120/365 - I love my boys

I'm cheating on today's pictures because I took them yesterday, but I liked them so much, I just had to use them. While Randi and I were riding horses, the boys were off being boys. From the looks of these photos, I can't tell who was having more fun?

119/365 - Annie

Randi has a new friend named Annie. She is a gentle, sweet 7 year old mare that her Papa recently got back from training. I think the two of them are going to be fast friends.

118/365 - Thank you

Thank you for all your wonderful comments the last few days. This has been an emotional week for me, so having your love and support has been a blessing and has helped ease my burden a little. I love what some of you wrote; your tender thoughts brought a smile to my face and a little joy to my heart. I wish I could give you all hugs back, but at least know that I would if I could.

Also, thank you for all your amazing comments on my silhouette entry in the Click it up a Notch photo contest. You really know how to make a girl feel GOOD! And for the really good news, my photo made the top 10 cut and voting is now open to the public to decide the winner. So, if you have a moment and like my photo, would you please hop on over to Click it up a Notch and vote for #7. Thank you. :o)

In the meantime, I'm trying to play catch up with getting home from the beach, selling Mom's house, buying another house, and all the other stuff that happens in between, so excuse me if I'm late with commenting, but I'll get to it as soon as I can. I look at your posts everyday, but I haven't had time enough to write what I want...and I'm not one to just say a short little something, so I like to comment when I can write what I really feel. I promise I'll stop by soon.

After taking so many pictures at the beach, the kids ran when I got the camera out today, so this was the only thing that caught my eye. It's nothing exciting, but it'll do in a pinch.

117/365 - Home

We're home. The weekend went well. It was good to spend time with family. The kids were so good. Everyone flying to different parts of the country got home safely. I'm tired, but I'm at peace. I have so many memories from the last few days that make me both happy and sad. It is hard to let go, and it is hard to move on, but as the tide reminds me, nothing is permanent and what is here one minute may be gone the next.

116/365 - The Sandpiper

I received an email from a friend today and thought it was somewhat ironic that she sent it to me now...while I was at the beach and going through this time in my life. It touched me and I couldn't stop thinking about it, so I thought I'd take a picture to go along with the story...

THE SANDPIPER

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live.
I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand castle or something
and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.

"Hello," she said..
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don 't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself,
hello pain, and turned to walk on.
I was depressed, my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on.
Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mrs. P," she called.. "We'll have another happy day."

The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,
and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out
of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was
chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.

"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don 't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don 't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don 't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation"

She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was
on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no
mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt
like demanding she keep her child at home.

"Look, if you don 't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought,
My God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.

A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there.
Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up
to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking
young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.

"Hello," I said, "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today
and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much.
I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance,
please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all --! she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing
that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia
Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.

"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.
But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left something for you, if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young
woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MRS. P" printed in bold
childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach,
a blue sea, and a brown bird.. Underneath was carefully printed:

A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love
opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry," I uttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little
picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each year
of her life -- that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.

A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand
-- who taught me the gift of love.



Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what is truly important.

This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and by all means,
take a moment... even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses. I love you all & I did stop to smell the roses. You all have made a significant meaning in my life.

This comes from someone's heart, and now I share it with you..
May God Bless everyone who reads this! There are NO coincidences!
Everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us?

115/365 - Saying goodbye

I wrote the letter below on the morning of my Mom's first memorial service last December. I didn't plan on speaking at the service because I knew I wouldn't be able to hold it all together, but my heart was bursting and there was so much I wanted to say. I woke up early that day with all these thoughts swirling around in my head. After about an hour, I finally decided to get up and write them down so someone else could share them for me. Looking back and reading it again now, there are things I'd like to add, but on the other hand, I want to share it just the way it came to me and the way it was read at Mom's first memorial service almost 5 months ago. Today we said goodbye again, in a very different way, but my sentiments are still the same...



My mom was many things to many people, but to me she was my best friend. She was the person I could talk to about anything, who would listen to me for as long as I needed to talk without making me feel hurried or like I was taking her from something because I knew there was nothing more important to her than to be there for me. She was the person who understood me sometimes better than I understood myself and who would tell me the things I needed to hear, even if they were the things I didn’t want to hear, and she always seem to know the right thing to say to help me with whatever I was going through. She was my rock. The one I could always count on to be there, the one who I knew would go to the ends of the earth and back for me, and the one I knew who loved me more than anything else on this earth. She was my constant. Someone who lived her life the way she wanted to, going here and there and sometimes being gone for days or weeks or longer, but who would always show back up, close to my side to share my days and my life with me. I always thought she would be there, and now that she is gone, I feel so lost. She was with there for me in the beginning and I was there for her in the end and we shared so many beautiful times in between.

When I was about 7 or 8, mom took me out on a raft in the San Clemente ocean and showed me how to ride the waves. We often talked about how crazy that was and how easily it could have turned out disastrous, but my Mom always loved adventure and told me she wanted me to experience something that she loved and knew that she could protect me.

When I was in 5th grade, she took me out of school for a month to go on a surfing adventure in El Cardon, Mexico. We camped on the beach and she showed me how to live off the land by collecting clams in the sand, setting lobster traps in the ocean and prying abalone off the rocks. She taught me how to brush my teeth and wash dishes in salt water and how to build a great fire. But most of all, she showed me the beauty of stars like I’d never seen them before and gave me the gift of hearing the whales sing as they came into the bay to find their mate in Scammon’s Lagoon.

At around age 15, Mom took me to see Rocky Horror Picture Show when it first came out and then took me back to many midnight showings as it became more and more popular. She took me to see Pink Floyd, the Moody Blues and Willie Nelson and fostered my love of music. And even though I can’t play an instrument or sing a note, Mom taught me how to feel music in my heart and how to let it move my soul.

Mom was with me when our precious babies were born, helping me find my way in motherhood. And while she never once told me how to raise my children, she was always there for advice or support when I needed it. She was a wonderful sounding board, there to help and support, not to judge or criticize. I often reflect on my qualities as a mother and rather than thinking I want to do things differently for my children than were done for me as I know some people do, I only want to emulate and create the environment of trust and love and respect that my Mom raised me with. If I can be half the mother to my children that my mother was to me, I will be happy. She always gave me her heart and that is what I want to pass to my children.

And while Mom never showed me how to put on makeup or how to cook a turkey dinner or make a proper bed, she taught me about love and laughter, about experiencing and really feeling, about being strong and true to myself, about finding my own inner path and following it, about finding meaning in even the simplest things, about embracing the moment and making the most out of what I had. She lived her life simply but had so much. So much compassion. So much concern. So much joy. So much love.

Randi told me that she loved Tutu because whenever Chunky man was sleeping she would let her come over to her house where they would make art and play, and she loved when they went to the movies together. And while I miss my mother deeply, I miss more the fact that Randi won’t be able to sneak off with my phone to call Tutu to come wisk her away to read Princess books, watch Martha Speaks, make recipes out of her Hannah Montana cookbook and cover her house from one end to the other with glitter just because they could. My Mom loved being a child with her and Randi adored just being with her.

After her beloved Dude passed, Mom told me that one morning when she was walking on the beach in Padre, two seagulls followed her and circled around her for quite some time. She was convinced they were Dude and Kasey. I can only hope that she has joined them and someday the three of them will circle me as I walk the beach in Padre.

Clickin' it up a Notch Photo Contest

Courtney over at Click it up a Notch is always doing fun contests, and when I saw that this contest for a photo where you "Clicked it up a Notch", this photo immediately came to mind. I've only done a couple of silhouettes, so I had to really step up my game the day I took this photo. I'm so glad I went outside my comfort zone and pushed myself just a bit more because now I'll always have this wonderful picture of my son that I just adore.