It Was Only A Dream…

August 3, 2015

Eleven months ago this day my mother died. Early this morning I dreamed of her. We were in a grocery store and as I glanced down an aisle, there she was. She had on a long dark brown coat similar to one I’d seen as a child. Approaching her  I leaned over with a kiss. Her face was cool and almost felt as if she had whiskers. I don’t understand it, but I know that it was my dream. I felt no emotions. Dreams can be strange like that as we all know. She was smiling and I can’t recall, if any, the conversation. I mostly remember her smiling at me and the touch that I recall above. In that same dream sequence I saw a man who was a used car salesman and was showing me an old car that was supposed to be great. Just before that, I had been given approximately one thousand dollars that were in crisp new $100 dollar bills. They were all fanned out neatly before me. Somehow in the back of my mind I understood that my husband had given them to me, but I never saw him. My instincts told me concerning the car salesman that I didn’t want this car. I was wondering how much of the money it would take to make  repairs to my own car that I currently own. Then, just like that, I woke up. I looked at my phone and had an e-mail from my sibling discussing this day about my mother being gone from this earth eleven months. OUR mother, I should say. How that in one short month it will become years for as long as we live on this earth. I often find myself thinking back to my childhood. Back to a mother who was ever mindful to see that we had food, clothing , and shelter. She never failed at those things. I miss my mother. I miss the younger version of her as much or more than the older version. I take a risk in saying that, as some people will judge and say I should cherish all time I had with her. To that I say, you are ridiculous and of course I do. My mother in my younger years is who I long for. I miss the mother who made my meals, made the house clean and secure. She walked to the grocery store and got me comic books when I didn’t feel good. She took me uptown for fresh roasted, or rather blanched peanuts on Saturdays. She was always there…watching silently and taking care of all the details of our daily lives. She gave me life and a sense of orderliness. She took her role and did it. In spite of the odds. No one has ever written about her in grand ways. No one famous came to her funeral. She lived a quiet life and in the same way died a quiet death. One that I am thankful to God for allowing. I can truly say that it was the best funeral I ever attended. Some people may read this and say, oh how convenient, dreaming of her on the 11 month anniversary. Well, you are entitled to your thoughts. I know it’s true. I saw my mother. I kissed my mother. It was only a dream. I miss my mother.

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Broken little family

in my youngest years

I searched in vain

to remedy to take

away the fears

The thoughts were vague

intents obscure

the words were

sweet the trap allured

First one his one

they beckoned me

I followed blindly

I could not see

Too late too late

my soul was tossed

The years remain

and all is lost

Tho’ one has gone

to depths unknown

now three remain

no four are known

Yet eight is the number

that breathes for now

my heart longs to slumber

please lay me down

Copyright 2015 –R Webb

to myself I ran across while going through some things prior to moving.  Not sure if it would be considered a poem, but I think it’s in that vein…

Distance of

family

friends

society

Closeness of

me

nature

God

Listen

Listen more

Listen more so

Words are weary spoken

go about your work quietly

There is a loneliness

that never leaves even in

the midst of others

Simply Be

Nature listens as doth God

Speak to yourself and they will hear

Copyright by R. Webb, 10/16/2013

Death…

November 18, 2013

Has no boundries.

Regardless of origin, nation, color, creed, religious, non-religious, or otherwise…we die.

There is comfort in this.

No exemption clause.

No exception.

No unfairness.

We all die.

There is comfort in this for me.

Not in death itself, but in that everyone is a part of it.

No one is left out.

There is comfort in this for me.

Thoughts for myself…

October 21, 2013

Oh how I wish I

Could pull the tender

Young blooms of

Bitterness from my

Soul as easily as

The ones that

Sprout anew

From the prickly bush

Outside my windows

Soft and pliable

In one’s hand

They easily leave

Their home

Never to become

Stiff and unwelcoming

To outsiders

Yet protective of its own

Right down to the

Brown dead leaves

That cling

Stabbing even in their death

May God reach out and pluck them as He is the true Master Gardener.
copyright 2013

Angry Writing…

July 15, 2013

Time away from the blog was spent doing visual art. Touching on the subject of angry writing for this post. Angry writing is something I do from time to time. It is a safe way to vent all my feelings of anger, disappointment, resentment, bitterness, and fear on a silent and obedient subject: paper. Venting like this saves me a lot of heartache down the road. I can call all the names I want, give all kinds of pieces of my mind without ever risking the ‘you can’t  un-ring a bell’ situation. It’s old fashioned, but it works. I am careful to write only when I’m alone and I completely destroy the evidence. The aftermath leaves me calm and able to think logically again. A spiritual cleansing of sorts, especially as I watch the tiny bits of paper swirling away or  becoming ashes. Instantaneous gratification and a feeling of freedom without hurting anyone.

I’ve Been Sick…

May 15, 2013

and I still show the results of it, physically speaking. So, on to better things. Today I’ve been pondering about life. Not in general, but in specifics. Is all life precious? Whether answered yes or no, whose setting the standard? My blog, my question. I’m ‘god’ of this blog, so in that vein, I ask, does God address this in the Bible? Specifically? From abortions to war and everthing in-between and beyond, that is my question to you, is ALL life precious? Something to really think about.

in sixteen days. Years ago birthdays meant presents and fun. They snuck up on you and yelled,  ‘Surprise!’ like some secret party that you were already aware of and yet had to pretend to be caught off guard.

Now they come often, with a matter-of-fact approach. Whispering every quarter, ‘Gosh, only x more months and you’ll be that age.’

I listen. 

My ducks aren’t all in a row on anything. Some are missing, misplaced and generally not at attention. These days writing is therapeutic.

Many years have passed. Some things are resolved I think, others are not so clear. Mostly it is learning to accept my lot in life.

I live a life that is day to day. In truth, I have no idea who I am. Roles are played that the day calls for. It is the only way I know. Shakespeare said something of the sort. My script was written for a set number of acts and then my portion of the play will be finished. Times of happiness, as well as sorrow and sadness. All in a play. All in a life. 

Self Note…

January 19, 2011

To See One’s Face

And Touch One’s Hand

Is Better Than Words

Written In The Sand

–copyright 2011  Rebecca Webb

Any problem

February 3, 2010

in my life is mine to deal with. That doesn’t mean someone can not be a help to me (brainstorming, or simply listening). It means when all is said and done I make the decision on how to deal with the problem.