Friends are
Angels that lift us
to our feet when
Our wings have trouble
remembering
How to Fly
photo by Jeanne Marie/Art by MichelleMarie
Category: All Over The Place
You set me free~for JM Pinky
Art by MichelleMarie
Thank you JM for that song it is very inspiring!
This is my interruption of that song! WOW~POWERFUL
letting that baggage go sweet Friend
Thank you for reminding me PRAY!!!!!!ALWAYS it sets US FREE
https://womenwhothinktoomuch.wordpress.com/2014/09/26/for-my-pink-partner-michelle-marie/
Born Blonde? Nope!
In the last 30 years as hair dyes have become available to the nonprofessionals, we’ve learned to color or bleach our own hair. In the first stages it seems so innocent. We can go to the drugstore or Wal-mart and select just about any color we like! It started simply enough for me. I was fourteen with drab, brown hair and I wanted to jazz up my hair a little. So, I bought a package of Flaming Red dye. When I un-capped the bottle and got my first whiff of peroxide, I was hooked.
The fun didn’t stop there! I tried every shade of red, before my addiction progressed to blonde. As a teenager, the reds seemed to satisfy my thirst for color. However, as I hit my twenties, I began to roam the streets searching for a beauty operator who would bleach my hair blonde. I begged and I…
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The Most Beautiful Girl
I saved a Valentine’s Day rose from my son for twenty-odd years.
Then, when it fell apart, I still saved the petals with the card which read, “To the most beautiful girl I know, my mom.”
He was sixteen that day when he brought me a rose at work, handsome and a foot taller than me.
And very smart, because while my tears were still messing with my make-up, he hit me up for a loan to buy his girlfriend a dozen roses and I gave it to him with a smile and a hug…
I kinda knew I had been played, but his technique was awesome. He played it so smooth, almost a man.
He is forty now and I know I’m not the most beautiful girl in his world…two other awesome ladies were destined to share that spot and I love them.
Still, every time I come across the faded card, the sweet words and the dried-out petals…I smile.
I close my eyes and for just a moment, I soak in the memory of his surprise visit, back to the moment when to my son, I was the most beautiful girl he knew…
Clutter
Clutter
Time and Distance
I remember the pain I felt the first time I realized that my mom had grown older.
My heart broke that day, as I realized how frail the strongest woman in my life had become just since our last visit.
Today, at a newly turned 63, I fly to see my middle child, Jodie Lynne and she hasn’t seen me for two years.
I look good from 1800 miles away with the perfect lighting and a smart phone pose, but up close…
It will be the first time that she will realize that her mother is older. Much.
Human, not a super woman who can save the day…
Well, usually, I just mess up whom ever I’m trying to save, so that might be a good thing, LOL.
But she’s not going to like her mom’s newly acquired wrinkles.
It’s almost like the stamp of an expiration date upon my…
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I’m Beautiful…
I’m Beautiful
Pink Puff Tree (Mimosa)
Check and Mate
As I care for my plants, l smile. I especially treasure the many plants that my grown son has sent me, plants that express his love for me in a flowering way, long distance. I even save the bows that the florist wraps around each gift.
Last Christmas, my son was visiting and he asked me what I wanted and I said a Poinsettia because I know that they are plentiful at Christmas time and inexpensive. As much as I love his gifts, I still feel a twinge when I receive from him because I have given to him since he was born. The fact that my son has matured and wants to give back to me thrills me beyond measure, but I knew that this year, like most of us, he was counting his pennies.
He went far beyond a Poinsettia. Check and mate. He carried in a huge…
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We are not Chip and Joanna. (Flip This House)
My husband and I tore up a rug in a small room that we wanted to turn into a bedroom.
There was a 100-year-old hardwood floor under the rug and we decided that we were definitely not going to sand it, but we thought about putting a finish on it, so we went to Lowe’s.
We were shopping in different paint aisles and when we met in the middle, we definitely disagreed on what to use on the floor.
I had picked out a porch floor stain and he picked out floor stain.
He said that we couldn’t use my outside porch floor stain because it would smell too bad in the house.
After going back and forth between his gallon and my gallon, I let him decide.
I did ask him to go check with the girl at the paint counter and make sure that it was the safest thing to be using in the house.
Being a man, he quickly scanned the label and decided it was definitely safe and it was the right product.
He even bought the correct brush sponge for applying stain, long handle and all.
We went home all excited and happy, looking forward to our new project.
He opened the can and as he poured the stain into the roller pan, the stain splashed up the side of the wall.
I ran for the bleach wipes and scrubbed most of the dark brown stain off the wallpaper. It left light brown blotches, but as I looked around at the rest of the room I realized it matched the blotches that were part of the pattern. How lucky could we get?
He read the first paragraph of instructions and started to spread the stain.
It smelled pretty bad, but we figured the over powering odor would fade when the stain dried. It didn’t.
By ten o’clock that night, we had matching migraines and he was reading the instructions.
“It’s advised to leave the house for at least a week after applying this product.”
When he read that sentence to me, I almost passed out on the floor; but then again, maybe it was the fumes.
So after a week (they were right) we were able to move our bed out of the dining room and into the little bedroom.
We are not Chip and Joanna.
The Little Bedroom
I believe there’s an art to letting go
I believe there’s an art to letting go
It’s delicate and tenuous and tender
Devoid of words that make sense
So maybe I can show you how it feels to me
Letting go, to me means setting myself and you
Free…because we were all meant to be free
I know this…yet I struggle to let go
So maybe I can show you how it feels to me
It’s delicate and tenuously tender
Like the sadness of saying goodbye
To something or someone you hold dear
because we were all meant to be free
I believe there’s an art to letting go
I watch the old woman next door…
I watch the old woman next door. I can’t help it. She has no curtains and as I sit with my coffee, my eyes are drawn to her as she hobbles around her kitchen each morning, staggering with pain, holding her back as she tries to walk, sometimes bent in half with the effort.
I don’t want to watch her, but it’s impossible to look away.
She was young not long ago, not alone, and she raised a family.
Little ones she rocked to sleep, diapers she changed, clothes she washed, shopping for teenagers, parent’s meetings and thousands of meals cooked.
A husband who had dinner on the table every night, years of waiting on people, taking care of people, loving people, and now she’s alone.
Walking is such an effort for her, it hurts me to watch. It takes her hours before she can straighten up.
Walking is such an effort for her, it hurts me to watch. It takes her hours before she can straighten up.
I don’t know how to help her.
She’s very stubborn.
She won’t use a cane or a walker. She won’t go to the doctor to see if they can fix her back because she doesn’t want anymore surgeries, she’s had so many.
Every morning she just prays that the pain is not going to last, and by the time the mail comes, she’s usually standing tall, limping a little, but standing tall, and she praises God.
That’s her morning.
I watch the old woman next door. I can’t help it.
That’s her morning.
I watch the old woman next door. I can’t help it.
Amen…
Amen…
We’ve been Pink’n in Oklahoma
JM has this amazing teal Christmas tree that needed our Pink touch. The sweetest part was that I got to meet her son and his sweet wife and JM’s so amazing Grandkids. They are precious and why not, because she is.
Mile and Cole placed all the ornaments, while we attached the hanger thingys. JM’s house is a showcase kinda place every time I visit she’s done more awesome things. We sat on the front porch and talked I can’t tell you how it feels to see her in Oklahoma permanently. I love how she pauses and takes it all in. I don’t think she realizes, I do that I notice her pause, because I love these NEW memories we are making!
thinkingpinkx2
Spirit Whispers 4
Hold still my child.
You’ve been running too much and you’ve been thinking too much.
Hold still. Just breathe.
What do you feel?
Do you feel me in the air you’re breathing?
Do you feel me in the soft breeze that’s kissing your face?
Do you hear me when the birds are singing to you?
Do you see me when the butterfly lands on your shoulder?
I’m all around you.
Hold still my child, feel my presence.
Jesus, all I know…
When the pain reaches a point
that I think I’ll explode if I let out one breath
what do I do?
Jesus, all I know is to give it to you.
When the pain builds up until
there is nothing else left
Jesus, all I know is to give it to you.
It’s The Memories
We start out with nothing and we pick up a lot of things along the way. Some of the things are important and some of them are not.
Some of those things bring us joy and some of them bring us down. Some of them actually hinder us and so many hurt us.
Today, I sit here wondering, where are the letters I wrote to you when you were a baby?
In our crazy lives, we have moved so many times and lost so many material things, and I wonder, are baby letters material things or are they heart things?
I always tell you that you are my sunshine and the first time I told you that you were two years old.
I sat down that night and I wrote you a letter so that you would always know, no matter where you went, if we were together or apart, that…
I sat down that night and I wrote you a letter so that you would always know, no matter where you went, if we were together or apart, that…
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It’s December
It’s December.
We start out searching for the perfect presents for our kids and we spend our lives trying to find them something they will love, so that we can hand it to them and watch their little faces light up.
Like the Cabbage Patch doll that was impossible to get, but we got one and the Transformer that was not to be found, but we found one.
Presents that just for a minute, light up their eyes.
It’s December and there is not much time left to find the perfect presents.
I have so many presents, but they are spread all over my house and all tangled up in my mind, and they are not wrapped pretty.
I don’t know if I’ll have time to put on the ribbons and the bows before I leave.
I want to leave them self-confidence and emotional security.
I want them to know that they were loved unconditionally by their mama.
I want them to be strong, without me.
I want them to keep all the good that I have given them in their hearts.
I want them to know that I was a person too…not just their mother.
I want them to forgive me…I know I made mistakes and I take responsibility for those mistakes.
I want them to forgive their own mistakes and not regret them every night, as I have done.
I want to leave them my boxes and boxes of writing, all neatly edited and put together, but I don’t think that will ever happen because I write too much.
December has come so quickly.
I don’t know where the other 11 months went. One day I was 17 and now I’m 65.
One day, I had no wrinkles and suddenly they have appeared all over my face and neck, and I as look in the mirror, I say, “Wow, you are old, young lady. You may be young on the inside, but your body shows the time.”
My presents are not wrapped, but I will wrap what I can before I go, and I pray that it is enough to light up their faces when they remember me.
It’s December.
This moment…
This moment…
Sometimes At Night…
The scars of abuse, any abuse, are permanent. Like a tattoo, they may fade with time, but they will always be there, just under your skin.
SOMETIMES AT NIGHT…
Sometimes as I drift off to sleep, my mind wanders back in time and I’m a little child again. The last conscious thought I discern is my voice calling, “Mom? Mom?” She doesn’t answer now, just as she didn’t answer back then.
In reality, I’m fifty-five years old, but as I fall asleep I lose track of time and I feel eight or nine. Terrified. Alone. A jolt of fear runs through my veins and I struggle to pull back from the drifting darkness of sleep where I’m trapped, helpless and afraid.
Losing the battle, I fall off the edge of awareness, tumbling through sleep’s doorway. The faces I see are familiar, but I fight the memories. I can’t bear to see…
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You are my sunshine…
You are my sunshine…
Magic
Magic
Set it free…
Set it free…
Hope is
That shoulder is quicksand…
That shoulder is quicksand…
Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie 
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