Winter Moon Rising

Winter Moon Rising
Sharp and Bright, like the Truth

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Where are we?

December 31, 2011

Today my Dad asked me where we were. It wasn’t the question that got me; it was the tone of voice.

He is dying and it is a disorienting experience, apparently. I know that sounds odd, but that is how it seems.

He had a terrible night, he was up and down, back and forth to the bathroom. I really don’t even clue into it usually, it’s an endless circle of exhausting activity. The only protection I can give my brain is to just take every second as it comes.

But sometime in the very early morning, he went into the exercise room in the dark, closed the door and fell.

 My mom came downstairs to where I was sleeping. “I can’t find him!”

I really thought she’d gone mental. It’s a very small house.

I looked through it as well, and heard his voice. When we opened the door and turned on the light, he was on the floor, his legs tangled up in the laundry. I had to pull him into their bedroom, and then help him stand up to get in bed.

When he was lying down in the middle of his bed, we tried to get his c-pat mask back on, but the hose is broken. I suspect that is why he was so agitated; he hadn’t been getting any oxygen. We put the regular O2 on and he wanted mom to lie down on one side of him, and me on the other.

Let me tell you that was an odd one. Official end of even pretending to sleep. When it turned light outside I got up, and of course, he did too.

After he went to the bathroom I followed him back into the bedroom, and tucked him in.

“Where are we, Carla?”

“We are at home, Dad.”



“Well, okay.” He said it as it made absolutely no sense to him, but he would believe it if I
believed it.

Maybe he’s right.  We really aren’t home. Home is pulling at him from beyond, and some part of
His spirit recognizes that.  I can believe now that he was a dear friend of mine in heaven, and is
going back sometime very soon.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


You don’t possess anything; it possesses you.

You don’t even own yourself; God does.

The only thing that is truly yours is whatever amount of the universal truth you allow to sink into your soul, and the love and ties that you make with other souls that are the very heart of that truth.

My lates book: Pivot Point is finished!

When Rye was four, he watched his father kill his mother. The trauma activated a dormant paranormal gift—with one touch to an object, he knows the mind of the last person to grasp it. Lust, rage, seduction, overwhelm him as if he relives the experience.
He doesn’t want it. He’s spent his life hiding from it.
Everything changes when he meets Mattie.  Just the touch of her hand helps channel Rye’s gift and brings him hope for the first time in his life. But will his strange gift repulse her? Can he have a normal relationship, or will he spend his life alone and crazy?
When Rye finds a body behind the carnival, the police question him about the murder.
Now Rye will have to use his gift to find a killer before the psycho comes after her, as well.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

How Many?

Today I heard an outrageous statement.  Some researcher or other reported that people process a couple of thousand thoughts a day. At first I though no, that number is too small. Then a little voice said, “No that sounds about right for normal folks who sleep on a regular basis, without a diet coke habit.  That depressed me enough to try giving up the diet coke. (I said TRY!)
And then I depressed myself further when I realized a great deal of the thoughts that I do
have are just the same old ones I have over and over: I need to go on a diet, what should I fix for
dinner, did I take the clothes out of the dryer, the car needs and oil change, and oh, yeah, I need
to go on a diet.
How many of my thoughts are actually something more than a chore list, a nag list, a future list
of lists that I should make in the future? Could I actually have peace of mind (just a small piece,
please, I’m not that hungry) if I just went ahead and did some of the things  that my brain thinks
up for me to do, or would it just make up more?
Thinking about all this stuff is giving me a head ache! I need a diet coke.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Music Made

I close my eyes and see water running over stones
Darkening shadows mixed with the light,

Morning rising to break up the night

Gentle and changing
Like the music made when water runs over stones.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Living Water

Today I was going through a stack of old mail, making sure I wasn't throwing away anything important, and I found this wonderful picture of a water mill on a river. It was gorgeous, but it started me thinking: We should all aspire to take a lesson from the old water mill.
A mill sits beside a strong river, it foundation planted on solid ground. But what makes a mill useful is not its location, its asthetic beauty (or not), or how up to date it is.
What makes this building a water mill is the wheel that dips into the water, letting itself be driven, creating the energy it needs to have to do its work.
We all sit next to a river of living water. This water flows strong and constant, always within reach of our paddle. But we have to freely dip our wheels in the current and let it power us.
We must make the choice and allow the living waters of God's love to move us, give us our purpose, and give us the strength we need to do all things.
We can do it, we have the wheel. Let's dip in, drink and be empowered.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Black and White

Today I was watching a show on UEN wherein they show you a picture of a place in color

photography, and then the same exact place in black and white.  I’m sure it’s no surprise to real

photographers, but it was really much easier to see the contents in the black and white photo than in

the complete true-to-life color photo. To me that just seems like it should work the other way around,

but the proof was right before my eyes. I began to wonder if this might hold true in other things as


Do I complicate relationships, problems and the logistics of my life by trying to color everything with

more detail than I need to? What if I just stuck to the basic black and white issues? Wouldn’t it be


There is definitely a place for the full range of the color wheel, but sometimes I think I should stick to

the plain black and white.

Color: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I made Christmas outfits for all my grandchildren?

That would be such a keepsake for them, I could save their parents some money, everyone would

know what a creative and generous person I am, ect.

Black and White: Sewing for long stretches of time kills my back.

Color: No matter how I feel, I should always teach my Sunday school class, everybody is busy, I don’t

want to cause any trouble, I don’t want to be flaky.

Black and White: You have the flu, dummy!

Something for me to think seriously about. Or maybe not! Stick to the black and white.

Most of the time.

Friday, November 4, 2011

I have recently began joining in different on-line writing groups and I have noticed a theme of dissatisfaction running through many of them. There is a sense of frenetic urgency about publishing, as if the stamp of approval from these other people was the only way of being satisfied.
Well, I...I was just about to go off on that one, but its true; we all want to be published. Dang!
So what if it never happens? No fists full of money, no public approval, no TV interviews. Would it still be worthwhile?
For me, writing is fuzzy slippers, jammies and hot cocoa. I'm happy and content. Trying to get published is like wearing your fuzzy slippers and pj's to the front door to get the paper; you open the door and spy your news-wrapped comics lying just beyond reach. You take a step outside and hear the ominious little click as the door closes behind you. You raise your head from the ground, clutching all your hopes in hand, to find yourself standing in front of yard full of well-dressed and intelligent people who can tell, with just one glance, you are not "their sort." Sorry, your books does not fit our needs at this time. Good luck placing it anywhere else.
Does it have to be that way?
Writing is satisfaction that I have never received in any other manner. I've learned things about people that I don't think I would have ever known without spending the time I have writing about it. So, Cheers! Let's celebrate ourselves and our writing. It's wonderful to the only person in the world you have to account to: Yourself.
And there's always another revision.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

What have I missed?

The little car I have been driving reached a milestone today: it turned over 111,111 miles. I missed it, though. I looked down and it was at 111,114 miles.
Okay, this is not really a big deal. But it started me thinking: What else am I missing because I'm not paying attention? Am I missing important details, as well? Am I glossing over the once-in-a-lifetime experiences that I should be thankfully celebrating?
Time to start being fully present, eyes wide open and brain cells engaged!

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Loose Lips

Loose lips, sink ships. That's what they say anyway. What does that even mean, though?
I could understand if they said, loose lips sink relationships, or loose lips sink plans, or even loose lips sink surprise parties. But ships? Where did that ever come from?

I don't have to worry about it. Nobody ever listens to me anyway.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

What do I feel like reading today?

Today I'm reading the second in the Skulldugary Pleasant Series by Derek Landy, Playing With Fire. I love humor. I'm definitely a fan. September 20, 2011

Thought for the day...

Each day is a poem you hear only once in your life; enjoy it!

Monday, January 10, 2011

Oil of Joy

In Isaiah 61:2 it speaks of having the “oil of joy.” It’s another of those archaic sayings that sounds cool but it a bit hard for the modern mind to understand. At least mine. I had to sit and think about it for a while.

At the time when this was written, and maybe even now, oil was much more precious than the actual fruit it came from (mostly olives). It is the distillation of the pressing of the fruit. It contains the amino acids and the basic goodness of the fruit, but it can be stored and kept much longer than the fruit.

It is also much harder to get than the fruit. You can’t just go out and pick oil off a tree, you must pick the fruit off just to begin the process. Then it must be picked over, gathered in large amounts, and then pressed. It takes a great deal of fruit to make a small amount of oil.

So in order to have the “oil of joy”, all our living experiences would have to be picked over¸ gathered up, and then pressed by all the trials and troubles and just plain life that it takes to have a good life, and then the oil of joy can be collected.

Lot of work. Well worth it.