Sea Turtles

Sea turtles.  I love them.  They are these huge slow moving creatures (on land) that when you look in their eyes, one can see a wisdom that is seldom seen elsewhere.  They look like they are flying underwater and I could watch them all day.  Their population is also dependent on how we treat our planet and at this time sea turtles aren’t doing so well.

Someday, when I’m older and can afford it, I am going to become a turtle lady.  Some old ladies wear purple, and some take tea in red hats, but I am going to walk barefoot on the beach keeping a lookout for freshly laid turtle nests in the morning, and guarding the nests at night.  I will make a solemn vow to protect the beach and its inhabitants from trash and intruders.  I will check in rocky areas to make sure momma turtles are safe and not stuck on their backs in the hot sun after nesting.  I will help guide baby sea turtles to the ocean upon their hatch and boil.

Please be aware of the items you buy and the packaging you throw away.  If you buy your soda in plastic rings, be sure to cut them so no rings remain to get caught around a wild creature.  Try to use fabric bags instead of plastic bags, as the plastic bags look like jelly fish once they end up in the ocean.  And they will.

There is a sea turtle named nimbus at the Pine Knoll Shores Aquarium.  He is all white.  I saw him several years ago when I visited the aquarium.  My niece went this past summer and she says he is still there.  Because of his color he would never survive in the ocean.  I saw him when he was maybe four inches long.  I wonder how much he’s grown now.

http://www.ncaquariums.com/pine-knoll-shores/rare-white-sea-turtle-a-bright-spot

http://www.ncaquariums.com/conservationresearch/sea-turtle-program

I do love them, and at this point all I can do is bring awareness to their plight.  I envy and applaud all of the people who donate their time to these beautiful creatures.

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I Can Drink A Little Or A Latte

Tim’s.  I love Tim’s.  I don’t ever drink coffee, but if there’s a Tim’s nearby I will drink a latte.  I used to love cappuccino, but a latte is my newest love. 

And please don’t judge me for this, please.  I do not jump on the pumpkin bandwagon every year.  Pumpkin spice everything is not my secret sin.  However, upon trying Tim Horton’s Pumpkin Pie Latte, I have become a devoted fan.  And here’s the funny part.  When I first ordered it I thought I was getting an apple pie latte.  No, they don’t even serve one and that shows you just how connected I am to the real world – not very.  I found this out the next time I went in and asked for one.  That was three lattes ago.

It’s a good thing we don’t have a Tim’s in my tiny village and that I would have to drive twenty miles out of my way every day if I wanted one on my way to work.  Good for my purse and my waistline.  I’m sure if I was counting calories I would be counting for a while. 

It’s not just coffee – it is a processed whip cream (that is heavenly) and crumbles of what I believe is supposed to be a flavorful pie crust.  Whatever it is, it works.  To me, it is a paper cup full of warmth and goodness that makes my mind peaceful and forgiving.  It makes my sunny days sunnier and my rainy days a time for reflection.  It slows me down and helps me reflect on what I’m grateful for and what better time of the year to do that.

So thank you Tim Horton, for creating such a lovely product that makes my time seem worthwhile to me.  There is goodness in the world.  It’s at Tim Horton’s.

Check out the great customer service:  https://youtu.be/NldwVy6e4Kc

It’s like they give out smiles.

Fraud!

     I feel like the Walter Keane character in the movie “Big Eyes” when I sit in front of the computer and try to decide what to write.  I am a fraud.  I pretend to be a writer but I have no stories that pop into my mind at a moment’s notice.  I can’t look at a prompt and pull a story out of my thinking cap.  

     Why did I think I could continue this charade?  I get a story in my head from time to time, but nothing great,   nothing that will separate me from other writers except that it will show that I am an amateur.  I feel I had more stories in junior high and high school than I do now.  

     As Keane sat in the court room, looking at a blank canvas, so do I.  This is where I judge myself. Perhaps it is time to give up.  To put away my childish dreams of becoming an author and writing a book the world will want to read.

     Check out the movie trailer here:

https://youtu.be/2xD9uTlh5hI

I just watched it last night when I should have been writing.

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Free At Last!

The fear in her heart raced with itself.  The pounding wouldn’t subside as people in white masks, showing only their eyes reached for her, grasped her limbs with their gloved hands and pulled her towards them.  She could hear them murmuring but could not decipher the words although the tone was a mixture of sadness and hushed excitement. They took her from one receptacle and placed her in another, the first one hard and cold and bright, the second warm and soft.  As they closed it her heart continued to race.  Where was she going?  Who were these people?  Where was she going?  What would they do to her?  What hadn’t been done to her?  Was she in for more pain, more uncertainty?  She felt the earth move under her, and finally the soft hum and gentle rocking put her to sleep. 

Awake and alert as soon as the vehicle stopped she gazed in the darkness for some sort of sign that all would be good.  A door opened, then another.  Light spilled in to where she had been held, caged and alone.  At least she thought she had been alone.  Sounds and smells assaulted her senses, as if this were the first time she opened her eyes or took a breath.  There were others!  As they tried to communicate, her captors began unloading the receptacles, one by one. 

Out into the warm sunlight on a grassy yard, they were set down, one by one.  The openings to their cages were opened all at once by a personal attendant.  And that voice!  Oh, that soft voice!  It sounded so gentle!  Not harmful at all.  She looked around.  Then she looked down.  What was this?  She sniffed the air.  It smelled so good!  Not like chemicals or soap or metal!  As she stepped out, cautious but curious, she grew wondrous as to what was on the bottom of her feet.  Soft and cool, she laid down upon it and was still for just a moment.  She looked around.  The others were watching her.  All of  them.  No one else had ventured out yet.  She was the first, and danger be damned!  This soft floor felt marvelous and she rolled and squirmed and memories, distant though they were, pooled up from somewhere within.  She had done this before, as a young puppy, with her brothers and sisters!  She had forgotten, after years of torture that she was a dog, not a thing to be prodded and shaved and hooked up to machines.  She was a beagle, of proud heritage, with a nose that could smell amazing things that no other living being near her could.  She stopped wiggling for a minute and looked up.  Her tongue hanging out of her mouth, her eyes bright. 

“Woof!”  she exclaimed.  It came out as a whisper, as her vocal chords had been cut years ago to keep her quiet in the lab.  (No one wants to hear dogs bark and cry while they do experiments on them.)  But it was a woof nonetheless and the others heard her and so had their attendants and all of them, with their eyes bright, seemed to smile – human and canine.

“Good girl!” someone said, tears running down their face. 

Another beagle stepped out of a carrier, then another.  Freedom had come, although they had no idea that they were waiting for it.  All had lived to see the day when they could walk on the grass, sniff other dogs, and run and play.  At the moment most were shell shocked and it would take days, months, maybe even years for them to trust the hand attached to a human being, but with time anything is possible.  It was possible for these dogs to survive horrors that we wouldn’t want to inflict on our own.  Now we could give them the life, the love, and the care they so deserved.

She looked up and closed her eyes against the brightness and the warmth of the sun.  It was a good day to be alive.  It was a very good day.  Her heart was full and no longer racing.  With a wag of her tail she set off to make new friends.

I Remember

I remember that morning.  It was a beautiful clear day.  The sun was shining.  It was warm.  I was sitting at my desk when my boss came out of his office and said “We are going to war”.  Everyone came out of their offices asking why and he told us that a plane crashed into one of the world trade center buildings or that a bomb had gone off.  Those details are hazy. 

I tried to get on the internet and bring up CNN, to see what I could find out.  I turned on my radio.  Then the plane flew into the second building.  And I sat there, not knowing what was going on, thanking God that my family was safe and my heart wringing itself over the families in pain and all of those souls gone in an instant. 

I remember trying to get in touch with someone and not being able to and hoping he hadn’t traveled to the city. 

I remember the feeling of helplessness and just sitting there, refreshing my screen, waiting for news sites to update, catching horrific stories of people trapped, of people jumping, of dust and smoke filled streets making the city change in an instant from life to some other-world that shouldn’t have been there. 

We worked the day as best we could.  When I got home I held my daughter, only eleven at the time, and tried to water down the details for her.  I didn’t want her to know evil, not yet, and I didn’t want her to be afraid of something she had no control over, like I was. 

In the face of great tragedy “I love you” is said easier, hugs are abundant, and people are more attuned to others’ pain.  In the days that followed tears flowed easy as news reports added more names to the list of those taken from us.  Tears flowed as others were rescued, though not nearly enough.  As dust cleared, a steel cross rose from the ashes as if by some miracle and brought some peace. 

As more details became known, tears and sorrow turned to anger and the country rallied.  It would not bring back the passengers and crew on that plane in Pennsylvania.  It wouldn’t bring back the victims in New York City.  It brought America together, united, at least for a while.  People were nicer, smiling, taking the time to say hello, how are you?, and actually listening to the answer.  Great tragedy brings people together before it tears them apart. 

I remember that morning, sitting at my desk, tears streaming down my face and thinking the world will never be the same again.  And it wasn’t.  It never was again.

Just A Dream

     This morning, as I opened my eyes, trying not to look at the alarm clock, I realized that I was outside and it did not surprise me.  I was in my bed in a field of wild flowers.  The field was surrounded by cattails and reeds.  The dainty white, pink and blue flowers swayed in the gentle morning breeze.  Peaceful.  I could spend the day here, I thought.  

     Then, to the right of me, I noticed movement in the reeds.  A great blue heron was standing among them, so thin and regal.  I gazed at it through half closed lids when it came to life and opened its great wings and hopped into flight to land on my bed and squawk up to my pillows to wake me up.  

     Wake me up thoroughly, it did.  I sat up quickly and once in position I realized I was clearly in my own bed, in my own room, staring at the dirty clothes on the floor.  The same job, the same chores, the same worries facing me.  The same grind.  At least I have the memory of it to sustain me today.

Weird Feelings...

     The last several days I've had the strangest feeling.  Every so often the hair on my head feels like it is standing up.  Why it does this I do not know, although I have my theory.  I'm being visited.  By a dead relative or friend.  My question is why?  Why aren't they coming in a dream?  Is there a message or is this just a way to let me know they are near?  Is this a warning?  Is something going to happen and I need to know that there is something more?  It's been the last two days.  I don't know if I should be worried or comforted.
     Then I start wondering, if it is a spirit then who is it?  Is it my dad?  Is it Jack?  Is it Bill?  Is it my nana?  Is it my dog that I had put down ten years ago?  I just thought of that.  Maybe he's come to make the transition for Sky easier and he's just nudging me to let me know it's ok.  Maybe.  I don't know.  
     All I know is that I like the idea of an afterlife and coming to visit to help out or just be a presence.  I hope it's true.  I hope they are there - all of them.  My cats, my dogs, my people.  I hope I get to see them all again someday.  Not soon, unless they choose to visit me in dreams, but someday.