Mary Jane's Shoes

Mary Jane's Shoes

Musings of one person among many. Not exceptional in any way, as with all, I have exceptional experiences and varied reactions to those events. Mine is one of many life stories and how I manage and cope with the events which make my life my own, I attempt to put forth by way of my writings.

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Only Happy

January 30, 2015

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Never Lose the Desire

January 30, 2015

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The Contrast

January 15, 2015

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If one is doing her best, living honestly and following her unique path, there is no need nor should there be an inclination to compare. When relative evaluation does take a breath, it is preferable to see and revel in the contrast, the extraordinary. ~ mary jane goodman
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A Clean Dress

January 15, 2015

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She abandoned her fear as if it were a soiled and damaged garment no longer of good use. A fixed and focused gaze replaced her clouded vision and in her new skin she recognized herself. No longer donning a facade to convince others of notions she did not hold, she fearlessly perused the dreams that through the years had been tucked into the filthy pockets of her marred dress. Hidden they were, and now exposed her dress was clean.

Have You Seen the Starlings?

January 14, 2015

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Have you seen the starlings?

The clutter, the discord of birds on separate paths, crisscrossing on sharply cut cliffs and craggy ledges, is as disconnected words which have no sentence formed.

A warm wind approaches and the flock is presented a heated current upon which to escape chaos for the sky. Thermals. The movement of the air, warmed over by the earth below, lifts birds as if weightless off the cliff in unison. Fluid words are these, carried high, arranged and tethered. Words skim the thinner air now with meaning. Lifted thoughts seek a higher realm, one physically intangible though more present and potent than the fallen feather’s brush of softness against skin.

The land is swept clean. The rock now is empty of noise. Words placed on paper ride the warm wind currents which sweep the dust and polish the grass and carry the gliding birds. Here the mind is clear. The mind is clean, devoid of confusion as the winged fly in unison building understanding through strung thoughts. The noise of chaos is left to take another route. What remains is Story, a placing of letters into words inciting emotion and replicating life. These word patterns are aligned and fluid, as are starling murmurations decorating the vaulted skies above the Land of the Rose.

Have you seen the starlings?

Mary Jane Goodman

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Winter’s Gift

December 5, 2014

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I do love winter. It is a period of time when I give myself permission to go into hibernation, as a prairie dog retreats to his burrow. It has always been a time for me to rest and soak in the year’s experiences, revel in their occurrences or learn from them. This season is a time to recharge and feel gratitude, more so than I do when the temperatures are warm outside and I am more heavily on the move. It is also a chance to visualize for each member of my family and for my friends, an auspicious future, one filled will their personal choices for fun, learning, adventure, and spectacular moments. 

It is in the winter cold when time seems more available to dream, create, and influence the future. During this time too, the actions of the past can be mulled over and understood. More cerebral becomes living life. This makes sense as the chill brings a natural slowdown in the physical, as the bare grey skin of deciduous trees blatantly reminds us. This slowing in the physical realm allows an increase in mental pursuits. A balance is kept. 

A peace and cleansing is given us. The dreary skies can be viewed as a blank sheet of paper upon which we can write or as a stone waiting to be carved. The lackluster color palette outdoors can be viewed as an open field where any seeds can be sown. Rather than finding inspiration in summer’s color bounty, winter provides a respite from intensity and a chance to inspire ourselves. 

In living under dismal skies, try a change in perspective. Where monotony takes precedence, see rest and renewal. Where the bland seems oppressive, find new colors, see possibilities.
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Each Counts

November 25, 2014

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Retain your perspective.
Onto true priorities hold.
Life lives in the moments,
not in the whole.
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Changing States

November 8, 2014

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With air still, heated, hot, scorching
lungs struggle
to expand,
fully with breath.
The path is without shade.
It is stale and stretches long.
Moving coolness is necessary
to release the trapped sensation
of heat and stillness that grip my skin and muscle.
Panic begins its appearance
in this adaptation of drowning.
I stand taller, stretching
as if cold air rises, not heated,
and inhaling full fresh air will come with more height.

Through oppressive heat
the marvel of man made chill
is close,
as I approach my wheeled
and steel horse.
Unlocked.
Entered.
Skin it sticks to leathered seats.
Key engaged.
Knobs, I quickly touch
as their temperatures too have risen.
I receive a full face of dusty searing; heat, from this idle horse, is the first to touch the skin.

With time,
cold air is blowing stiffly.
Fans aim sublime wind
towards my arms, neck.
Heat rises off my skin,
with sweat evaporating.
Water drops on skin
do not hold the strength they did.
Each withers as a dying pond.

I’ve seen through the dry suffocation.
I can now breathe.

Of Yourself

November 7, 2014

Intentionally relax the congested mental movement filling your day. Breathe. Focus on that which brings you simple joys and serenity, if only for moments. It is for each varied. Praise the individuality of you, your thoughts and honorable beliefs, without reminders of purely outward successes. Replenish and renew.

in the house broken

October 22, 2014

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when he was two and she was eight
when he down the street did skate
and she an elephant did create

scattered and strewn
are faces.
coated paper,
glossed and colored,
the faces, the children’s eyes look up from hardwood worn and stained.
much disarray
as ages overlap.
albums rifled through
and left are empty spaces.

when he was two and she was eight
when he down the street did skate
and she an elephant did create

as these fixed expressions
hold the past,
under childhood treasure tossed,
wood blocks and open drawers
they still laugh,
the faces on the floor.

would seem I could learn their tricks.
would seem I could read their minds,
return to that time
to shoot the portraits once again,
this time promptly placing each inside an ordered book or drawer.
Not without lock and key,
not one other would see.

when he was two and she was eight
when he down the street did skate
and she an elephant did create

~ mary jane goodman

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