Morning Reflections 12/12

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Morning Reflection

It is quiet this morning.

The kids are away visiting relatives, and the house has settled into a hush.

All I hear is Waylon’s soft whine at the door — even he likes to bask in the early light of morning.

On workdays, I am up long before the sun begins its journey into the sky. But on mornings like this, a day off, I notice the sounds that arrive gently: the wind chime outside my window tapping out a soft, unhurried melody, the faint hum of a car in the distance as it draws closer.

A truck passes by, a large Christian flag whipping fiercely in the wind.

It gives me pause.

I feel a twinge of guilt for rushing through my morning prayers, promising myself I will return to them later, when the sun is setting and I can give thanks properly for this day.

I am sitting in a room full of boxes — remnants of a late night spent decorating, procrastinating over coffee, dragging out the start of my morning. The mirror reflects the passing of time: deeper wrinkles, puffy eyes asking for better sleep. And yet, I would not want to go back.

I remember reading in the Bible how God asked Solomon what he wanted. Before I even reached Solomon’s answer, I asked myself the same question — and found my heart echoing his words: wisdom.

Wisdom comes with age.

With trials.

With the events that shape us into who we become.

I long for simpler times — being young, raising a family, moving nonstop through days and seasons. Christmases flew by then, just as this season has crept up on me now. I am still decorating, and Christmas is only a week away. I don’t mind. My décor will stay up long past Christmas, shifting gently into winter. And when the tree is finally placed back into its casket of confinement, hidden away in the closet for another eleven months, I will smile.

As a child, the month leading up to Christmas felt like an eternity — the anticipation, the excitement. Somehow, I still feel that way. The childlike wonder returns when I see Christmas come alive in people’s yards, lights twinkling around town, hearts growing softer. I wish I could bottle that feeling and save it for a hard day — take it down from the shelf and feel that rush of joy again.

All I truly have are the memories of seasons passed.

Most of my family is now in heaven. I don’t grieve during the holidays — I rejoice. I remember the good times, and I make room for new ones. Jack has been asking about Christmas for months.

“Grammy, is it time to put up the tree?”

Not yet, baby. Soon.

And I know better than to put presents under the tree too early — he would unwrap every one of them. My heart is ready for what comes next. I carry the spark of Christmas joy with me still — older now, quieter, but no less bright.

The Season of Cards and Candlelight

There’s no better feeling of love than opening the mailbox and finding a Christmas card, handwritten and bearing your name. If I were the Grinch, my heart would’ve melted right then and there. There’s a certain kind of magic in holding that sealed envelope in my hands — that sweet, childlike anticipation that makes it impossible to wait. I’ve opened plenty of cards standing right there by the mailbox, unable to resist.

By the time I’d get to the house, I’d already be studying the handwriting — sometimes elegant and careful, sometimes hurried and full of personality — but each one precious in its own way. My heart always warmed as I traced the letters with my fingers, opening the envelope as if it were the very first I’d ever received. I’ve always loved a personal note, something written just for me, a reminder that I was thought of during the most sacred season of the year.

I’ve saved every Christmas card I’ve ever received. They rest in special boxes among my decorations, and each December, when I unpack them, I take time to read a few. The ones that mean the most are the cards from those who are no longer here. Seeing their handwriting again, hearing their voices in my mind — it feels, for a brief moment, as if they’re sitting right beside me.

Every year since I can remember, my dad sent out Christmas cards. He would bribe me with free babysitting and a little Christmas cash if I’d address them for him. He always signed his name, sometimes adding a note, and I would sit for hours with stacks of envelopes and boxes beside me, my hand cramping as I wrote out each address. When the last one was sealed, stamped, and ready for the post office, I’d feel a quiet pride in the small mountain of holiday cheer we’d created together.

While I worked on his, I always wrote my own. My tradition was steeped in sentiment and ritual. I’d begin by putting on the Christmas music I grew up with — Frank Sinatra, Burl Ives, Bing Crosby, and Nat King Cole softly filling the room. I’d light a few scented candles, make a cup of tea or cocoa, and line up my calligraphy pens — each one dipped in a different shade of ink — along with extra envelopes for the inevitable smudges that come with being a left-handed writer.

No matter where I lived, there was always a fireplace. Even if it was mid-November and the air conditioner was still running, I’d light a fire anyway. It wasn’t about warmth — it was about atmosphere. I’d sit at my table, pen in hand, the soft glow of the fire flickering across the page, the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting through the room. I’d begin with one card at a time, finding just the right design for each person. Some were playful and full of whimsy; others were tender and deeply sentimental.

I would lose myself in the quiet rhythm of writing — sometimes for hours, sometimes well into the night. It was my peaceful time, my way of breathing in the season’s spirit of hope and love. I liked to think that maybe someone on my list needed that small reminder that they were remembered — that they mattered. And if I had your address, you were getting a card.

I’m ashamed to admit that last year, I didn’t send a single one. Each year, my list grows shorter, and the number I receive grows fewer still. It breaks my heart a little to see that tradition fading — that people aren’t as personal anymore. We live in an age of endless distractions and not enough time, myself included.

But I miss it. I miss that quiet connection — the thought, the pause, the love folded carefully into an envelope. Maybe it’s the world that’s changed, or maybe it’s just that we’ve forgotten the simple joy of reaching out with our own words and handwriting. Still, I believe in it — in the magic of a card chosen with care, in the ink that carries a little bit of our hearts across the miles.

The Man in the Autumn Light

 I remember the warmth of that Nashville afternoon as clearly as the silk scarf I wore — black with a pattern of faded florals in brown, navy, and cream. It was 1995, the fall of Memnoch the Devil, and I had gone alone to the signing. The air outside the little bookstore was restless, full of chatter and turning leaves, and I remember thinking how ordinary the day seemed — no candles, no velvet drapes, none of Anne’s gothic spectacle. Just sunlight, the scent of ink and paper, and a slow-moving line of admirers waiting to meet a woman who could make the dead feel more alive than the living. 

I had been standing for hours. My black leather pants had begun to cling, the silk shirt soft against my skin, the scarf draped loose around my neck. I leaned against the brick wall beside a girl who talked about Anne’s novels and our favorites, our words tumbling out in easy, polite rhythm. I remember nodding, smiling — and then, as if a breeze had changed direction, something shifted.

He came walking across the parking lot toward me. Tall. Dark-haired. The sunlight glinted through the layered strands that fell across his forehead, and his skin — my God, his skin — was flawless. Pale, luminous, like light through marble. He wore dark sunglasses, and even from where I stood I could tell there was no imperfection on his face. Not a shadow of whisker, not a freckle, not a single mark. 

He stopped in front of me, and the air changed. I’ve always been sensitive to electricity — when I step out of my car under the power lines near work, I can feel it, a low hum that makes my skin prickle. That’s what it felt like when I looked at him. That same quiet vibration rising under my skin, like the world had turned into static and I was caught inside it.

 He looked down at me. I looked up at him. We held each other’s gaze for only seconds, but it stretched into something longer — not time, exactly, but a pause between heartbeats that felt infinite. The girl beside me laughed softly and said something — an introduction, a name: Rick. He spoke too, his voice rough at the edges, not deep but textured, like velvet worn smooth in places. I don’t remember the words we said. Maybe we talked about Anne, or her books, or the line itself. I only remember the pull — that quiet, terrifying magnetism that made me afraid to touch him because I thought I might feel an actual spark.

 We stood like that for what must have been two hours. Two hours of small talk, of silence, of pretending I wasn’t hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. He smiled once — not a grin, not a laugh, but a smirk that curved his mouth in the most devilishly beautiful way. I smiled back, the same restrained echo, like a reflection in dark glass.

 When it was finally time to go inside, we moved together, though I can’t remember walking. The line carried us. I remember meeting Anne — how kind she was, how she looked at me like she truly saw me. I remember clutching my book afterward, the signature still wet. But what lingers most is the moment outside after it was all over.

 The air had cooled; the wind caught my scarf and lifted it like a black wing. I walked toward my car, feeling the silk brush my skin, my hair tugged by the breeze. I turned once before opening the door, and he was there — watching me. I met his gaze, dark glasses hiding what I wanted most to see. For a heartbeat, maybe two, we stood caught in that same suspended current. Then I got in my car, still holding the book to my chest, and drove away. 

On the way home, I thought of him — the way his presence filled the air, how my body hummed as if I’d stood too close to lightning. I was married then. Morality, responsibility, all those familiar words pressed their weight against the wonder of what had just happened. But still, the thought came — what if? 

I never saw him again. 

Years later, unpacking boxes, I found the scarf. The edges were frayed, the silk softened with time, but when I lifted it, the air seemed to remember. I could feel that faint electricity again, the memory of autumn sun and flawless skin and the whisper of something not entirely human standing before me.

 It was only a moment, but it burned itself into my memory — bright, electric, eternal. And even now, when the light hits just right, I swear I can still feel the current dancing across my skin.

--R

The Street Where Autumn Still Lives

 

Introduction:

Every year when the air cools and the leaves begin to fall, I’m reminded that memories often live in the smallest, simplest things — the smell of cut grass, the sound of wind chimes, the first chill that makes you reach for a sweater. Sometimes those tiny moments open a door to the past, and suddenly you’re not just remembering — you’re there again.

The Street in My Memory

Sometimes the simplest things can take you back to a place in your memories—especially this time of year, when the morning sun takes its time to rise.

I sat looking out a black window in the early morning hours. As the sun began to climb, so did my window, the cool morning air drifting seamlessly into my office. It made me reach for a sweater and pour another cup of coffee to quiet the chill.

I turned back to my computer—time often slips away when I work. I like to stay busy, sometimes forcefully so, especially these past few months, when my emotions have been in overdrive.

Then the wind caught the chimes on the front porch.

The soft, unexpected sound made me pause.

Outside, the leaves were swirling downward in a lyrical dance, the smell of fall filling my senses—a mix of dust, air, and earth.

And just like that, I was back in my childhood—

to the little colonial town with the tree-lined streets and old homes that seemed to whisper stories of their own.

I could almost hear the tap, tap, tap of my Mary Janes as I skipped over the cracks in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was the long way to school, but I didn’t mind.

Light filtered through the trees in the early morning; the dew on the grass caught the sun and sparkled like diamonds. I wore the pink poncho my grandmother knitted me—I still have it tucked away in a box somewhere. It was still too warm for my faux-fur coat, surely a hand-me-down, but I felt special anyway.

Down the old sidewalk I went, kicking at the leaves as I skipped. The houses stood tall in their grand splendor, their yards full of color and the scent of autumn and dew. I can still hear the rustling of leaves as cars passed by, but I was oblivious to everything except that moment—walking beneath a canopy of trees, the morning wind sending a flurry of gold and red around me like a snowstorm of autumn.

That memory is where the child in me still lives—the part filled with wonder and enchantment. Even now, I can feel that giddy little girl again, skipping without a care in the world.

Then a phone rings in the distance, pulling me back to the present. I hit the answer button, and the memory fades—like the wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle.

But even as I greet my customer on the other end of the line, I feel it linger—

a quiet peace, a lightness of heart,

and the warmth of home, carried on an autumn breeze.

 

Each fall when the wind moves through the trees and the world turns gold, I go home again — not in miles, but in memory.

And that’s enough.

An Evening with “Goodness of God .”

An Evening with “Goodness of God”

Tonight I found myself drawn back to music I love, and I downloaded Goodness of God, sung beautifully by CeCe Winans. It brought back so many memories of playing piano with my children and dreaming of sharing music with Jack when he was a baby.

I haven’t really sat down at a piano in a very long time—my piano is in storage, I'd go over and get it out and play sometimes the acoustics were always great in there lol, but I do have a keyboard. It’s not fancy, but it works well enough for this piece, which isn’t too difficult.

I’ll have to improvise a bit since I don’t have full use of my left-hand pinky after breaking it a few years ago. I used to love sitting at the piano, but I always needed to be in the right mood to play, since I can’t play by ear and have to read music.

Still, I always dreamed of having a piano. When Jack was a baby, I wanted to play for him while he slept. I know that might sound corny, but I also remember playing for my girls when they were little—they’d dance and sing, and it was always so much fun, especially around the holidays.

We’ll see how this goes—I’ll share some audio tomorrow if it comes out decent!

My Weight Journey Update – August 24, 2025

 

I know, I know. It’s been a minute since I posted. But in my defense, I’ve basically been sailing… just not the skinny-sailing kind. More like the “floating around in the same spot for three weeks” kind. Yep, no weight lost. But also none gained — which, let’s be real, is a miracle considering I’ve been living in a house that’s basically a sauna with walls. A steam sauna, please ! do not get Tennessee weather mixed up with the infrared saunas of the South-West. We are not the same!

Because when your AC dies and your thermostat reads 77 degrees inside, motivation dies right along with it, along with the bill and your will to live.  Who in their right mind thinks: “You know what would be fun in this heat? Cardio.” Nah. I’m already sweating just walking to the mailbox in my cat slippers. That’s my Olympic event.

So the last few weeks have been me, PT, and not much else. Gym membership? Too expensive. Fighting traffic just to sweat in front of strangers? Nope, not in this lifetime.

And then there’s me and Jack’s little Friday morning ritual. First stop: McDonald’s. Jack calls his sausage-egg-and-cheese griddle a “biscuit.” (Not sure what dictionary he’s reading, but okay, kid.) Then we hit Dunkin. He’s strictly a chocolate glaze or pink-with-sprinkles guy — except he only eats the top. So yeah, I buy him two. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to sneak in a French cruller like it’s not going to ruin my diet. (Spoiler: it ruins nothing but my self-control.) and let's not forget the tea spritzers!

Breakfasts have been the biggest struggle. Eggs, egg whites, avocado, gluten-free toast, oats. Oats. More oats. At this point I could publish a cookbook called Oats 101: 150 Ways to Torture Yourself With the Same Ingredient. Gordon Ramsay wouldn’t even yell at me — he’d just cry into an omelet. Yeah- I'd like to see that. Make me a Martini and get me a chair! 

Lunch? Leftovers. Dinner? Plain and simple, and I’m fine with that. But since my brain was melting along with my willpower, I tried AI. Yep, I gave it my pantry list, and it spit out a whole week of meals. It actually worked. (Take that, TikTok “AI is coming for us all” crowd — it can’t even make oats exciting, but it sure can plan a menu.)

Health-wise, I’ve been wrangling thyroid, hormones, and adrenal nonsense. Nothing dramatic — just enough to make me want to throat-punch lab work that never gets ordered.

But today I made a big move: I walked on my lunch break instead of napping. The road by my house is flat, perfect for walking or biking. Downside? The local NASCAR wannabes who use it as a racetrack. So if I don’t show up next week, please have someone check the ditch.

Still here. Still sweating. Still showing up.

My Summer of Sweat: A Tennessee Tragedy (Comedy Edition)

It’s hot. It’s fucking hot. Like, if Satan opened a sauna and charged admission, Tennessee would sue him for copyright hot. 

Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are folks worse off than me. I’ve met them, prayed for them, and probably sweat on them too. But if you’re offended by complaining or swear words, keep scrolling—no need to clutch your pearls while I roast alive in my own house.

Act I: The Betrayal

There I was, minding my own sweaty business, when I noticed it felt a little toasty in my office. At first, I blamed the dog. He has a PhD in vent-blocking. But nope—vent was wide open. Thermostat said 78. I had it set to 74. That’s murder in Mississippi temperature.

I tried the classic “off and back on again” trick. Killed the power, waited 20 minutes, fired it back up. She cooled. I rejoiced. Twenty minutes later? 77.

“Fuck.”

Cool air was gone. Sanity was gone. Patience? Never existed. The only thing that did exist was hot flashes, high blood pressure and anxiety.  I called the repair guy and let  it simmer at 77.

Act II: AI & Cousin Sarcasm

In desperation, I asked AI for advice. It told me to check the filter. Spoiler alert: I live with 5 dogs, 2 cats, and a quilting bee’s worth of pet hair. The filter looked like a damn shag carpet. AI told me to replace it every 2 weeks. Every 2 weeks? Shit, I don’t even replace my underwear  that often.

AI then casually suggested I open up the cover and check the compressor. WITH electricity involved. Excuse me? Me +  live wires = obituary. Electricity and me? Not the best of friends. 

 Nope. I called my daughter’s cousin. AI was like, “Great, free labor!” Wrong. The only thing that man gives me for free is sarcasm. Henceforth, he is Cousin Sarcasm. Sorry David . 

Repair guy shows up, shrugs, and basically says, “Ma’am, your AC is 10 years old. It’s just tired. Can’t keep up with humidity.” Translation: “Buckle up, buttercup. You’re screwed.”

Seriously? Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a Matrix where all the bad people go to live in a constant loop of doom. 

Act III: Summer Fashion Week

So I’ve been marinating at 76 degrees for weeks. It’s fine—as long as I don’t move. If I attempt to clean? I’m in a wife beater and boxers. My new summer uniform. Forget lingerie—I’m serving Walmart chic.  Sometimes I forget and get in my car wearing  my kitty slippers and no bra. It’s the heat makes you do weird shit. 

Act IV: The Igloo That Never Was

I ordered a window unit. Dreamt of sleeping under three blankets, nose hairs frozen, heart rate normal. Delivery delayed. And delayed again. I was practically writing love letters to this box before it even arrived.

When it finally did, the damn window screen was stuck tighter than a pickle jar lid. I fought it. Lost. Punched a hole straight through it. Said screw it, bent the frame like the Hulk, and shoved that unit in with duct tape and spite. 

But plot twist—the unit was designed by folks who must live in the northern hemisphere . The gaps were so wide, I could see my neighbor grilling dinner. By this time I was sweat profusely 

 I sent photos to AI for help. AI gave me a whole Lowe’s shopping list.  Said to turn the unit on cool off and come back, Even AI knew I was pissed. I said nope, boxed it back up, and kissed my igloo dreams goodbye.

Act V: Portable Hope (and FedEx Lies)

Found a portable unit online. Easy install! Easy removal! Delivery in 3–5 days! I tracked that sucker like it was Christmas. Delayed. Then delayed again. By this point, my blood pressure could power a windmill. Between the heat and hot flashes I was ready to extend the wardrobe to birthday suit , a cold beer and a cigar. 

Finally, FedEx guy shows up with a box looking like it had been through a bar fight in Tijuana. Actually I went to Tijuana, once. woke up in a ditch, another story for another time.  I still had hope. Opened it slowly, heart racing… and bam. Oil. Everywhere. Scratches. Used. USED. My igloo was secondhand swamp trash.

Refund requested. Dreams shattered. Serenity? Gone. My new plan is to store my boxers in the freezer like popsicles and pray I don’t stroke out before October.

The Final blow  in the Matrix. 

Oh, and did I mention the $7k I dropped on my car that still runs like shit? Or the big bucks crawl space dehumidifier I had to return? Yeah. I’m broke. So don’t ask me to buy your kid’s chili supper tickets, Girl Scout cookies, or wrapping paper. The only charity I’m funding is the Sock Drawer Survival Fund.

But hey—I’m alive. Barely.

ok, maybe the wrapping paper so I can wrap my pennies in it since this grinch will be handing out wish presents this year. 

🔥 The End. (Please direct all sympathy, ice cubes, and margaritas my way.) 🔥

note: this was a 2.5 page satire and my editor cut it down, said my comedy needed to be short and sweet, as I tend to drag out the punchline.