dawn is mineShifting, rising, waking

at the sound of song,

shuffling into slippers

to face another dawn.

One pup in her bed,

one out his window peering

as silver creeps across the lawn

that night is done with sharing.

Coffee poured and leashes latched –

a canine celebration!

And quietly we slip outside

to face a new creation.

Winged musicians yawn a song

as gold slides in their nest

“Of all the visits light has made

today will be the best!”

Palm boughs drip with diamond dew,

mist parts their leaves to rise,

grass flowers disrobe to bathe

in sunshine from the skies.

Green flash seekers line the beach

to search day’s end for a sign.

They can keep the burning sunset.

As for me, the dawn is mine.



There was a time when all I was was right brained – I lived to play the piano, danced and didn’t care who saw, wrote poetry well into the morning hours, believed in love, stripped down to underwear and ran and jumped into the sea, and thrived on meeting and connecting with new people.

And then I grew up.  Or that’s what I was told happened.  I began to analyze the shit out of everything, to pick apart the music for the inaccuracies, justify everything I did or wanted to do with evidence and reasons, calculate income less expenses in my head while walking my dogs in the morning.  Getting things right became more important than being beautiful.

But now… I’m gonna regress a little and wallow in the gorgeousness of my childhood.  I’m gonna spell stuff wrong, throw a tantrum here and there, wear big hats and dance in my comfortably round body and skip down the middle of the damn road thank you very much.  I will drink in the morning, laugh when I sneeze, and stare at gorgeous paintings for hours barely breathing.  I will clothe myself in colour, blast music until my car vibrates, speak with flowery words, and eat dessert first.

The right brain, the part of us that is being killed off by education and expectation, is where beauty lives.  It is where the purpose of life exists.  Time to reconnect.


Ahhhhhmmmm... Nice Wings!

OK.  The Resolution is complete.  So I can allow myself to think about this and actually enjoy putting it into words – one of my secret delights.  Crankiness is over, I’m no longer pissed off and the day has started well.  With an uplifting view.  The Ladies who read this will know exactly what I’m talking about… oooo la la.

Now this is the kind of post a girl has to read and re-read to make sure it is couched in the language of the true artistic appreciation for beauty and to make sure she doesn’t sound like a lush.  But there are no two ways to say it – there are few things on Planet Earth more beautiful than a nice WINGSPAN.  The space between the tips of the feathers-fingers and the ripple of skeleton-and-muscle-mass well defined and artfully designed.  Better than poetry for a discerning watcher.

The rest of the body might have room for improvement – teeth may be crooked, eyes close, legs short.  But who cares when the wings look about likely to fly – or lift heavy things real high?  A paunch might sit loosely around the waist, but isn’t important if all is right in the right place.

Of course we are taught to seek out one with a good head on his shoulders.  But isn’t there something to be said for good shoulders?

Enjoy your day my ladies!  I hope you spot a good WINGSPAN!

The Stiletto

Size does matter.  The heel must be no less than four inches long and fine pointed.  She must feel her thighs tighten, her toes stretch, and her bottom go POP.  Her back is that much straighter, her walk is that much more sassy, and her sexy underwear cannot compare to the power of The Stiletto.

“You put high heels on and you change.”

~Manolo Blahnik

Known, for obvious reasons, as f***-me shoes, anything over four inches on your feet brings out the best in every leg.  No matter how thin, how old, how young, or how voluptuous that leg may be.  This is the piece of clothing that is for every shape and size.  It simply screams WOMAN.

The only lingerie that is socially acceptable for public wear, it is the completion of every outfit.  When a woman wakes up in the morning, does her hair, sprays perfume in the right places, slips into some lacy undergarments and shrugs herself into today’s silk or satin, this is the only thing that seals the deal.  There is a feeling of completion when she slides pedicured toes and stands her smooth heel into the determined feminine arch of The Stiletto.

Red Bottoms from Christian Louboutin – Lingerie you can wear in public!

As every Single Woman knows (and I have told her) the lacy underwear isn’t about him.  It’s about how it makes you feel.  This does NOT apply to The Stiletto.  The Stiletto is for the benefit of EVERYONE in a five-mile radius of her power sashay.

Stiletto Stories – As if you needed proof…

    1. Cinderella  –  Wait…don’t tell me you thought those slippers were flat!
    2. Marilyn Munroe – “I don’t know who invented high heels, but all women owe him a lot.”
    3. In Her Shoes – even the most nerdy of sisters can wear her kinky side on her feet.
    4. Meg Ryan – “When I wear high heels I have a great vocabulary and I speak in paragraphs.  I’m more eloquent.”
    5. Kellie Pickler – The song is Red High Heels.  Breakup song that needs to be added to the list!
    6. The Devil Wears Prada – Or Christian Louboutin.  Watch it.
    7. There is an entertainment company called Stiletto Entertainment – not named by accident.  Designed for success
    8. Tori Spelling – “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I put on six-inch heels and wear nothing else and dance around in front of the mirror and do my little stripper dance” (I KNEW I liked that girl!)
    9. Sex And The City – Carrie’s obssession with the Manolo Blahnik is legendary
    10. Keri Hilson – Look for her song High Heels!

The list goes on and on… but you get it.

If you don’t have a pair of these in your closet, you have 24 hours to fix that grave error.  GO!

Trust the Glue

Each one of us over millenia have reflected a distinct and unique part of the Light.  We are each created in God’s image and yet we are unique.  Every one of us is a mirror created to reflect His identity, his Light, in flashes of lightning, mellow sunrises and passionate sunsets.  He is like the sky and each of us a tiny sequin.  No two sequins reflect the same picture and the sky is so massive that there will never be enough sequins to reflect it all.  This is the basis of a Christian’s identity.  Whether or not we believe God called us into being or that there was a Big Bang, or, like me, believe that God’s enormous voice called out a Big Bang, it is not how it happened but what happened that ties us together.  We found ourselves here.  Reflectors of His image.

Then came imperfection.  Like a hammer it shattered the mirrors into shards and pieces.  Now there are little bits of the image cracked apart by black emptiness of holes, scars and craters.  Some have fewer or smaller pieces than others.  But all are cracked.  Each crack hurts – the edges are sharp and jagged.  The pieces come into conflict with each other and the pieces of one slice into the creatures around.  This is the brokenness that is the basis of Christian sorrow.  The horror that salvation saves us from.

Grace was born.  The glue born of the Light that stuck the pieces together.  The stem cell that generated new pieces of mirror in gaping cracks.  The solvent that rinsed the tarnish off the pieces and let them better catch the Light.  The healing balm that erased the pain of jagged edges.  This is the Christian salvation.

We are mirrored beings cracked and broken, reflecting light in places of darkness.  Some consciously choose to shed their pieces, succumbing to the will of the deep, moving like the demons and tearing off the pieces of others’ images.  Putting out their light.  Their reflection.  But never ever destroying the Light.

Then there are others, torn between light and dark or simply oblivious to the battle of the two.  Blinking and turning they now reflect and then they don’t.  They are unaware or reckless to the knowledge that they are a mirror designed to catch and explode in beauty, in the Light.  Their pieces are neglected, tarnished, and dangling by an edge to the image.  Some yearn to be beautiful and pure without knowing how.  Others have no idea that they aren’t.

So fragile are we and so beautiful our pieces that we cannot begin to comprehend our own complexity.

And then there are the Children of the Light.  Caught up by and addicted to God’s love.  Coming out of the dark, some are drawn out by a glimpse of a sunbeam, others by a lightning storm, others still by simply opening their eyes to dazzling brilliance all around them.  All are cracked.  All are in some state, each a unique state, of disrepair.  In the Light the glue goes to work, the solvent begins to rinse, and the stem cell is planted in the heart.  There is healing and pain is attacked and prevented.  The pieces no longer hurt as they did and the sharp edges of others cannot cut through the glue.  The process is intense, life changing, image changing, but first and foremost it is heart changing.

So fragile are we and so beautiful our pieces that we cannot begin to comprehend our own complexity.  Much less so is our ability to grasp the complexity of our God and our Light, bigger than the sky that two eyes alone are unable to fully see.  So unique was each original purpose and destiny and so unique is our damage that we cannot begin to understand the extent to which we are broken.  Our own brokenness is a mystery to us… how then can we expect to understand, decide on, and judge the brokenness of others?

But even more mysterious is our gift of Grace.  The one thing that is never changing, never tarnished, never dark.

We are but pieces of glass yearning for the Light.  Our wholeness depends wholly on the glue.