Archive for the ‘Positive Thinking’ Category

I’m not going to lie. This morning when my eyes opened I actually thought about just lying there and not getting out of the bed. My very first thought was, “Ugh.”

Now I do realize my “Ugh” is certainly different from many of the “Ughs” currently out there. I am incredibly grateful for that.

So I got out of bed.

On March 21st, my friend and fellow blogger Ernie, posted some photos on his Facebook site. As an aside, he has a wonderful blog about trails and walks in Rhode Island. If you need to find uncrowded places to walk see his blog listed below. Just make sure they are open before going.

https://trailsandwalksri.wordpress.com/

Anyway, he had just visited Parson’s Reserve in nearby Dartmouth, Massachusetts. There are trails, groves and vernal pools. A big attraction in the Spring is the field of 11,000 daffodils. Ernie shared his photographs and noted that the place should be in full bloom the following week or so. Yay!! I immediately put it on my list of safe places to visit/things to do for the next week. Especially during this unprecedented time when we could all use some fresh air and the peacefulness of nature to quell our fears and anxiety. My youngest daughter said she would accompany me on my quest for cheerfulness and beauty.

daffodils

By March 24th, the entire property was closed. The trails and the daffodil fields. Too much risk involved due to the virus. Smart decision. Another day of “That’s disappointing but understandable.” It seems that every day is like that now.

But that’s not what I want you to take away.

When I was researching the Dartmouth daffodil field I found this.

According to local lore, the daffodils were planted by Raymond Pettey in the 1940s to sell during World War II, while the U.S. was unable to get bulbs from Holland. The war ended and the flowers remained. The daffodil field is a popular attraction with over 9,000 visitors in 2014, and there are over 11,000 daffodils planted at Parsons Reserve.

I needed to see that. Whether the story is true or not. A time of extreme hardship fostered ingenuity and resulted in a thing of beauty. One that continues to grow and bring joy.

What can any or all of us do now that will result in a thing of beauty? That will continue to grow long after the dark days have passed?

Be safe, everyone. Follow directives. Remember that we are all in this together.

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I was doing some gardening a few days ago. That’s my go to place for exercise and peace of mind. Just turning over soil and trying to hurry Spring along. Starting to see buds on trees and bushes. Green leaves from the many bulbs planted last Fall.

As I was working around one of the hydrangea bushes something caught my eye. Near its base. Wait, is that an egg? It was a good size and it was an oval shape. Yes, I decided. It was definitely an egg. And what a great spot for a little nest of one! Awwwwww! Another sign of Spring. Life happens no matter what else is going on in the world. I then began to wonder what type of bird it was. My imagination was soon soaring!

egg

Why just one egg? Where was Mom? Where was Dad? How long was it there? Although I didn’t want to disturb anything in progress (read: didn’t want Mama poking my eyes out for messing with her nest) I did want a closer look. Sadly, it looked like it might have been cracked. 😦 I then noticed the coffee grinds above and around it.

Wait, what? It’s starting to look an awful lot like breakfast out here.

Didn’t take me long to solve the puzzle. I compost food scraps in a big bin by the side of the house. But my coffee grinds go directly into my gardens. Especially near the hydrangeas-I am changing the colors of the blooms with acidity in the soil. Anyway, I soon determined that an egg shell must have been in my kitchen pail with the coffee grounds. And I dumped it on the hydrangea.

So my excitement was tamped down pretty quickly. But it had been there. A surge of wonder. Curiosity. Thinking about something pleasant. Getting my mind off the uncertainty this virus is thrusting upon us. It was just nice to be outside and enjoy nature.

I would encourage everyone to get out and explore(not near anyone!)during these troubling times. Even in your own backyard. Keep your eyes peeled for a past breakfast, signs of life, promise and renewal.

Just enjoy the wonder of it all.

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Happy New Year to you all! Wishing everyone the very best!

I need to finish up “part two” so I can get it out of my head to make room for more.

So, in the last posting, I wrote about how we (the Hannah and I) happened upon a witches’ tea and a spirit gallery in the Northeast pocket of Vermont. You’ll need to go back and read “Part One” if you haven’t seen it yet. Just to familiarize yourself. Totally random.

We were signed up and ready to participate. It was a group setting. Salicrow, the Medium, would pull five or six names out of the jar and act as a conduit for the visiting spirits. One at a time, of course!

The session, per her numerology love, begins at 3:33pm and ends at 4:44pm.

As I previously mentioned there were a few folks finding comfort in hearing from parents who passed. As well as the very sad case of a spirit whose earthly body left way too soon by ghastly measures.

Salicrow displayed nothing but compassion and care.

She reaches her hand in the jar and whips out another ticket. I check my stub and it’s a match! I’m never a winner. Not saying I’m a loser. Not that. I just don’t usually win things.

So, I have to go and sit in the chair next to Salicrow. My daughter is thrilled. She later tells me she prayed so hard that I would get chosen.

It was mentioned, at the beginning of the session, that some people record the experience because it can be a lot to absorb. We didn’t but I wished that we had.

I’m skeptical. When it comes to me. I am a pretty grounded person with a light-hearted personality. But I am no airy fairy. I’m tolerant of those folks but I am not one of them. It’s just a fact.

Except.

Except when it comes to friends and family who I miss. The welcome mat is always out for any/all signs and visitors.

Salicrow asks who I want to communicate with today. I should have said, “Strongest spirit” to see if this gig is all legit. LOL. But I was a little nervous about being the center of attention in a group.

So I spit out, “My Dad.”

She begins. Says my dad is here. He’s proud of me. She says that he was more involved as a grandfather. That he’s sorry he didn’t play with me. He says he loves me. Said that one of the grandkids was clingy.

Wants to know if the number fifty-six means anything to me. It doesn’t. I’m skeptical (like I said) so I’m thinking she can ascertain ages of people. And does math in her head. I’m fifty-four at the time. But I do try to cooperate because I am a pleaser. It’s tough when you are in the spotlight. All thinking goes out the window.

I offer, “Maybe the year he came to this country?”

But I don’t think that’s it.

Then she is asking if he had an accent (because I said he came to this country?) so I laugh and say, “Yes, he had a heavy Rhode Island accent.”

Everyone chuckled.

And that is true. Even though my Dad was raised in Ireland he died with a Rhode Island accent. But he never let go of the Irish pronunciation of TH. It came out as just T. He’d be yelling for me, “Mary Bet”-my nickname was Mary Beth. In all fairness to dear old Dad I have heard many Rhode Islanders who suffer that same affliction.

To prove that I am not making up this bit. On his eightieth birthday I had a prepared speech (as the self anointed emcee) which included a game, “How well do you know Pat?” This skit included memories and fun facts.

One of those memories was when my kids were little and teasing him. Asking, “Papa, what are the gas prices in Rhode Island?”

They couldn’t wait for his answer, “Tree-tirty-tree.”

Total setup. How they giggled.

One of his six sisters, my Auntie Maureen, immediately came to his defense (even though she wasn’t even there-but that is sister behavior all over the world) and said that the Irish don’t pronounce the TH because the Irish language didn’t have a TH. And I guess never fully converted to the English.

So this party is documented somewhere. And Hannah is the one who later reminded me of that memory.

The session this day began at 3:33pm. Like Papa and the gas price. Tree tirty tree.

Anyway, I didn’t learn anything new from this session. I know, without any doubt in the world, that my father loved me. And I loved him.

True, he didn’t play with us. Except on vacation. Or sometimes throwing baseballs to my brothers in the backyard. But there wasn’t a dad in my neighborhood who I can recall playing with their kids. It was just the time. The seventies.

And Salicrow could have figured that as well.

Anyway, it was all a feel good moment.

When I returned to Rhode Island I was sharing the experience with my older brother. He said, “I’m fifty-six.” Which is also how many years my parents would have been married at that time. Sometimes when you are on the spot you suffer a mental block!

Fifty-six, three-thirty-three and more. A lot of coincidences that day.

Reminds me of Albert Einstein’s words,”Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.

I’d like to think that’s true.

Wishing you all a year of health and happiness.

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In my last posting I mentioned that I would share some “signs” I’ve received. From my father. Looking back I’d have to say the signs have been pretty amazing. Maybe someone thought I needed “spectacular” to be convinced.

June 14th was a lovely day. I took a drive to the cemetery where my father is now resting. Again, it’s me, myself and I. At least as far as my eye can see.

I pulled up near my Dad’s headstone. Did the usual. Greetings and a prayer.

As I wrapped up with a big amen (okay, it was a little silent amen) I turned from the grave and headed toward the car. I said (aloud because no one was near me and I wanted to hear my own voice), “Okay, Patrick, do your stuff. Give me something.”

So, as I am waiting, I take a few steps across the lane to look at other tombstones. Lots of folks from my growing up community reside in this cemetery. I like to read some of the different names or epitaphs. Sometimes pray for those I know. Maybe a parent or grandparent of an old friend or neighbor. I ambled over to one that had the last name “WORK” on it. Never heard that surname.

Dad used to say, “Hard work always pays off.”

But that’s not the sign.

I don’t think.

Anyway, within two minutes of me asking Dad for some magic, I spot something else! It’s about four graves down from the WORK tombstone. I can see that it is partially hidden by the last grave in the row. And it’s moving!

I should be afraid since I am totally alone. Not a person in sight. Could there be someone out of sight? A murderer? Or possibly a street urchin?

There is some type of fanning motion. Back and forth. What on earth? A geisha in the midst of a fan ceremony?

I start toward the grave to investigate. The thing starts to move away from the tombstone! I am hot on its trail. Not a bit afraid.

turkey1turkey2turkey3tureky4turkey5turkey6

Mystery solved.  Tom the turkey just taking things slow on a sunny afternoon.

The turkey spirit animal is a symbol of abundance. It is an encouragement to celebrate your resources that nourish your physical, emotional, and spiritual aspects. The turkey symbolism brings the message of unlocking the richness of your life so that you can appreciate everything.

Thanks, Dad. Miss and love you.

 

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Hello, everyone! I hope you all are doing just fine!

I am finally sitting down and doing a bit of writing. I CANNOT believe August is nearly gone even though I can see, with my own eyes, the sun setting earlier and earlier every evening.

I have been blessed and have enjoyed the summer months. Had lots of company, entertained, explored the outdoors, rode my bike, walked, read tons, attended plays, spent time with family and sometimes just walked the seashore with the surf creating white noise so I could still my mind.

My only regret is not putting all the thoughts in my head on paper these past few months. Enough to drive a person wacky with the gray matter congestion.

But, hey! No time like the present.

I have to be in the mood to write certain stories so the “Witches Tea” I stumbled upon in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont will have to wait for another day. It’s a good one. So just be patient.

My sister-in-law, Patty, lost her dad in March. So she’s been sharing a lot about being open to signs from those who have passed. She has received signs from both of her parents.

I have many friends who have also gotten signs from loved ones. They say, “Talk to them. Be open.”

I was feeling like, “Everyone else is getting signs from their people. What about me?”

Well, I always felt like I was open to receiving but here’s the thing. I actually received and continue to receive many signs. It didn’t appear that way because it just wasn’t enough for me. I was actually looking for more. I wanted to feel. Viscerally. Not just always look for a double meaning in a rainbow, animal or thunderstorm.

I wanted to feel my father’s presence but I really just wanted my father present. Sadly, the latter is not going to happen.

In a way, I finally realized I am not looking for a sign that my Dad is okay, in heaven and watching over me. Or that he loved me. I know that.

It all boils down to this. I miss him and wish he was still here. Simple as that.

Since my father died the only time I heard his voice was in a dream. It was a few days after he passed.  The last thing I heard before waking up that morning was him sounding very concerned.

He asked me, “Are ya alright? Are ya sick?”

I wasn’t sick. Well, yes, I suppose I was. Heartsick.

It is what it is.

So, I will share one of the many, many signs I’ve received from Patrick, my father. I will write about others in future postings.

I’m wondering if it’s his power or mine.

Here is one.

Every so often I will buzz into the cemetery to pay a quick visit to the ould man.

Last winter, it happened to be on very gray day with white stuff in the forecast. Snowfall was predicted to start in about three hours.

I was the only person in the cemetery. Popped out of the car, checked the headstone and said, “Hi” along with a short prayer.

Then I said, “Okay, Dad, feel free to give me a sign that you hear me. That you see me.”

In that moment, little white flurries appeared out of nowhere. In the spot where I was standing. Not a lot. And not everywhere. Just a few white snowflakes fluttering out of the sky.

Wow.

Then they stopped. As quickly as they started.

Were they even there? Did that even happen?

I went back into my car. Sat a few minutes. Then I got out, stood there and said, “Do it again.”

It happened again. Just a bunch of white flurries. In that same spot.

Sure, snow was in the forecast. Nope, not one witness. No accumulation.

Just a few flakes fluttering on me.

In my spot.

It’s never going to be enough. But it was enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I was walking on the bike path a few months ago with a new friend. It was a brisk walk on a chilly day.

In the distance there was a man walking toward us with something on a leash. And it looked like the thing attached to the leash was wearing some sort of clothing.

I chuckle and say, “Oh my, look at that! It’s a big, old wooly sheep coming our way!”

Ginny laughed and said, “You have quite the imagination, don’t you? Have you written a book yet?”

Ummm, I can barely make hair appointments to get my gray roots covered! A book could get in the way of my commitment and time issues. So, the short answer to that is a no.

As we got a bit closer it became quite clear that the man was walking a greyhound (dog) and it was also wearing a jacket.

Totally looked like a wooly sheep to me. 🙂

Reminded me of another Edna St. Vincent Millay quote. The poet once shared with a friend, “I suffer from inflammation of the imagination!”

That’s the absolute best. Everyone should suffer from this ailment. Even just a little bit.

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend with inflamed imaginations!

 

 

 

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curb

A lot of grocery stores, retail shops and restaurants have these concrete things in their parking lot. I say “things” because I don’t even know what they are called. Some might be freshly painted and not look as tired as this bad boy. But it doesn’t really matter what it looks like. What truly matters is not driving your car over it.

Almost every time I return to my parked automobile, if there is an open space in front of me, I will choose to go forward. Okay, always. Why would I go backwards if I have the opportunity to move forward?

Reversing just takes more.

But when I choose to go forward I also have to consider something very important. Is there an obstacle? Wait, is there……? Is that thing underneath my car??? Because I always have this flicker of doubt when I am about to shift gears.

It’s like a mental block. Wait, I’ll call this thing a concrete block.

I consciously look around the lot to see if there are any other tell-tale blocks. And folks, this happens in places I frequent. I should already know if they’re there! How is it possible that I have a second of indecision about going forward every single time? In familiar places?

It’s like I say a prayer, “Please, God, don’t let there be one under the car” while immediately kicking it into “Drive.”

Am I some type of maniacal thrill seeker? It’s almost like I’m living on the edge. Yup, I’m going anyway.

Yes, there’s a good chance I might run over the concrete block. But I’m going anyway.

Of course, that doesn’t happen. I have yet to actually run over a concrete block.

But I think about it every time. Just for a second.

Wishing you all a week of moving forward. And if there’s an obstacle in your way? Say a quick prayer and go anyway.

 

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