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

A Special Mother's Day Tribute and the Introduction to the Article, But It's Mother's Day

This year's Mother's Day article, But It's Mother's Day, is a tribute to all those mothers who have lived through the agony of having a child precede them in death.  No mother expects to see her child leave this earth before she does: it is the mother's heart that dreams of life–long life– for her children even before they are born.

I would also like to salute two women whom I have come to love, respect, and admire.

Micki Peluso, author of And The Whippoorwill Sang,[1] whose daughter's life was cut off by a drunken driver.  Micki tells Noelle's story, and therefore her own story with heart. Full of humor and wit, And The Whippoorwill Sang draws you into the Peluso family: it also takes you through a gamut of emotions from anger to hatred, to laughter, to tears that will force you to support a zero tolerance for people who drink and drive.  

Linda Halpin is the author of an upcoming book about her son, Louie, who was shot down in New York City. As a mother, she was suddenly thrown into the woes of lost.  Louie was a child with a promise, a future boxer whose future stopped on a fatal afternoon as he innocently visited his friends. Linda's book is expected to be release sometime this year.   

Each of these women has gone through the dark night of their souls, and they have come through it with renewed strength to step up to the plate and speak out against violence that has been done, not only against their children, but against children all over the world.  

Happy Mother's Day!

Shalom,

Pat Garcia

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[1] Peluso, Micki,  And The Whippoorwill Sang,