Death is a love song

A few months ago, I had a health scare. Fortunately, it turned out to not be what the doctors thought it was, but for a week or two, I thought my body was harboring an early expiration date. During this time, I also reminisced on the 10th anniversary of the premature death of my best friend, Trudy Barrett, who was killed in a car accident. One night, I couldn't sleep, and lines of a poem traversed my wakeful brain. So, I got out my ever-near laptop, and wrote this up. With very little editing, here it is:

Death is a love song

by Jennie Blaser 7/2015

Death is a love song,

plaintive and true.

Knees hitting floors 

in a constant beat

Hands stretched in service, 

a ballad so sweet.

arms ‘ere enfolding,

never alone, 

wishes and gratitude

harmony of hope

and memories,

and laughter,

and more of the same.

and what-ifs,

and miss-outs,

and tears without name.

Fears and regrets

tempt to devour.

Faith’s steady rhythm

displays its power.

Family, oh! Family,

the chorus swells.

Friends left with legacies,

stories to tell.

and worries,

and achings,

and notes strive to mend.

and last walks,

and last talks,

and see you agains.

Parts where no lyrics

could hope to convey

wills given over,

plans to obey.

With flowers that grow,

and are cut premature,

their comfort, their wisdom

adorning the earth.

Death is a love song,

plaintive and true.

Writing prompt #6 "What's inside the old box?"

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Writing prompt #6 "You see an old box. What is on the inside of it?"

May 15, 2013

Only the edge of the box is visible, but the color is enough to draw my attention. It's a deep burgundy, a sort of velvet texture; letting me know this box is meant for something extraordinary, special, unique.

I move the pile of magazines on top of it to the side and squat down, wiping off what must be decades of dust. No price tag is visible. I gently prod the square lid off, freeing more dust as I do.

I peer inside and see a large heavy book. Leather-bound, ornate scrolling on the spine. I tilt my head to the side to read it. It's not English. It's not even the Roman alphabet. I set the lid down gingerly and cradle out the large book with both hands. It's heavier than it appears.

I'm about to stand up and look for my elderly neighbor, the one whose estate sale this is -- when she appears at my side.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" she asks, staring at the book.

"Ye," I reply, "But what is it? Where is it from? What language is that?" I ask, pointing to the lettering that is engraved in the leather cover with what appears to be gold-infused ink.

"Oh, it's no language you've ever heard of," she says, "Come, bring the book and the box inside." She asks her daughter to stay outside with other potential shoppers and clears a path to her study. She turns on a copper floor lamp, but it barely registers with the sun leaking through the partially opened blinds.

"I'm so happy you found the box and the book," she says, motioning me to sit down on the couch crowded with piles of books and papers. "It means you've been chosen."

"Chosen?" I say, half-smiling at her odd choice of words.

"Yes, dear. Chosen. That book is only visible to those chosen. For, you see, you have the gift. This book is written in a dying language, but not a dead on. It's written in pure magic."

Writing prompt #5 "How do you want to be remembered?"

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Writing Prompt #5: "How do you want to by remembered?"
May 1, 2013

At my funeral, if people simply say, "Jennie was kind." I'd be satisfied. I'd stand up in heaven and smile and sigh with relief.

The word 'kind' is so simple, yet so profound. It means so much more than just nice. It carries more weight: that real thought and emotion was put into an action.

I didn't always feel this way. I used to strive for greatness. I'd pile up acheivements and adventures like notches on some grand comparison scale, ready with an impressive personal anecdote for any situation. Then I got sick. My body betrayed me. My mind betrayed me and I was left a shell of my former self-imposed glory.

During one of these rock-bottom nights, a timely phone call from my father started me down a new road.

"I don't know why the Lord is allowing all these things to happen to you," he said, "But I know He needs compassionate and kind people -- as many as He can get in this world. And if this it how He gets you to become one, than maybe it's all right."

His words sunk like stones -- no line an anchor I didn't realize was missing -- into my should. Compassion. Kindness. That is what the Lord needs. Not achievement and action-packed anecdotes. Kindness.

So that is how I live my life now. And the great thing about being kind, at least I hope, is that it never has to end. Ever.

Writing prompt #4: 5 love languages

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June 7, 2012

Writing prompt #4: The 5 love languages

I recently attended a church meeting full of sisters of all ages where we learned about our love languages. I had a stand-out winner: words of affirmation. What is it about words that affect me so?

As a child, my parents never said, "I love you" as often as I try to say it to my kids. We just weren't a lovey-dovey, sappy type of family. But, I know I was loved. And, it isn't 'words of love' that is the love language. It is words of affirmation. And, countless times, my parents expressed their faith in my, their trust, their support, their belief that I was beyond extraordinary.

Today, words still affect me more than any other form of emotional language. An unexpected compliment can feed my soul for days. I will lie in bed and relive the words over and over, not in a prideful way, but in a "I am worth something" sort of way.

I can take a kind thought or generous praise with me through difficult trials, boring exercise classes, and cold, lonely nights. Chocolate, roses, or even a tender kiss won't do that!

For better, and sometimes for worse, words leech onto me and it is hard to shake them off. I try to use discretion with which phrases I bond with, trying to cement the positive and distill the negative. But, like with all words... easier said than done.

Writing prompt #3: Blejski Vintgar

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Writing prompt #3

June 22, 2012

Writing prompt: The color green

Blejski Vintgar. Forever in my mind those two words will conjure up visions of lush green life. A half a mile up a mountain trail from the scenic lake Bled, hidden by pine trees and forest growth, unless you know where to look, is the small entrance to a breathtaking gorge. A winding canyon covered from floor to ceiling with more shades of green than could ever be named.

Earthy green moss hugs rocks and sides of tree trunks, swallowing up any harshness that might come about from their ordinary brown undertones. Wet new leaves cling to branches, still green with birth from a myriad of trees and bushes.

Water, but unlike any water you might have heretofore seen, rushes by, drinking in the forest, the emerald, the foam, the pine, the deep and the light, reflecting back a brilliant, transparent flowing green that mesmerizes even as it moves.

A thin wooden walkway, planks worn down with countless enchanted visitors hugs the side of the canyon, blending in perfectly to its forest surroundings. Bridges crisscross the gorge, trading sides to facilitate travel.

I stop half-way across one of these bridges, enveloped by every color of green and shout, echoing with the life so abundantly surrounding me.

Writing prompt #2: Haiku or two

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Writing prompt #2

June 7, 2012

Prompt: Write Haikus

Frustration growing
Deep breath, eyes closed, inhaling
Peace and courage come

A bird is chirping
The wind is whistling hello
Morning has broken

Bikes clatter and fall
Backpacks drop. Voices clamber
School is out again.

Pulse racing at the
inevitable question:
What is for dinner?

Writing Prompt #1: remembering a sound...

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April 12, 2012

Prompt: Right a memory inspired by a sound

"Do -- do -- do... if you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again... do -- do -- do"

Tittering laughter elbows me on my right and I fight not to join in. My mom is saying one of her prayers and our knees have all adjusted to the indents in the carpet. Fidgeting has started. And the beige phone, taken off the hook by my dad just before my mom started, has already gone through the cycle of busy beeps, tri-tones and the female robotic sounding voice three times.

My dad forgot to place the phone inside the second drawer and cover the speaker with the stack of well-used phone books. Well-used as muting devices during prayers, especially my mom's prayers. I know she can hear the distracting tones, the interrupting voice as well as the rest of us, but she is trying to make a point. Prayer is sacred. We should all be showing proper respect for the real communication happening.

But I smell the hot rolls sitting on the table, the smell of melting butter emanating off the lazy susan and tickling my taste buds. I try to focus on my mother's words. I am impatient now. All of us kids are hungry. Fighting back the giggles. And I think, "Come on mom, you've lost us. Enough already. If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again."