that sometimes the prescriptions caused more problems, particularly candida infections and then allergies and resistance to certain specific drugs.

            Then came the time I got poison ivy. I often get poison ivy, but this was THE time. My forearms quickly became scabbed and oozy from elbow to wrist. It started on a Friday when I helped clear brush from a vacant lot. By Monday it was evident that I was in trouble, so I did what I had always done—headed to the doctor to cut it off at the pass. I got a shot. By Wednesday, I was truly a mess. I had to wear long sleeves when I went out to keep it clean and to prevent it from oozing all over everything and everybody else. Then I was hot and sweaty which irritated my arms all the more. Back to the doctor. Another shot and a prescription I could fill if the shot didn’t get it this time.

            The second shot didn’t help, so I went to the pharmacy to fill the script for prednisone. In the back of my mind was a faint memory of the last time I’d taken this anti-inflammatory steroid. It was foggy, but I remembered that my (then) husband couldn’t stand being around me while I was on the stuff. But I itched, hurt and burned and was miserable so I started the packet. It’s one of those drugs you start on a certain dose and then you have to step down off of it. The whole packet took about a month, I believe. Again, I was in a fog. I didn’t feel like myself. It seemed very difficult to hang onto any thought long enough to finish it. Finally, it was over. I took the last pill. I didn’t itch that day, and only remnants remained of the scabs up and down my forearms.

            Then came my first day without the prednisone. I broke out all over again. Of course it was a weekend again and so I determined to set my jaw and make it through until I could go back to the doctor. But what was the use, I wondered. 

            Well, that weekend, one of my kids had something else going on with his skin. I got on the internet and started looking at pictures trying to figure out what was going on with him. I didn’t find whatever his issue was, but I did find pictures that looked exactly like my arms. The caption said, “Shingles.” Shingles?!?

            I ran downstairs and announced my findings to my husband (Jim Behl). “Let’s go get you some lysine,” he says. Lysine, by the way is sold over the counter in the supplement section. By the next day my symptoms were clearing, though the fog from the prednisone drifted over my head for months after I was off of it.

            This was a turning point for me when I realized that doctors don’t know everything and doing exactly what they say will not necessarily solve my problems. Sometimes it won’t even bring relief and sometimes it causes more problems. Since that day, I always look for natural alternatives first. We are saving a lot of money because those frequent doctor visits and prescriptions are in our past.

            Of course I have to say—Only a doctor can diagnose, cure and treat disease. This is not intended to replace the advice of a qualified physician.

            My new habit is to not request a diagnosis from anyone. But I frequently seek help from people with positive experiences in healthy diets, supplements, herbs, and essential oils.

Hand crusher absent

The physical strength of a person with Alzheimer's should never be underestimated. Last week after an hour long session of guitar and singing, a guy shook my hand to "thank" me for coming. That was on Wednesday. Sunday my hand was spasming, feeling like he was crushing it all over again. I have to say that though I missed his singing along this week, my hand was grateful for the respite in his absence.

Another gentleman gave a stirring speech about how he loved to hear the group sing and how he loves everybody in that group so much.

It is moving to see these people sit up in their chairs and their eyes sparkle and shine as they interact with each other, sing, exercise, and play musical games. Do I do this for me or for them?

Alzheimer's stinks, but we still have fun.

My Alzheimer's group has been singing Morning Has Broken with lyric sheets for the past several weeks. The song is "new" to the group, in that nobody remembered it when I first introduced it. After several weeks with it, they still think it is a pretty song, but nobody recognized it.

On the other hand, the group loves to play a ball game. Every week somebody else tells us what the rules are. Even when the person I call on to explain the rules has difficulty saying the rules, they almost always at least gesture how the game goes.

One gentleman said his upper teeth have been missing for several days now and his mouth is getting sore from trying to eat like that. I wonder why they don't adjust his diet until the teeth get fixed or replaced? They have been missing for over a week.

Huntley Brown has a fun jazz piano rendition of Old Time Religion that we use for "scarf exercise." The music itself suggests certain movements such as bouncing higher and lower and the best part is the end, with a chorus line sound to it. By the time it's all over, everybody is kicking their legs out besides bouncing the scarf. There are also lots of big smiles.

Musical reminiscing

Today during I-AM with a group of people with Alzheimer's Type Dementia, one gentleman reminisced about how his son had been in "everything" and had played the trumpet, guitar and banjo. Later he recalled how he too had played several instruments and helped his son learn. I already knew that he had been a square dancer, but over time, he is able to reveal more and more.

Show your papers

I've waited too long to write this and it is still eating me up every time I go through my hometown.

You see, one evening, my husband, Jim, was late getting home from work. And then he had to wait through a line of traffic downtown for a "safety" traffic stop. Keep in mind that our town has a grand total of 417 people as of the last census. So they want you to show proof of your insurance, is the thing. They want to know that you're legitimate. They tell us in the papers that it's to help stop people from driving under the influence. A week before this particular stop, I had seen in the paper that they'd held a similar stop in the county seat, where they caught 2 DUIs and a whole bunch of people on a variety of other minor offenses.

After Jim got home, we hurried through supper because I needed to get over to my mother's to pick up my son and I was going to be late. Jim says, "Take the backroads. Traffic stop in town." Good idea, I think. I'm driving toward town and sure enough I can see all kinds of emergency vehicles, including both police cars and a fire truck blocking the road at Main Street. I turn down a side road, and then another side road, zig-zagging my way across town toward my mother's. Would you believe they had one of those roads blocked off completely with no personnel manning it? So I get ready to turn around and guess what? I am being "stopped." I back into a driveway and wait for the officer to come to my window. I have only been stopped one other time in my life and it was pretty ridiculous, too. I am thinking, What now?

Officer says, "Do you know why I stopped you?" I am at a loss for words, so he tells me. "I stopped you for avoiding the blockade." I am wondering if that is, in fact, against the law? "Are you drinking?" he asks. That's a joke. I can't help but laugh as I answer, "Not hardly." The officer says, "Well, I'm going to have to call in your driver's license." I can hardly find the thing, because now I'm nervous. "Do you need my proof of insurance," I ask. He takes it, seemingly as an after-thought. Silly me--wasn't that what the whole safety check was about? Am I going to get a ticket for driving backroads to my mother's???!!! He says, "Where are you going?" I tell him. "Where does she (my mom) live?" I point in the general direction. "Do you always go this way?" I explain that sometimes I go this way. My friend's mother lives down here and I like to drive by once in a while and just check on her. He checks her name. "Yes," I say, "that's her."

I tell this detailed story because I wonder--what is happening to our country? When I was growing up, I heard about countries far away who were, unfortunately, not as free as "us." I was taught how they had to keep their papers with them everywhere they went and produce them on demand to prove that their business was legitimate. How sad I was for them. How thankful I am to be an American. But are we losing that freedom now? Did we go to sleep and dream it away? What a nightmare!

Are the law enforcement officers who are carrying out these policies really thinking about what they're doing and why? Are they making conscious choices? Is the benefit enough to make up for our loss of freedom? I hope they will stop and really reason through their duties.

Don't get me wrong. I want DUIs off the road too. I have the strong emotional reasons for wanting them off the road--one of my students got hit by one when she got off the school bus one day. But if that is really the point, I think it might be better to simply patrol more in the areas where the DUIs are most likely to occur. There is a 90 degree curve outside of town where a gravel road intersects with the state highway. It is known as "Dead Man's curve." I wrote a story in verse about somebody driving like a maniac through the area. The poem included the type of vehicle and the last 3 digits of the license plate. It was published in two local papers. Have I seen anybody patroling there? No. But I saw the same maniac coming through a 2nd time.

So the officers keep doing their "duty" and we, the people, show our papers and answer their questions so we can get on our way. Wake up, officers! Your duty is to "Serve and Protect," at least, that's what I thought it was. Wake up, people! Freedom is becoming obsolete. We really need an upgrade.

Well, we have really slipped on our Monday Matters project the last few weeks, as some other things have taken precedence. Not the least of which is my husband, Jim's, last ditch effort to raise money for a particular large piece of land where he wants to build a health/spirituality retreat. A lot of energy has gone into this project and time is running out. The land will be auctioned soon if we don't get the purchase price together.

Even though this has been mainly Jim's job, a lot of my energy and time has gone into it too--mostly in cheer leading and offering varied points of view, which may sometimes muddle things for him rather than making them clearer. But I've decided to step out of that cheer mode for a moment and say why I want the "Cherryville" place.

I can write anywhere. I can teach anywhere. I love being in nature--not anywhere, but most places in southern Missouri would suit me fine. But this place is unique. It's near the St. Francis "mountains" (really big hills). There are woods. In fact, it is bordered by national forest land. I live in the middle of the woods now; what makes the "Cherryville" place different is that there are also clearings where you can see the sky. And on those rolling hills, I feel like I'm part of the sky. There is a beautiful spring, where I want to play my flute. It feeds a pond which is stocked with trout, and I can just see my youngest son learning to fly fish right there.

The idea of the retreat is unique in that it is a vision that encompasses such a wide variety of treats for the soul that I know my older son would find something to do there that would interest him--maybe working in the organic gardens or growing herbs. Maybe cooking nutritious meals. Maybe landscaping or helping to create sacred spaces. Maybe he will become a natural healer. There is truly something for everyone. Except maybe not for somebody who prefers chaotic hustle and bustle.

I like that Jim's heart is set on sharing the place and its abundance with all kinds of people. I am thankful he wants to create a space for people to rest, relax and heal. And, on that note, I think I just stepped back onto the cheer squad.

Monday Matters

This week for Monday Matters, it was time to reduce the number of trees our mailbox is eating!!! In other words, reduce junk mail. How I love that idea. Several suggestions were made for doing this. However, I have to admit I have only managed to contact one junk mail contributor (Exede internet) to be removed from their list. It was a time consuming ordeal. Ironically, the first time I called them, our connection was lost and I had to call back. Both times involved lengthy waits on hold. However, the second time, I did manage to get the job done and they were friendly enough about.

One thing about this activity is that I have a new awareness of where our junk mail is coming from and who it is addressed to. And guess what? It isn't mine. At least the round of it this week was addressed to my husband, my son, and my step-son. But it comes from all over the place: Dish, DirectTV, the Marines, colleges. Oh, yes, and let's not forget one of them was even advertising razors.