Patch of Sky

kites-kids-flying-kites-hzThe kite doesn’t care who holds her string,
She only wants to soar
She basks in sun drenched breezes
That blow upon her face.

A hundred shapes and colors
‘Neath cloudy balls of cotton.
Birds, and bees and sister kites
Share her patch of sky.

The kite knows that her time aloft
Depends on fragile tether.
She watches as a neighbor’s string
Entangles with another.

The wind make kite strings fight
Her sisters hurtle earthward.
Another finds itself
Trapped in nearby branches.

She watches far from danger
What happens down below
The figures on the ground
Soon fill the kite with wonder.

The one that holds her string
Points finger towards the peril
“Hold it tight. Don’t let it go”
Says father to his daughter.

The father helps to save her sisters
And that is when she sees.
That  people down below
Are similar, yet not, like kites.

People come in colors
And a wide array of sizes.
The kite beholds from  lofty perch
A beautiful community

A hundred shapes and sizes
Upon the green hued grass
Trees, and squirrels and each other
They share this place called earth.


Hello, I know its been awhilegaslight

I’ve been thinking of you,

as long as I’m sure you think of me.

I’ve kept tabs, checked things out

because I care, you must see.


You’re doing well, I’ve noticed.

Its as well as can be expected

to see the progress that you’ve made.

You’ve got spunk, always have

Its nice to see that displayed.


My life is beyond terrific.

My accomplishments are many

I’m blessed, so cant help but flaunt

I’m grateful, for my freedom.

You gave me all I want.


But yet you see hardship.

That bothers me, to see

The pain, the demons that you fight

You don’t listen, never would,

When you knew that I was right.


Just, remember, I’m watching

And leave you this advice

Move on, heal yourself, just let go.

Until that random next time

When my presence, I bestow.


moonlit windowI listen to the sound of dark
While everyone is sleeping
Nebulous tones most won’t hear
Are why awake, I’m keeping.
My brain synapses must be afraid
Of what they may be missing

I check the time, yet again
To see how much is passing
Time slows down to a crawl
When it’s sleep, that I’m not getting
Please, dear body, tell my brain
Of the dreams they now are missing.

Be A Pebble

In this world ofripple instant information, being an empath can be a challenge. People like myself sometimes physically feel, or close to it, the emotional impact of what happens to others.

Acts of violence and atrocity that I read about can make me want to weep. It makes one like me feel frustrated helplessness. Every time I hear how people fear, hate, every time I hear, or read about people who have such little disregard for humanity of others I want to somehow wade in and fix it, But I can’t.

If I could, I’d take every refugee, every victim, every sick, lost and abandoned soul home with me. But I can’t.

If I could, I’d turn every fist, every gun, every bomb into bread, butterflies and flower gardens.

If I could, I’d take every hate filled, greed and power hungry cleric, pundit and politician and make them hold hands until they learned to be nice to each other and to us. But I can’t.

So what can I do? I’m just one ordinary woman, a single person in a vast ocean of humanity. I can’t stop terrorism, or convince politicians and pundits to listen to the people and really work to make our world better. I can’t tell people and businesses to stop turning our planet into something that even planet destroying aliens would pass by as a project not worth bothering with. I cant reach out across an ocean and dry the tears of a person who’s life has been torn apart by war, or help bury their children, or even ensure they have safe place to lay their head tonight. I can’t even fix the many heartbreaking problems that are all over my own community.

What frustrates me even further is those who see our helplessness, and our tiny attempts to let others know we care, and scoff at our attempts as inept and ineffective. While technically they are correct, they are also quite incorrect. While changing a profile photo to the flag of a nation who’s just suffered a tragedy or a symbol to commemorate support for a disease, or other symbolic imagery, is small, it has a way of letting others know that we do care and are at least trying to understand.  Our scoffers are just as frustrated as we are, but they prefer mocking our tiny attempts, demanding instead that we do the impossible, fix the big ones.

I want to be a pebble. My tiny drop in the ocean of humanity rippling out, meeting other the ripples of other pebbles, who meet other’s ripples. I want us to all be pebbles.  I want our tiny ripples to be the mundane, but still monumental actions of making someone smile or laugh, or helping a beleaguered mom with two kids and her elderly father, load groceries into the car at Walmart, or by buying a coworker lunch even though they brought their own,  by giving blood, giving clothes I don’t wear away, buying a package of socks and giving it to the local soup kitchen.

Yes they are tiny acts, those little waves of caring, but when one act prompts another, and then another, and then even another, the potential…oh, the potential is limitless.

It truly bothers me when people complain about something like changing a profile photo as a sign of solidarity with those who are suffering. It saddens me when they want to deny those who are in need. By saying no, by being willing to turn people away, or blame them for their plight, and then turning around and trying to ridicule us for caring.

They don’t want to be pebbles, thinking such a thing beneath them. They are denying the impact of the pebble, seeing it as insignificant ripples while standing on the shore. They fail to see how far one ripple can carry, or that it always returns to us, acting as a gentle kiss of reminder of why we threw ourselves in.

For those of you who don’t want to do the insignificant.  I understand. It may be just that, insignificant. But I also know one ripple, or one attempt to reach out to help another can carry further than any of us could ever imagine. So I’ll continue to toss myself in that ocean, while hoping someone’s ripples, maybe even mine, will soon reach your toes.


But they won’t want me.
I’m poor now, and homeless
I’ve nothing to offer.
But they don’t like me.
My clothes, my faith
My ways are so different.
But they fear me.
I don’t understand
Why they see me as frightening.

Are you sure that you want me?

Do you want to feel safe?
Oh yes, it’s been so long.
Do you want to feel hope?
Please, for my children’s future.
Do you want to live in peace?
Is that possible?
Come, and let us both find the way.

Curse you Bathroom Scale

scaleOk, here is a disclaimer.

I have hypothyroidism, and several joints that don’t work near as well as they used to. Allergies, and mild asthma round out the list of fun things that keep me off the exercise bandwagon more. Add being over 50, possibly menopausal, and the task is just that much harder Losing weight has only been accomplished in the past ten years by losing a body part… a uterus and its resident squatters. Of course that was only temporary. This time around, I know its going to take a long time, and an acre of celery, but I’m determined to try to get a little healthier.

Since I started the project of “Make Less of Sylvie” I’ve noticed a weight reduction once in the past 7 week. That’s right one time. Granted it was a big drop a few weeks ago. Nine pounds over night. I never have figured out how that happened. Of course I didn’t complain, but instead felt I was on the right track, so I’ve done well on keeping under my calorie goals…most of the time.

Well this morning, I got on the scale, and those nine little fuckers had returned. I weighed myself three times too. I just know that little square of metalics and springs has been snickering all day long.




A Bouncing Food Baby


food babyOnce upon a time I was skinny. Once upon a time I could eat a dozen pancakes with peanut butter layers, the whole thing drowning in butter and syrup, and remain skinny. then I had kids.

I was still pretty skinny, but then I started having chronic back issues. The weight started to creep slowly higher. I was no longer skinny, but more average for a woman with three kids, who had a flower gardening addiction.

Then I had a hysterectomy. Even removing the Bubbette and Earline, the fibroid squatters that had taken up residence did nothing to what I was becoming aware of. The weight was still creeping upwards, and nothing I did seemed to reverse the trend.

Then I two things happened. I remarried, and received a hypothyroidism diagnosis. My new husband has terrible eating habits, Sorry darling, but you do, despite some health issues of his own, and I was just in “oh, crap-it-all, I give up.” mode when it came to what appeared to be a belly holding six months worth of baby. In reality it was a belly made of reese cups, bacon, pulled pork, biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes and chex mix. I was either going to be needing to give birth, or needing to be berthed at a wharf somewhere.

Then my son insisted I have a sleep study. Hello C-pap machine. I sleep with a full on aviators mask that could almost double as the face sucking monster from the movie Alien. My aging and expanding body had given me severe sleep apnea

Then my knee gave out, and I had surgery. Hello bigger food baby, as the lack of mobility prior to surgery and during recovery meant that anything I ate was going straight to “baby” and my butt. The weight was on an upward trend and accelerating. My designated fat pants were too small, and I had started to look for extra large sizes to wear

My kids gently suggested that I do something to get healthy…like shed a pound or thirty. My son set me up on this app, called Myfitnesspal and I’ve been sticking to it, even recording my cheating. Yes, cheating.  I’m sorry but potato chips, chex mix and a big old serving of biscuits and gravy sometimes just throw themselves in my hand and beg me to eat them.

Since the beginning of August I’ve lost a few pounds, each one sulking away almost without notice. Only my scale can tell, and my fingers, as my rings aren’t quite so tight any more. I firmly expect the next thing to start shrinking are the “toddlers” which is what I have named my boobs. The food baby, so far, refuses to shrink. As I try to do something exercise wise more often, I’m noticing more energy. I still deal with some chronic pain, thanks to joints I’ve been really mean to over the years, but that is slowly improving. I keep warning people not to get old. It’s not for wimps.

I am going to try to do regular updates on how I’m doing, help keep me on track on my progress, and hopefully help you exercise a chuckle muscle. I started at 234, I’m down to 225. Its the  most amount of weight I’ve lost in 25 years, unless you count my ex husband. I’m in this for the long haul. Will I ever see the weight of my skinny days? I doubt it, but could I achieve pre food baby status? Eventually, hopefully.