Readers

Sunday, September 5, 2010


What one loves in childhood says in the heart forever.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Be yourself.

The world worships the original.

J.C.
Once you make a decision the universe conspires to make it happen.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Like any art the creation of self is both natural and seemingly impossible. It requires training as well as magic.
Holly Neal

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The true artist helps the World by revealing mystic truths- Bruce Nauman
The soul of creativity is looking at one thing and seeing another.
Making surprising connections between things, generating unusual possibilities.

John Chaffee PhD

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Wander down roads you've never explored before
Life isn't a travel guide to follow
It's an adventure

Douglas Pagels

Thursday, February 4, 2010

First Kiss

His name was Bobby and he was a blue-eyed blond. I met him on my first day of Kindergarten. We'd just moved into a new house and I was starting school in the middle of the term. I had ridden on the big yellow bus that morning with my older sister. She had left me standing by the classroom door and had hurried down the hall. I remember peeking into the room filled with tables and chairs that were just my size. The walls were covered with bright colorful pictures and artwork was hanging from the ceiling. Sharp smells of paper, paste, and wet wool assaulted my nose.
In the far corner of the room, the teacher's desk sat looking heavy and solid. Mrs. Smith was standing next to it and she was talking to some of the children. Mom and I had met her the day before when we came to school for registration. Mrs. Smith had short curly gray hair and she wore pearls on her ears. She had smiled and she smelled soft and powdery reminding me of my Grandmother.
On the opposite side of the room sat the piano. Its white keys made me think of teeth and it seemed to be giving me a welcoming smile. One of the boys was plinking on the piano's key's when he turned and our eyes locked. As he made his way toward me, I swallowed a couple of times then bent down and pulled up my knee socks.
Bobby said "Hello", and asked me my name. I told him. I thought he was cute. Mrs. Smith asked Bobby to show me where to hang my coat. He took me out into the hall and identified our cubicles. He pointed out the coat hooks and explained that the lower shelves were for our napping rugs and winter boots.
Bobby said, "We're going to have music first, then we do our workbooks. But after workbooks comes the best of all, cut and paste."
I sighed and fingered the hem of my dress.
"It'll be okay." He leaned over and gave me a kiss on my cheek.
I gasped and put my hand over the warm spot that Bobby's kiss had left. I looked out of the corner of my eye at him and smiled.
Yes, his name was Bobby and his kiss became a building stone in the bridge of my school years on my road to adulthood.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

The poet, they say, borrows nothing that is foreign or unfamiliar to himself. He takes back what was his to begin with-
those things, precisely, in which he recognizes himself.

Wallace Foutie
If you can remember dreams of flying and soaring like a bird, or dancing, or singing more perfectly than you ever thought possible, you know that no second hand accounts of such events could ever give you the thrill you felt in the dream.

Gayle Delany