Rise Up My Love. The Winter Is Past And Gone.

This time last year my legs were shaky, and I was swaddling around in uncertainties. Disappointed in the progress of my first book I was pondering over whether or not I had the stamina I needed to be the kind of writer that I desired to be.  Rise up my love. The winter is over, the rain is past and gone.

 Sure, I got encouragement from other writers.  I even flirted with self-publishing, just to prove a point to myself, but facing my own reality, I knew that wasn't the problem. The real problem lay within me.  I needed to know within myself whether or not I had something to say, regardless of whether I wrote fiction or non fiction, regardless of whether I was writing a blog article for a senior editor on my platform or for my own blogs. That was the question, and as I said last year in my last blog article I was Caught On My Blindside.

Not to mention that I had surgery, wrestle with the complications of having a sick partner, and living in a foreign country.  But, those were secondary problems that only covered the face of the real problem: what was going on inside of me. Like the Ground Hog article written on February 1st, I tried to leave my hole, but I finally went back in my hole to contemplate my misère.

Anything different from the majority sticks out. I don't care what it is, and whom you are. You can have the same bone structure, same color of skin and the same hair particles, but you will stick out like a sore thumb when your soul is not at peace with itself.  People recognize that something is going on with you.  They may not be able to identify it, but it hangs like a shroud between you and them until it is resolved.

So there I was in 2013 wrestling with myself in all areas of my life. Wrestling with my soul as I came to grips with the direction I was heading in, which brings me down to what I want to say. Rise up my love. The winter is over, the rain is past and gone.

You'll find me writing fewer blog posts this year than I have in the past. Not because I have given up writing, but because I decided that what I write has to make a statement. I don't want to entertain with my blogs. I am trying to jar the minds of men and women and challenge them think, to agree or to disagree with my opinion, in other words, to communicate. It is my desire to establish a dialogue of communication in my blogs.  That means that when I don't have anything to say, I'll keep my big mouth shut.

As my mouthpiece, my blogs reflect my experiences on my journey, my beliefs, my struggles, and my overcoming.  They mirror how I see the world.  This does not mean that my view is correct. Many times it might be twisted, but I will never know that unless I challenge myself to listen to what others have to say. Thus, the rhythm of my blogs appearances will change to the following:

Walk On – four times a year,

Garcia's Talks about Apple Products – four times a year,

Pat Garcia Book Reviews – twelve times a year,

Pat Garcia and Everything Must Change – seven times a year,

Garcia's Views on Body Soul and Spirit – four times a year,

Wind, Rain, Winding Roads and Sunshine - seven times a year.

This will also give me the time I need to concentrate  on looking for the right agent for my books, establishing a much larger author platform than I have, taking the needed writing courses to improve myself in the ever changing requirements, in the Literary field, and to attend writing workshops that will let editors, agents and publishers know that I am out there.

Some of you know that I am a singer and musician too.  I travel quite a lot, giving concerts and conducting workshops here on the European continent.  Therefore, another reason I needed to structure myself was for my music. Sometime this year, I would like to record a blues CD in cooperation with music and lyrics from a Canadian musician whom I admire deeply.

Without writing and music or music and writing, I am an empty hull searching for air so I can breathe. Rise up my love. The winter is over, the rain is past and gone.

 So, as I rise, letting go of the shackles that keep me from moving out into the unknown and launch out on the water before me, I hope to meet you along the way as I travel further.  I invite you to enter into a conversation with me on my blogs, on Facebook, on Twitter, on Linked in, on WordPress, on Blogger, on American Diversity Report or anywhere else that I might write and to let me know how you see things happening around you or share with me your view of your state, country, or the world, and to disagree with me when you have a different point of view.  Disagreeing points of view do not mean that we have to be enemies. It means that we stretch ourselves to learn from each other and hopefully come away respecting the other's opinion. 

Finally, I hope you will share your joys and triumphs.  There is nothing that makes my soul merrier than to be able to listen to others as they share their joys, their happiness, and their struggle to overcome.  

Hence, I challenge you to rise and move towards your life's purpose; to rise from wherever you have hidden yourself, to look at the winter of your journey and say, the winter is over, the rain is past and gone as you move towards that which you know to be your destiny.

 So, Rise up my loves wherever you are. The winter is over, the rain is past and gone!

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

* Rise up my love. The winter is past and gone.  Song of Songs 2:10-11.  ZONDERVAN. NEW INTERNATIONAL BIBLE.  1984

Fastidious

The young girl tired as she fastidiously move from one water lily to the other.  The water lilies were spread out  before her on the water. She was surprised at their strength.  They bore her weight without her sinking into the water.

"What are you thinking about," the Prophet asked her.

"Oops, you frightened me. When did you return? How long have you been here?" The Child asked.

"I never left," answered the Prophet.  "You needed time the time to play among the water lilies. Aren't they beautiful?"

"Oh yes, they're gorgeous," the Child answered as she hopped to a large green one  that looked like an umbrella turned upside down. "I've never seen water lilies that look so unique and fragile, yet when I stand on them they're steady and  hold me up."

"The water lilies have learned to be resilient, Child. They've been thrown about by some  fierce storms, whirled  around by the wind in tough  tornadoes, and tossed to and fro by ships of every size.  They learned to hold on, to keep going. They are fastidious looking things. "

"Wow, Prophet, I didn't know water lilies were fastidious. They just look like plain old water lilies to me."

The Prophet chuckled at the child's naiveness, knowing that it would take some while before she discovered the strength that lay within her.

"Child, tell me what do you see?"

The child gazed at the ocean. It was calm, the wind still, the sky blue.  She saw nothing but endless waves of water.  Since she had dared to leave the land of lethargy and complaints, and fulfill her purpose in life, she had been walking on the ocean.

Even though the Prophet told her that her journey had been fastidiously planned;  that not one minute detail had been overlooked, she often felt overwhelmed by the adventure and the mirage of emotions that she experienced.

Then, suddenly out on the wide blue ocean something round appeared from a distance. It was the largest water lily that she had ever seen.

"What do you see, Child? Tell me what do you see?"

"It's a water lily and it's beautiful!" Exclaimed the Child. "I've never seen anything like it."

"We'll ride it for a while," said the Prophet.

"But it's so far away." said the Child.

The Prophet chuckled at her sense of distance.  He knew that what seemed near was far, and what seemed far is often nearer than people thought.

"It's nearer than you think, Child," he said, and the wind aroused itself from out of its sleep and began to blow the water lily in their direction.

Ciao,
Pat Garcia

Marta's blogroll: WHAT LIES BEHIND LAURIE SMITH'S MOUNTAIN OF DEATH ...

Marta's blogroll: WHAT LIES BEHIND LAURIE SMITH'S MOUNTAIN OF DEATH ...: I thought it about time that I showcased my first two self-published novels and gave insights into them, plus three and four in the series....

Diversion

As they sat on the floor of the ocean, the Child looked down at the different kind of fish in their various  colors, she observed how the blue and the draw sperm whales swam through the area of the ocean beneath her; how  the dolphins and porpoises joined in and seem to chatter  as they swam in a reposed state of relaxation.  The Child felt their inner peace: she was astounded.

"This is fun," the Child said to the Prophet.  "I like sitting here."

"Yes, it is. A diversion is necessary,  and what better place to have one than here," replied the Prophet.

"What's a diversion?" the Child asked.

"A resting spot where you divest yourself of your thoughts and let your mind rest."

"Isn't that harmful, Prophet. Doesn't it defeat my purpose of getting to my destination on time?"

The Prophet chuckled at  the Child's conclusion.

"You're still impetuous, my child."

"And you are ignoring my questions again, my Prophet." the Child replied.

"My,  aren't we smart today," the Prophet said, and he looked at her with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

She knew that gleam and feared  he would disappear and leave her alone again. He did,  sometimes: Then she felt isolated on the big wide ocean, walking by herself.

"Why are you laughing at me, Prophet?"

"I'm not laughing at you. I never do. I'm dumbfounded."

"Dumbfounded at what Prophet?"

"At you, Child."

"But why are you dumbfounded at me?  I don't understand."

"Because you've managed to turn a simple diversion designed for your pleasure into an hour of anguish for yourself."

"How did I do that, Prophet?"

"By not enjoying our little diversion and concentrating on the present,  on what's happening now."

"But what about tomorrow?   How can I relax and enjoy this diversion when I know that I have so many miles before me?  It just doesn't make sense to me, Prophet."

"What were you thinking as you watch the mammals beneath you?"

"I dreamed I was one of them gliding through the ocean's water as I enjoyed the wind currents."

"How did you feel?"

"Happy, but––" she replied, and pondered whether she should continue.

"But what, Child."

"What has that got to do with my questions? You haven't answered any of them, and none of this makes sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense, Child. Rest your mind. Soon, you will be at another place that will demand your concentration and your strength. Rest today and enjoy your diversion. Tomorrow will come soon enough."

The child stretched herself out and lay with her face, facing the ocean floor. Two blue whales were playing with each other, and she laughed. Yes, she thought. Today, I'll rest: Maybe, this diversion is needful: Tomorrow will surely come.

Ciao,
Pat Garcia

Choice

Choice, an uncanny word that hides behind the face of responsibility, rattles us into making decisions.  No one makes a decision without having a choice.

Our choices make us responsible for our lives;

For those words we speak, 

For those actions we undertake

For those beliefs we live. 

Life, your life,  stems out of  choices made. Regardless, of the status of our birth, 

Whether rich or poor, 

Disabled or non-disabled, 

Intelligent or mentally handicapped,  

We are all challenged to rise above that that we were born into and to discover the jewels buried within us. It is our decision, our choice, our responsibility.  

"Why," said the Child to the Prophet.  "Why can't you tell me what to do?"

"That's not  why I'm here, Child."

"Then why are you here, always annoying me?"

"I don't mean to annoy you. I'm here to accompany you along the way."

"But doesn't that mean you're supposed to tell me what to do?"

"Oh no, my dear Child. I can never do that. I am not allowed to take away your choice.  That would be unfair to you." 

"But what if I want you to do it?"

"It wouldn't work. Regardless, of what you want me to do, the one thing that I cannot do is choose for you."

"But what happens if I make  wrong choices?"

"Then you will have to go through the consequences, until you get to the path where you have to choose again."

"You're making everything so difficult. Why can't you just tell me; that would save me lots of time?"

"Child," said the Prophet, "Would you  gain any experience on your journey; Would you  suffer any pain;  Would you know how it is to be sick, or how it is to hurt when you have been injured; would you recognize remorse, or how to feel regret; and more than that, would you ever feel gratitude for how far you have come, if I were to make your choices for you?" 

"I hadn't thought about it like that," the Child whispered more to herself than to the Prophet. 

"Your choices are the catalyst that will uncover the tiny  nuggets within you; those gems that you cannot see and no money can buy."

"You mean there are priceless gems within me that I cannot see and that is why I have to make choices?"

"Of course there are, Child. Are you ready for us to go farther?"

"Yes, I am, Prophet. I can't wait until I have to make the next choice. I want to see one of those gems.  Let's go."

The Prophet smiled at the naiveness of the Child that did not realize that she had just made a choice and scratched away a tiny dot of crust on the gem of perseverance.

Ciao,

Pat Garcia

Abide

It takes a person with a vision to stand steadfast when the storms of life are raging around them. Such people stand still as they abide within the framework of  knowledge and wisdom they have received in accordance with their vision.  They are unlikely to swerve to the left or to the right. They become unshakeable as they learn to abide and remain in a restful state that causes them to exercise patience, trust and faith as they wait on the outcome.

When we abide,

We wake up with expectancy:

We climb over our hindrances:

We tackle our procrastination:

We move out of the realm of self-pity:

We become unconquerable.

Abiding gives us the willingness to place ourselves in the hands of God

That are more knowledgeable than we are,

That are more competent than we ever could be.

 

“So,” said the child. “I’m ready to leave this place?”

“You’re not quite there,” the Prophet answered.

“But I am tired of this place, we have been here a long time. What are you waiting on?”

“On you.”

“On me? But I am ready.”

“No, you’re not. You’re abiding.”

“This abiding is old, and I am tired of it. Can’t we move on to something new?”

“We are moving.”

“No, we’re not. I don’t feel a thing.”

“But you’re moving.”

“How do I know I’m moving? You keep on telling me to abide, abide, but abide in what? Why am I abiding?”

“I thought you wanted to see what happens if you continued to abide here.”

“But nothing is happening. That is just the case. I don’t see anything taking place. We have been abiding here for days, and all I see is the same old storm, on the same old spot, doing the same old thing.”

“Because you don’t see it, you think nothing has happened?”

“Well, I surely don’t see any changes,” the Child replied, sarcastically.

The Prophet chuckled as he waved his hand over the child’s face. Behind the storm, it caught a glimpse of something, felt the movement of the water and with awe realized they were moving.

“We’re moving,” the Child cried out. “We’re moving.”

“Sure we are,” replied the Prophet. “Did you think you were standing still?”

“I thought we were abiding until………”

"You are abiding. When you have finished abiding, we'll be there."

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

But It's Mother's Day

What do you hear,” the child asked the Prophet, curious to know what was happening below the heavenly atmosphere they lived in, "What do you hear?"

"I hear mothers mourning over the lost of their young."

“But it’s Mother’s Day,” the child replied.

“Oh, how well I know that," answered the Prophet.

"So tell me what do you hear, Prophet? What do you hear?"  The child in its naivety thought the earth had gotten better.

"Silence, child, I hear a faint rumbling coming up from a far."

"All right, I won't let out one peeps, but promise me you'll tell me what you hear?" And the child dance around the Prophet with joyous expectations.

"You have my promise. I will only tell you what I hear."

Suddenly, the Prophet covered his ears. "Oh the rumble, it’s terrible,” shouted the Prophet. “It gets louder and louder."

"Surely, it is the sound of  the people on earth celebrating and cheering as they honor their mothers," the Child said.

"Shh, now, I hear it clearly," The Prophet commanded.

"What is it?" The Child asked.

"It sounds like gunfire going off in schools, at homes, on streets––children killing children."

"But it's Mother's Day."

“Oh, How well I know that." The Prophet mumbled

.

"So tell me something good. Tell me of the songs you hear, or the flowers you see, or children honoring their mothers with surprises on this beautiful Mother's Day."

"Wait!" Said the Prophet. "Be still. I hear another cry."

"Oh, goodie. It's about time you heard a beautiful cry."

The prophet began to cry before the child, and he began to beat his hands against his breast.

What wrong, Prophet, what's wrong? Tell me, what did you hear?”

"Like Rachel crying for her young ones over two thousand years ago, I hear mothers wailing; painful moans, no man can ever imagine, coming up out of the heart of women: mothers wailing for the lost of their young.”

"But it's Mother's Day, Prophet.”

“Oh, how well I know that,” the Prophet answered.

“So, what do you see on this beautiful day for mothers everywhere,” the child asked, hoping the Prophet would report about the presents that made mommies happy on their special day. Maybe, just maybe,  the child thought, the Prophet will let me look down and see the celebrations.

“Shall I tell you what I hear? Maybe then you’ll understand what I’m saying,” the Prophet asked.

“All right.  Tell me, what do you hear, Prophet?  What do you hear?”

“I hear mothers wailing for the lost of their young;

Children, whose lives have been cut off by drunken drivers;

Children, whose lives are stopped short by guns in the hands of distorted minds;   

Children, whose lives are prematurely ended by the scalpel;

Children, whose lives are snuffed out by bombs as they sleep; 

Children, whose lives have been contaminated––destroyed by chemicals dropped from the air as man fights against man.

I see little people, like you, child, who have no voice

To speak out,

To protest,

To vote;

Their lives have been taken away without their consent.”

“But it’s Mother’s Day, Prophet. It’s Mother’s Day.

“Oh, how well I know that!” The Prophet answered.

Shalom,

Pat Garcia