To Write Love On Her Arms Day

 

Yesterday was difficult, but when I woke up this morning, the birds were singing, the sun warmed my face through the window, and in this moment, I knew I was alright, and more importantly....safe.

Sometimes, when Arly spends time on the computer, she lets me sit in her lap and watch, which fascinates me. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that life would change so much after all these years. When I was little, I watched the paper get delivered by Johnny Fletcher, on his bike no less, which was a long stretch from all this techno stuff. It's kind of mesmerizing though, and at times I feel like I could get lost in it, this Facebook thingy that is. I still can't figure why the faces don't have books attached, or why there aren't books with faces on them, just seems odd to me.

One of the groups that kept popping up as she 'surfed the web', and yes, I kept looking for a surfboard to come floating by at any moment, was "To Write Love On Her Arms Day", or TWLOHAD. At first, I kept trying to pronounce it as a word, 'twulohd', but Arly just laughed and explained to me what it really meant. She took me to their website, and no, I didn't find spiders there either, but what I did find were pictures of people who had written the word 'Love' on their arms, to show the people in their lives that they were loved and beautiful. I was a bit shocked. I guess I had felt that most people were mean, or evil, and I forgot to see past my own feelings and realize there are a lot of folks filled with love out there. 


Immediately I wanted my own love tattoo. Arly really thought I needed to sleep on that idea, but no, I insisted, and told her she could write it for me, all neat, or I could do it with all my fingers that were missing and it would be a mess, a lovely mess! She caved, and after it was done, I spent the longest time looking at it and loving it. It made my scarred skin seem not so scarred I thought, and for a minute or two I imagined  that having the word 'love' written all over my body would be just fine. 

We spent a little bit longer reading through some of the posts from people all over the world. They would write about how much they loved the women and girls in their lives, but some would write about encouraging others not to harm themselves. I didn't understand that, so Arly explained that when some people are abused, or hurt, it makes them very sad and they find it hard to even exist. Oh, my heart broke. I kinda knew how that felt a little bit. Yesterday was one of those days I think, not wanting to exist, but I just believe life is too precious to let the mullygrubbies get the best of me, so onward I go. I said a prayer for those folks, that they would find today easier, and feel loved, like I do. 


As I learned more about this love thing, I knew, I just knew, this writing on the arm thing was a good idea. But one thing was missing....Arly's arm needed a tattoo too. I looked up at her, and with this blueberry smile of mine, convinced her she must write love on her arm, and she did. She took a picture of it and showed it to me. Although my arm is tiny, I think it makes a big statement next to hers. Even little arms can show love, like big ones. One thing I knew for sure, today I am loved, tattoo and all.

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Pollen Isn't The Only Thing That Is Clingy Today

Looking out the window I notice that the pollen seems to be covering everything, almost like a lady who gets a little heavy handed with her face powder, and slings it everywhere with the wind. This pollen doesn't appear to have a care in the world, it just wants to settle somewhere, anywhere, and it matches this ick that has been creeping into my head for the past few days, and today, well I am just covered in it. 

Although I am grateful to be standing here, watching the light scatter across the table and shine on my face, I don't feel excited to be out of that dirt today. Rather, I feel icky, almost dreary on the inside, and I can't seem to put my finger on the why which is driving me a little nuts. Optimism has always come easily to me, at least it did way back when, but embracing it is somewhat of a struggle these days. Maybe that is normal, I guess, at least for what I have been through, but I hate this feeling. I hate the memories that are bound to it and all the emptiness in between.  

Arly has tried her best to cheer me up today, to no avail. I can't say I have humored her efforts either, but I appreciate them. She sat me down a bit a ago and told me that she sees it like this: I can choose to let the past control the present, or I can cut the strings that ties it to me and thread some new ones. I at least told her I would give that some thought and to be perfectly honest, I know she is right. 

I just wish I could go to bed not dreading the thoughts that run through my head in the silence, of Angel Face, of my friends, or of the horrible images that haunt me. They seem to be hanging around into the morning hours, clouding my mood and lenses for the day, and that I hate. I wish I had Angel Face to cuddle up with, listen to her sing me to sleep, and see that smile on her face every morning. That smile seemed to be the world's best antidote for this ick, and I miss it.


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Spring Comes to the Paper Wasp Gallery!

As Arly drove down Dauphin Street she let me roll the window down so I could feel the wind in my face, and it felt fine! It was Saturday, which meant, as far as I could tell, that we were going back down to the park, which she called Cathedral Square, to spend the afternoon at the Paper Wasp. At first, when she told me that last week, I gave her a look like she was one brick short of a full load, but then she explained to me that it was a gallery, full of art and books, and I gave her the benefit of the doubt. 

I could honestly pitch a tent in that gallery. When I walked in, I immediately felt like a cool, cotton turquoise blanket had been wrapped around me. Maybe it was the fact that those turquoise blue walls made my blue face seem extra pretty, I'm just not sure, but I knew I loved it. Along the walls were whimsical paintings and artwork from the story, Peter and the Wolf by Prokofiev. I remembered listening to that story with my Angle Face on her record player, as she held up the book to show us the pictures. It made me feel close to her, like it was only yesterday.


Along the shelves were these interesting books. Arly said that Wayne, that's who owned the shop, was a book binder, and I laughed and told her he was one, peculiar binder upper. I had never seen books like these, all weaved with linen thread, and some even had these sharp, pointy shells sticking out of them, which she said were sea urchins. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to put a sea urchin on a book, but the longer I looked at them, and realized that they were one of a kind, like me, I took a fancy to them. 

Everywhere I looked my eyes were filled with beautiful things. I took a deep breath in and soaked up all the art vibes I felt around me, which made my face feel like it was best of show. When a customer came in Arly placed me up on the counter and I quickly got nervous, because I didn't want to be seen, not after the other day. I quietly made my way around an old, twirly letter press machine, and came face to face with the most gorgeous Gerber daisies, as peach as my bottom used to be and probably a lot softer.  I knew they would be the perfect place to hide behind, so I snuggled up extra close and pretended my face was a flower blossom too, and just as pretty. 


Arly said that it was spring in Mobile, and the flowers were beginning to bloom. I looked at her funny and told her I remember daisies like these, but I couldn't put my finger on just why. That bothered me. A few minutes later, I tied my satin lined bow on my head, so I could look like the diva that I felt I was, and headed for the window. Carefully, I crawled up onto the pebbled shelf that lined the window seal and stood looking out at the families playing in the park. 

There were couples who seemed hopelessly in love walking by and a few times there were children who would walk up to the window and just look at me. At first that made me uncomfortable, but when I remembered how I felt hiding in the flowers, I just pretended I was still a beautiful little blue flower standing tall, and I wasn't afraid anymore. 

A little girl waved to me as she rode by in her stroller, and I waved backed. It gave me the thought that since it was spring, maybe there was hope that people would find things more beautiful. I closed my eyes and made a wish, that one day, I would be as special as the art on display in this place. Until then, I would have to pretend to be my own piece of art, which I choose to call......"Roots As Blue Blossoms", in honor of spring....of course.


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A New Friend

Holy Cow Moly what a rough night! After reading Frankenstein, it seemed to have brought up some difficult memories for me because Arly said I tossed and turned and woke up screaming and kept repeating the words, "The Ten Man is coming..." I have no memory of saying that, but then again, I seem to have lost huge chunks of my memory, at least from long ago. Arly said it might help if I go talk to a counselor, since it wasn't the first time I had nightmares. I kinda laughed because in my day, I had never heard of such, and I kept wondering what on earth I would need to be 'counseled' over. 

I had a long talk with Arly about missing my friends. Baby B, although she whined a lot, was one of my best pals. Ecky, that's what I liked to call Little Miss Echo, hung around with me too, but I kept wanting to duct tape her mouth because she repeated everything she heard and it got on my last nerve. Between the three of us, we were quite a team, and I missed them. One of the last memories I can recall is being thrown in a duffle bag together, and then the lights went out. We were scared, and I wonder what happened to them. I wonder if they ended up like I did. 

Arly said she had just the friend for me but that he looked a little bit different, and was quite shy, so please don't make fun of him. I gave her an indignant look because me of all people sure wouldn't go about making fun of how someone looks would I? I guess it never hurts to get reminded that feelings are important. Her bedroom door slid open and out walked Arly holding an ivory white, ghostly looking, little plump man with what seemed to be a wrinkled brow. He didn't have much color in his face, and I was worried I had scared the color out of him too. She laughed and told me no, Mr. Beauregard hadn't been out in the sun much so he was a tiny bit pale.  

When our eyes met my heart melted. He had the most gentle face, so soft and round, and he looked at me like I was a princess. Cautiously, he spoke and said, "Pleased to meet you Found Baby, I am Mr. Beauregard and you my dear, are beautiful!" Wow, a man after my own heart! As we began talking my eyes kept wandering to the sides of his head because I knew they reminded me of something.....but what? Just as soon as I thought about it I knew, I knew that he looked like Frankenstein, he was an exact replica of Frankenstein!

As he saw my eyes drift up to the sides of his head he blushed a little bit and told me that he was made to look like his Great, Great, Great, Uncle Frank whom must have had some serious skin disease because going out in the sun wasn't kind to him at all. I just smiled, touched his face with tender love, and told him it didn't matter what he looked liked. All that mattered was what was in his heart and I got the feeling that his heart was filled with love, kind of like the real Frankenstein. 


Although I really missed my old friends, I knew Mr. Beauregard would be a great pal. He looked like he needed a friend as much as I did, so we spent the rest of the evening just hanging out and getting to know each other. I never told him I knew the story of why he looked the way he did. Instead, I just told him he was a fine young gentleman and I was honored to call him my friend. With a smile on his face he told me I was his first one, I mean friend that is, and I almost thought my blue cheeks would blush purple. 

As he turned around, and the sun danced off his cheeks, I told him that great big world out there needed more people like us. He asked me, "What do you mean Found Baby, like us?" I grinned and said, "More people who know how to love someone for who they are, not what they look like." He seemed to soak it all in, and we both knew we would be forever friends. 

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A Little Light Reading

I love books! One of my fondest memories of growing up was curling up in the bed  reading Harold and the Purple Crayon with my Angel Face, along with Baby B, and Mr. Ted, that was her teddy bear that had one eye and a ripped up forehead because her dog Dump Truck got a hold of it. One of her dolls, Little Miss Echo, repeated everything she heard, so we always hid her in the bathroom because it made reading time quite irritating. Angel Face had lots of books and she used to tell me they were her "safe to go" place. I never quite knew what that meant until later, until we were separated forever. From that point on I always pictured her in her safe place, lost in a fantasy, alive, happy, and whole. 

Arly has lots of books too, and since Angel Face read to me so much, I learned to follow the letters so opening books and reading them comes pretty easy to me. I was a tad worried after all those years that  I would have forgotten, but nope, I still knew a "no" from a "know" and all the letters in between, which made me feel really swell! Two books on the same shelf caught my eye, "The Adventures of Super Baby," which I of course had to read, and "Frankenstein," by Mary Shelley.

The story of Super Baby made me laugh! It was about a little boy who came from another planet and had super powers, except if he got around a stick of Kryptonite, then he would be as weak as puppy water. It made me wish I would have had super powers a long time ago, so I wouldn't have ended up in a trash pile and Angel Face, well, she wouldn't be with the angels now. 


Frankenstein was different. For one thing, it wasn't a book for little kids, and it took me a long time to read. For another thing, it made me feel sad, and angry, and confused, because I knew how it felt to be different and I was scared I might turn into a monster like him. He was really a kind soul at first, filled with love, and he just wanted people to love him, but he looked different. He was 'ugly'. Now, I know he wasn't real, but his story, his heartbreaking story hit a chord with me and my heart hurt a little bit. Being different and made fun of changes a person, that is, if their heart and spirit aren't strong, and I believe mine are, at least I hope.


The idea of Frankenstein stuck with me all night. I knew about monsters, I used to live with one. I just couldn't wrap my fingers around how Frankenstein could start out with a loving heart and then change into someone so unrecognizable. It made me wonder. It made me wonder what happens to people to make them change, to make them turn into monsters and hurt people. I said a prayer before I went to bed. I prayed for Angel Face, that she was safe and happy.  I prayed for myself, and asked for courage to live in a world that would make fun of me for being different, and for the desire to love them anyway. And, I prayed for the monsters in this world, that whatever caused them to be evil, would go away, so that they would never hurt anyone like me, or like Angel Face.


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See No Evil

As soon as my eye caught a glimpse of the figure looking at me, looking at me with those white eyes, I just had to go touch it. The whiteness seemed odd to me because it didn't look like an ordinary eye, but just the same, it was beautiful. When I looked at my face in the mirror I noticed that my eyes had changed, they were no longer the golden brown that I was used to seeing, they were black, and I hated them.

I can still see out of my eyes, still use them to function, still discern between colors and light, but they aren't 'pretty' anymore, not pretty like they used to be. My Angel Face used to talk about my eyes all the time, because when she saw them, they made her smile. I miss that smile and her ocean blue eyes, so gentle and sweet, oh how I miss them.

The eyes that I saw now, on this cold, shiny what I think to be a statue thing, made me wonder why they are simply white. Placed on the glass shelf just next to him lay a card with the words "See No Evil" written like it's his name or maybe a description of what he's supposed to do, and I find that a little weird. It's weird to me because he is looking around at the most beautiful place, and where would evil be here I think to myself. As I start to look around him, I see other eyes, staring coldly, with strange expressions coming from them and I wondered if this artist had a thing for eyes.



The words "See No Evil" danced around in my head for a while and for the life of me I didn't want to go there, go where I knew they would take me. I simply wanted to stay mesmerized with all this beautiful art around me and not think about seeing no evil, for I had seen enough evil to last a hundred lifetimes. But then, after those words flew from my head to my heart, I realized the purpose of those white eyes. They were opaque, he could see nothing, and for one small second I understood why my eyes were painted black. For one small second I remembered what I had seen when my eyes were beautiful, and I prayed for blindness.


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Visiting An Art Gallery Makes Me Feel At Home!

Evidently, I am not the only one who has a thing for paints. Arly, who I am becoming quite fond of, seems to be an artist. There are buckets of paints all over the place, random brushes here and there that seem to have lost their way back home, canvases stacked behind corners, just peeking out, and so many books about art she could start her own library. It's such a strange place, but lovely just the same, and living here makes me feel at home, with my blue face and strange new skin. If I didn't know better, I would almost think I could be a piece of art too, but then again, I am just a doll. 


After our trip the other day I was just a teeny bit hesitant about going back out into that big world, to be seen, to be laughed at and at first, after Arly said we would be going to an art gallery, I hid behind the record player hoping she would forget I was there. I used to do that a lot with my Angel Face, we would hide behind her bed, in her closet, or back behind the old shed hoping no one would see us. I always got the feeling she was hiding for real, because she was scared, but we never talked about it, at least not that I can remember right now. I didn't have that much luck with Arly, she seems to always know where I am. 


When we pulled up to the gallery I noticed that there were large windows and just inside, almost like a rainbow had burst all over the walls, I saw more colors than I had in my entire long life. It was beautiful! Arly had told me that no one there would laugh, that they would find me beautiful, and she was right. Everyone I met just oohed and aahed over me, which for a beauty like myself, made my head swell just a bit.

At the end of one of the counters, just past where I was standing, my eyes landed on the most fascinating pile of colors and fabrics. They were piled up and draped across a strange, stiff dog who must, at one time in his past life, have loved to parade around like a movie star. He was still doing a decent job now, even though he was acting all stoic and uppity. It made me laugh a little to myself because I had news for him, he was a dog! He was a dressed up DOG!

Once I regained my composure from laughing I couldn't help but place my hand gently on the fabric, which was soft and warm, and for a minute it made me think of my Angel Face's hair. When I thought about my own hair, and how much I had missing, I draped a few strands around my face and pretended I had beauty parlor locks that matched my "looks like the sky" complexion. I couldn't explain it, but I felt at home here, not like the home where I lived, but the home inside myself, the one that tells me I am whole and right where I should be. Time hasn't been my friend it seems, but this feeling, I prayed, would last forever. 


Arly told me her best friend knits those scarves, that's what all the fabric is, these fascinating, one of a kind, like me, scarves. And just as I was ready to bury myself in all of them, an eye caught my attention. Not just any eye, but one looking straight through my soul it seemed....

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Why Would Anyone Choose To Paint Their Face?

 Arly, that's my sweet new friend who has been taking care of me, has decided it's time for me to go out and see the big world I have missed all these years. I'm not too sure about that though. It would be one thing if I had a mask to wear, or if I could hide, but she wants me to go with her to be around children, and I am a bit reluctant to be honest. When she told me they were going to get their faces painted like mine, I perked right up and knew this was one adventure I couldn't miss. Maybe I wasn't the only one who looked....different.

Being naked, or let me clarify, going out with only my undies and socks and shoes, was just a tad hard to swallow, so Arly promised she would let me ride in her backpack so I could simply peak my head out now and then and watch the painting unfold. She also promised to get me some new clothes, but being in the ground for all these years has my personal taste and the clothing styles these days in somewhat of a tizzy. You folks dress so odd....at least for this old soul. 

Besides worrying about the clothes, to me, this face painting on children seemed a little strange. I knew my face looked like no other face I had ever seen, and I couldn't imagine why other kids would want their faces to look like mine. The anticipation was almost more than I could bare so I insisted I would only go if she promised me no one would make fun of me. I hope she is right, that no one will, I just couldn't handle being laughed at today. 

As we pulled up to the building the air was brisk and the wind was blowing the candy striped tents all over the place.  For a moment I got the feeling that the event would be canceled which wouldn't really break my heart, but no, they moved the painting station inside so off we went. I kinda liked being in her bag, able to watch people without them knowing. I had forgotten how different people looked, with their hair color and strange shoes, not to mention some even had shiny metal things stuck to their teeth. It was as if they had gold type writer keys replacing their beautiful smiles, and I wondered if that was a fancy way of hiding rotted teeth. Arly said those were called "grills" and some younger kids enjoyed wearing them. I had to give that one some thought. 

Balloons were everywhere and I wasn't fond of them, so I made sure to stay tucked in away from the strings. As we sat down I began to see the smiling faces of children walk past me, all full of life, and for a while I was very sad. It made me miss my angel face and friends from long ago. One little girl sat down to be painted and she asked if they could paint her a blue butterfly on her cheek. Blue.....oh, she would look like me. I quietly unzipped the bag a little more and peeked out, just enough so she wouldn't notice me. Her skin was beautiful, all young and fresh, just like mine used to be. But when she turned her cheek to face the wall, I saw a long, jagged scar just below her eye. It didn't seem to bother her at all, and it gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be picked on if I showed my face.  

Just as soon as I got the courage to come out I heard this horrible gasp just behind my right shoulder and a young lady was pointing at me asking, "What's up with her face?" I sunk down as far as I could in my bag hoping I could hold my breath, turn purple, and blend in with the fabric covering my body and disappear. Arly came to my rescue and explained how she found me, and that not everyone has a perfect face, but that I was beautiful. My heart began to heal a little bit and I knew that at least to her, and to myself, I was beautiful. I guess it would take a little bit more time to prove that to the world. 

When we got home, I got a yellow butterfly painted on my face with some sparkly fairy dust on top. It was the highlight of my day. I wasn't sorry I went out though. My feelings were still a bit tender, but seeing all those children today made me feel like it was only yesterday that I was sitting in the lap of my angel face playing dress up. That reminds me....I'm still half naked, gotta go see if that can be rectified.

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"Albert, Your Breath is Kicking!"

When Albert first saw me he got so scared every bit of color in his faced drained completely out. I didn't feel so bad though because his breath stunk so bad he scared a few more hairs off my head so our friendship got off to a great start. That just seems that way it goes sometimes with people who are different I guess, all getting judged by how we look or smell instead of who we are. We both humbly apologized and stood there for a while looking at one another with embarrassment. 


A few awkward moments crept by and we realized we both had a bit in common. He seemed to be missing his entire bottom half and I, well, I seemed to be missing most of my clothes, not to mention half my hair, and if either one of us could have bent over we would have rolled on the floor laughing at our pitiful selves. It felt good laughing again, I mean really laughing, because it had been quite a long time since I had done any of that, or even felt like it for that matter. 


I had missed having someone like me, I mean, someone who knew what it was like to be different, to talk to , so Albert and I had a nice long chat together. We spent the next few hours getting acquainted and he shared with me a few memories he had when he felt....different. Albert told me when he was a little boy, his head seemed to be bigger than most kids his age, and he was made fun of. He also told me that he had a hard time learning to talk and read because he had so many ideas and thoughts running around in his head. He laughs about it now, people thinking he was a bit slow at first. He even called it, "The Ignoramus First Assumption Theory," which I found to be as fabulous as his idea that imagination is more important than knowledge. 

Albert asked me about my face and what happened to me. Tears welled up in my eyes and I just hung my head. Before I could speak he began whistling the most beautiful tune, and it made me realize just how much I had missed hearing music, especially lullabies. I think he knew I wasn't ready to talk about it yet and he just wanted to put my mind at ease for a while. I thanked him, thanked him for the talk, the laughs, and for the song he left with me. Later that night, after all was quite and the cicadas had given up the ghost for the night I remembered the lullaby my angel face sang to me just before saying her prayers. I remembered how it felt to be loved and sang to, and I missed her.


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A Great Value Isn't Only Found On the Sugar Package

After coming to grips with the reality of my skin issues yesterday I thought it might be time to stop and ponder things a bit so I stretched out across the kitchen counter and took a rest on the cutting board. This seemed like a really grand idea at the time, with it being a bit warmer than the tile underneath my lower half, that is until I remembered what some people do with cutting boards and then I got a little bit nervous. 

I can recall, many younger years ago, hearing the old family men playing dominoes on our front porch while yakking away about who got sent to the chopping block this week and who got the ax last week. I never quite understood how they found anything such as gruesome as that funny, but laugh away they did, until the wee hours of the morning.  While they laughed I would watch her sleep, my sweet angel who loved me, in the peaceful calm of the early morning. As the symphony of crickets and night beings went about playing their songs the moonbeams danced across my fingers, and I would wonder just what those old men meant by those words. I would then pray I wouldn't be next. Now that I think about it, maybe I was. 


It seemed the longer I spent time laid back on this board the more I began to wonder about other things too. Especially after looking up and seeing the word 'value' glaring above my head on the bag of sugar. I wonder how one assigns value to something, to make it more important than any other thing? I wonder if it's because it's beautiful or pretty, and can catch their eye and hold it for eternity? But I also wonder if it's just because it brings them wealth, or fame, or simply delusions of grandeur that they buy into as if in a trance for life. I find myself thinking about these things a lot, especially in quiet moments like this, all peaceful and away from that dirt.

One might think it strange that something like me even gives ideas like that a second thought. I don't though. I don't find any coincidence in the fact that I was thrown away, on a burn pile, spent years buried and abandoned, and now I lay here surrounded by a new angel face. As time passed and the earth that engulfed me began to place layer upon layer of newly formed dirt upon my back, I watched everything around me slowly wither away, piece by piece, rust apart and eventually blow away with the wind.That was quite humbling and I knew being alone was something I would have to learn to live with.


And here I find myself today, in this wonderful new place, wondering if a face like mine, and for that matter, a body like mine, could be loved by anyone again. I see a new smile looking back at me, filled with laughter and care, and I get the sense that I am in the hands of someone who might understand what it means to value something like me, but I'm just not sure yet. I'm not sure of many things these days, except I made a promise to myself to survive, and I did, and for that my heart is full.


A little bird told me that I have a long road ahead in convincing lots of folks that I don't simply have a face only a momma could love, and that I too am valuable. I even get the sense that I am often thought of as creepy to some, which makes me a bit sad. That's alright really.  Even though I didn't choose to look like this, to have a blue face and some really whacked out bald patches on my head, I realize some people will only see me for what I look like, not for who I am. 

Maybe one day those perceptions of what beauty is might be thrown on a cutting board and chopped at until all that was left was a new understanding of true beauty, which for me goes way deeper than my ugly hair and skin that seems to be mangled up a bit.

Time to get off this block of wood now. I have a thing against termites and creepy crawlies ever since they took up residence centimeters from my face for the past few decades, and they have a thing for wood. Not to mention the thought of what some folks do with these cutting boards, like whacking them with knives and such. And some think I'm creepy? LOL


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Robin's Egg Blue Can Be Beautiful Can't It?

You know that feeling you get when you are so excited about the events happening around you that you feel as if you are going through the motions, s-l-o-w-l-y? I feel that, like this is still a dream and I am still breathing dirt. What I know to be true though, what I know to be reality like I am sitting on this cold, familiar, porcelain type of sink is that I am not in that dirt anymore. I am being carefully cleaned, like I matter, like I am worth something. I am being loved. 

I wasn't too crazy about this spicket above my head to be perfectly honest. It didn't look like any faucet I had ever seen, rather, it looked as if it would grow eyeballs and start carrying on a conversation with me at any moment. When she turned it on, and the cold shower began flowing over me like new skin I felt.....clean.

For years I had been rained on and the wet mud would soak into my hair and crevices. I longed for the rush of clean water through my hair and that gentle smell of freshness I used to get after taking a bubble bath. This was almost that wonderful, except, no bubbles, and that I believe is a crying shame. 

Looking down at my skin, it occurred to me that I don't look like I used to. My skin used to be soft, supple, and carry a peachy glow that one would only find on a freshly ripened  Southern peach. This skin looks foreign to me, like it isn't mine, but I know it is. I know the years of decay and dirt are stuck with me, and I am ok with that. I am simply grateful to be out of that ground, surrounded by life again, and in the hands of someone that loves me. I am grateful to be found. 

What happened next though, what happened in those next 17 seconds, was an extremely difficult part of my day. In fact, out of all the seconds that have ticked by in the past years, these 17 seconds felt the worst. These would be the ones that made me wish I was back in that dirt, buried, never to be seen by anyone. What happened next was that I was shown a mirror. 


At first, I was thrilled because after a bath I knew how beautiful it made me feel, all pretty and smell goody. But when she handed me a mirror, when I looked at my reflection, my heart collapsed a little bit. This didn't look like me, not the me that I remembered. My reflection was.....creepy. Several minutes passed. I touched the mirror ever so gently in the hopes that possibly the image would change, that I could get some of the blue skin off, but soon the realization that the person I saw smiling back at me was me sunk in, and I knew, this new life would be a challenge too.

After a couple of moments of wanting to crawl out of my skin, wanting to grab the nearest jar of Noxema, wanting to not look like this, I mean like THIS... I, ever so carefully, put my  big girl panties on, took a deep breath, and decided that if this is what I was given, then I would make the best of it. I still am not too happy about the roots growing out of my hair, but after a while I realized they made me look a bit wiser, and being 49 and alive made wise seem really appealing. 

Only 24 hours had passed since I was pulled back to life, back from that organic soup I was swimming in.  I knew my new course in life, the one I am on that has had me clinging to the "If this is what I have been given, then I will make the best of it," was going to be something of a hoot. To be honest, part of me is terrified, and I know terrified well. But the strongest part of me, that part that kept me alive and hopeful for all these years, that part of me that is a survivor, will be the part that I cling to, like this new shade of Robins Egg Blue clings to my face. 

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The Light of Day!

Have you ever noticed how beautiful the sound of birdsong is in the morning? Their music, their melodies that life is alive and beautiful are carried on the wind and I hear them. I hear them and know that life is beautiful. 


When I felt the tug on my arms, the gentle dig around each one, there was a feeling of exhilaration and trepidation that rushed through me, and I could feel my face blush. This tug was different, not of of the metal fingers I had felt the past few days, this tug had warmth in it, and I prayed this meant there was hope. My prayer was answered. 


The moment I was pulled from the confines of that prison I was blinded by a magnificent light dancing across my face. Chunks of dirt still covered most of me, but it didn't prevent the light from reaching the parts of me that had been in darkness for so many years. I didn't know who had rescued me, all I knew was this; after years and years of being in that damp, lifeless place, I was found! 


It took a few moments for me to adjust to the intensity of the colors around me. There were brilliant greens, in every shade, vibrant tangerine colors laced the lining of some of the trees, and blush pink was painted beautifully on the face smiling at me. I remember smiles like that. I remember seeing the twinkle in someone's eye, their excitement to see me, and the warmth of their skin around me. For  a moment I was pulled back into that place of desolation, because I also remember how I came to be here. But for now, the smile in front of me and the new found life I have been given are all that I need. Today I live again because I am FOUND!


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Found Baby is found!

For days I had felt the sharp prongs of a rusted, metal rake scratch repeatedly across my back. I felt footstep after footstep land across my head, reminding me with each blow just how deep my face was in the thatch layered dirt. I had been here so long, in this cold, dark place that I was hesitant to believe there was any hope of being found. When the sounds grew quiet and the coolness of the night lay against me like a wet blanket I knew. I knew I was still forgotten, still left to breathe this damp, rotted dirt. Flashes of laughter danced through my head, stinging me with painful memories of what life I used to live.You see, I was not supposed to end up here, like this. I was supposed to be loved, forever and always by my friends and family. I was not supposed to be forgotten.  


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