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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February 21, 2015

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Mirrored Tear

February 14, 2015

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In the hand mirror’s surface,
the eyes she sees keep a teary shine.
Not a reaction to a sad affair,
nor to a lingering cold,
nor to an onion cut
are these the reasons it is so.
It is the weepiness of age,
as tears run through the creases
loss of youth has left.
Eye blinks no longer fulfill their purpose.
No more is it enough to cover.
No more is it enough to expose, the glass,
to rid it discretely of the moisture,
through which the color of her windows still reflect
the fanfare of the past.

Her thoughts are pure,
though possibly irrelevant.
Now it has become
tiresome to convey her point
which she is desperate to clearly vent.
She deeply sighs.
Confused are familiar faces,
blind themselves to know her mind
through her stained glass eyes.

Her logic takes a different path
as her loves believe.
To her she speaks a flawless rumination
of the surrounding room she sees.
Her eyes stare wide,
mountain tunnel sturdy in belief,
still,
attempts to communicate her meaning
to the others fail clearly.
With her spirit,
a collapse of intensity there will never be,
even as her mirrored tears blend with the soothing sea.
~
Mary Jane Goodman

Double Duty, Triple Jobs

February 10, 2015

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His car is in the driveway.
His shoes use room in the basket by the door.
Worn scrubs sit in the closet.
Spots of patients’ blood on scrubs
now do touch the floor.

As a shovel turns dirt,
where what was once in darkness is now in light.
A change ensues and the mindset shifts
as over his shoulders he pulls a shirt,
and puts on many times worn jeans.
Suits change as duties do, seemingly with ease.

He speaks words to a child listening,
languages of physics, reasoning.
I catch his eyes with teaching excited.
Yet with more questions from his spirited sprite,
he takes a detour on frustration’s ride.
His child’s understanding is much more work away.

~

each works
he writes
son learns
deep breaths
and sighs
number sentences
do make sense with time

papas
moms
double duty
triple jobs
shifting gears
to see childhood questions
for a short time disappear

two alarms ring at the prearranged time
in these winter hours
the sun is just now above the horizon line
clean scrubs are thrown
onto his body known
eyeglasses do frame again his face

~

Through and out the door
he hurriedly strides one time more,
as the worn and dirty scrubs
still stain the hardwood floor.
~
~
Mary Jane Goodman

Struggle

February 8, 2015

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If with the absence of another’s heartbeat, your heart struggles to continue its own, what you now know is love. ~ mj goodman
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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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