J IS FOR JURY

                                       

Both defendants were found guilty. One of minor assault; the other of murder and felonious assault. The former was immediately released from jail for time already served, but he was also fined. The latter was sentenced to 20 years to life. The jurors had performed their duty, and they were dismissed.

My husband was one of the jurors for that murder trial that ended this past Wednesday. Because he was instructed not to discuss it with anyone and not to watch or read the news, I never knew the particulars until the trial was over. Then, he was free to tell me about it.

 

The dead man was 50 years old. The two accused of murdering him were all of 28 and 35. I was not surprised to find that alcohol played a role in the entire matter. Those "for the heck of it" gatherings where people drink themselves blind can bring out the ugly in people. Such was the case among these three neighborhood men who had started drinking at the home of the 50-year-old fellow. Too much booze, not enough self-control, aggression gone amok, angry words exchanged, and a death resulted. Such a waste.

 

Very disturbing to me was the way in which the man was murdered. He was not blameless for escalating the day's earlier argument to a more fevered pitch. He physically attacked one of the men. As he lay atop the man he pinned, the other man came over and kicked and stomped on his head...repeatedly. Enough so that he lost consciousness. Then, as the one man struggled to get out from beneath the weight of him, the "stomper" took off running. While the man cried and tried to revive his attacker, the stomper made his way to a restaurant for a meal. ::shaking my head:: Within 24 hours brain swelling and a broken windpipe claimed the man's life.

 

Thus, the need for a murder trial.

 

My hubby was swamped with work during the trial, and he would set out early in the morning to get his job duties done as best as he could in the limited time frame he had. Then, off he would go to the court house. I could tell the days that had been difficult for him there. The days he was undoubtedly shown the pictures of the deceased (all jurors had been informed they would be viewing such photographs). The days he must have listened to both defendants give their versions of what happened. The witnesses' testimony. And finally, the toll it took on him when it came down to reaching a verdict for each of the defendants. He was more somber at home. Sometimes edgy. He later told me it was a very sobering experience. You are in a place where you are responsible for affecting someone's life. You are declaring them innocent or guilty...in this instance, affecting them in a monumental way.

 

He did his duty, and he did it well. All of the jurors did. While the legal system is oftentimes a sham and subject to the reckless whims of judges and jurors who have their own hidden agendas, this case seemed very traditional. The way we would like to think all of them would be and should be. Fair. Timely. Following the letter of the law.

 

As we stroll, stumble, and skip through life, wouldn't it be nice if people acted the same way toward us? Treated us fairly? Sought out the truth from us instead of relying exclusively upon third parties? Listened to us without already having decided our guilt or innocence? Dismissed or downplayed circumstantial evidence in lieu of eyewitnesses who saw it all from start to finish? Disallowed conjecture to enter the picture?

 

Unfortunately, that is a pipe dream. Too many people are judges and juries rolled into one. They determine and find the "truth" according to their own standards. Which, of course, is based on their own lives and what has or has not happened during them. And their agendas are no longer hidden when they publicly hammer away at others. Being a judge gives them a sense of importance. They are in control. In charge. And their personal vendettas surface. Never mind that they are much like drunken fools unable to see that they have, in fact, lost all of their self-control and given in to their aggressive (or passive/aggressive) natures using their sharp tongues or quick fists to keep the fires fueled.

 

No one is completely immune from having fallen into that pattern at least a time or two. The smart ones see it for what it is, and they get away from it to the best of their ability. Their vision allows them to see that they risk turning into a gutter snipe or worse if they do not exercise true self-control. Bravo to them. Now, if only others would follow suit.

 

There is a saying that goes, "Too many Chiefs and not enough Indians." Paraphrase that to read, "Too many judges and not enough impartial jurors." Works for me.

 

Closing with a quotation I find highly amusing.

 

"Judge:  a law student who marks his own papers." ~H. L. Mencken

FEMME DE LA NUIT

                          

               

I IS FOR IMAGINATION

                       

::singing...it was just my imagination running away with me:: Well, it really was just my imagination running away with me! It does that occasionally. Maybe even more than occasionally.

Since I was a wee one, I have had an active imagination. It remains very hale and hearty to this day. Heaven knows it has gotten me into trouble and caused me unnecessary worry on occasion. No regrets, however. It is what it is. And I prefer to think it has been good for me far more often than not. Wait. I know it has been good.

 

My imagination is much like a snowball. It starts out fitting nicely in my hand. It is easy to manage and quite light. Suddenly, it drops to the snow-covered ground and begins rolling. Growing bigger by the second until it is the size of an iceberg, and I become a small ship attempting to get around it but unable to steer away from it. The closer I get to it, the larger it looms. It portends doom sometimes. Other times, I want to be as near to it as possible, because it gives me a magnificent view of breathtaking sights.

 

It can be exhausting. It can also be exhilarating. My imagination has been able to take me places I would have never thought of going. It has awakened me from sleep with ideas that came to life during those hours when consciousness was at rest. It has solved dilemmas I was having. Created fresh, new ideas to work with in many areas of my life. Those in my world know if something requires imagination, to come to me with whatever it is, and I will conjure up the "perfect" idea they are seeking. It has also foreseen situations that might develop (and indeed have), and made me think of the possible ways I should react.

 

Certainly I can recall times I wished I did not have such a vivid one. For instance, I used to be absolutely terrified to be alone at nite. This developed when I was about 19 years old and continued for many years. It bordered on pure, unadulterated fear. I would see shadows everywhere that were surely those of crazed murderers making their way to my bedroom. Heard noises that could only be made by people wrenching open my locked doors and windows. I honestly felt like I had a neon sign flashing atop my home that read, "I am all alone in here." An open invitation to every depraved soul (who resembled those from The Night of the Living Dead) to gain entrance to my abode. My heart would race, and I would wonder if I should pretend I was asleep. Sometimes I was brave enough to creep down the stairs to hunt for the intruders. After I would finally fall asleep and then awaken, I welcomed the early morning sunshine like a long lost lover. Somewhere along the way, the fear virtually disappeared. My imagination must have decided to forego leaving that kind of litter with me. In its place are other delights and creatures who wish me no harm.

 

My imagination has become an unseen shadow that has merged with my being. More often than not, it is a dear friend to me that I have come to rely on and trust its intentions.

 

And since I recently finished my second acrylics painting, which is of an insect (see, starts with an "I"!), I will post it here. My sister had taken a lovely photograph of a dragonfly resting on a reed above a pond, and I based this painting on it.

 

                 

 

"Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to popular belief, is more powerful in the mature than the young." ~W. Somerset Maugham

MEMORIAL DAY

          

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

~John McCrae~

Have a safe Memorial Day weekend and take a moment to remember those who gave their lives for us.

(And a Happy Birthday to my mother whose birthday this year falls on Memorial Day. Smooches, Mom!)

H IS FOR HEART

                         

It has been said that when people develop heart problems, it rattles them to the core in a way unlike disorders of other body parts. The reason given is that almost all of us associate the heart with life and the center of our being. What symbol is used to denote love? A heart, of course. We live and love. Suffering from a heart ailment seems to jar our entire foundation.

Psychologically and physically, our hearts come into play every single day. Yes, so do our brains and other organs; however, we are aware of the heart in different ways.

 

Physically, when we are at rest, we might notice its rhythmic beating, or perhaps its irregular rhythm. Many of us know our resting pulse rate. Our ears often fill with the sound of our hearts pumping our blood. When we get a fright, doesn't the heart respond by accelerating its beat? We note it is working extra hard to get us through the dreadful scare. If we are fitness buffs, we consciously make it a point to be aware of our hearts during workouts.

 

Psychologically, our hearts hold us captive. All of us have experienced or encountered broken hearts, happy hearts, smiling hearts, bleeding hearts, sad hearts, cold hearts, black hearts, and the like. We offer "heartfelt" condolences to the grieving. And we really do feel their pain in our hearts. Maybe not physical pain, but our brain tells us that someone's loss weighs heavily on our hearts. Home is where the heart is. Who has not heard that said? Wherever the heart is, then that is where the rest of our bodies can be found or would like to be.

 

There are so many other examples of the value and place our hearts hold in our lives. Yet, there is also a phrase I find extremely meaningful. Sometimes, I believe it is overused by the media. When applied in the manner I think it is intended to be, it is quite powerful.

 

The phrase is, "That person has heart."

 

If we can turn away from the negativity of the news' focus, we are able to see a multitude of people who "have heart." How many times have you read or heard about someone who goes above and beyond the norm in an effort to help others even at his own risk? That person has heart. Mother Teresa had heart on a grand scale. We all know people who have it. Some more so than others. And we often marvel at the "heart" they display.

 

This past weekend I had the opportunity on two separate days to be surrounded by folks who have heart. Both events I had the privilege of attending were ceremonies honoring people.

 

Saturday evening's dinner extravaganza was something else. 1,200 people attended to watch numerous people receive awards for their accomplishments. No, they were not given those crystal trophies because they had heart per se, but I happen to have firsthand knowledge of the heart many of them possess. I have seen their compassion and selflessness on many occasions.

 

Sunday afternoon's ceremony was a smaller gathering, but the lone recipient of the honor had more heart than anyone I have ever known. It was evident by those who gathered to celebrate that the compassion of the honoree was abundant. People from all walks of life came: the elderly and the young, the ailing and the healthy, the rich and the poor, white collar and blue collar.

 

Thoughts about both of those functions have been replayed in my mind many times. I have some photographs from them I also keep viewing. I think what impacted me the most was that many, many people in attendance at those events themselves have heart. Maybe, just maybe, when a person is compassionate, he or she has a tendency to attract or be surrounded by those who also have that wonderful character trait. And it is appreciated.

 

"One learns people through the heart, not the eyes or the intellect." ~Mark Twain

G IS FOR GLASS

                                           

Moksha had written a Sisterhood Sunday entry asking if we thought the art of calligraphy had been lost in this day and age of computer-generated calligraphy. It was interesting to read the comments left in that particular post. And as usually occurs after reading something that stirs my mind, it had me thinking about other lost arts.

We pay quite a premium now to have beautiful furniture crafted for us, yet it was once considered a common practice to create finely-detailed pieces. But, with the development of machinery to "carve" and manufacture the wood into furniture, few people are left who can genuinely make elaborate furniture from scratch. It is the charm of the old world furniture and other objects that I believe has turned me into an antiques lover.

 

My aunt spent many years researching her family tree (which, of course, would also be my family tree on my mother's side). She had help from various organizations like the Mormons. They keep amazing detailed records. When all was said and done, our family tree was one of the most fascinating and extensive ones most people have ever seen. Some of my ancestors were royalty, and others were peasants. I have a poster-sized copy of the tree that my aunt turned into something of a piece of art. She is a gifted artist who paints oil portraits.

 

Anyway, one of my more recent ancestors is my great grandfather. His profession was that of a glass blower. My mother did not know him, since he died at a very young age. His lungs suffered from his profession and caused his death. I have watched people blow glass, and it impressed me to see the process they used to create such lovely and fragile items. Rare now is the occasion when someone declares their occupation as glass blower.

 

Two years ago my son, his girlfriend, her parents, and my husband and I went to an exhibit at a local conservatory.  Displayed were the blown glass pieces created by a man named Dale Chihuly. The man's work is beyond belief. Certainly you can see the wonders he has crafted in the above photographs I took. He excelled in working with glass until he was left blind in one eye as a result of a car accident. His depth perception was affected, but his love for his work kept him from walking away from it. To compensate for his disability, he has his selected artists work with the molten glass based on his paintings. One of his well-known accomplishments is making sculptures out of the blown glass. The entire conservatory was filled with his works. The way it was set up was stunning, because it seemed to bring to life even further all of the lush greenery that is a constant part of the conservatory. To see glass flowers among the foliage was a treat for the eyes. Some of the glass was even set into ceiling panels. The sculptures were mindboggling. I found it difficult to be pulled away from one to go see another. Such talent. Such a gift to be able to produce works of art that leave others enchanted and wanting more.

 

All too often I wish more of the "lost arts" would return...along with a less hurried lifestyle that was once upon a time.

 

"A lot of work I do is nature inspired or looks like it might come from nature, but I don't look specifically at something to make it. I just sort of have a natural feeling for using glass - trying to take advantage of the colour and transparency that glass offers and the ability to take this ancient material which is blown with human air, this magical material." ~Dale Chihuly  

F IS FOR FRAGILE

                         

There were quite a few entry possibilities for the letter "F" that rattled around inside my skull before I could decide which one to use. As it turns out, I selected none of them. I got myself situated here at the keyboard to begin typing what I had thought I would write when the word "fragile" came to mind. It seemed to fit perfectly. And maybe I will regret dissecting that word here as it applies to me.

I am not entirely certain what is going on within me. I cry far too easily. A song can get inside of my heart and leave me weeping. I can visit some journals/blogs and tear up in a matter of seconds while I read the words posted. I happened to stop for the first time at Christina's mother's art website, and I cried. I called my husband into this study to view her breathtaking murals. And as he stood to my right admiring her talent, the tears flowed down my cheeks. Such beauty she creates.

 

Thinking perhaps I needed to take a break from reading so many blogs and listening to my music, I made a point of doing other things with my time. Visiting with my mother, shopping, spending more time with my children and husband, talking to friends, having company over, cleaning, painting, and making plans for a trip to Chicago occupied my hours.  

 

I spent many a moment giggling, laughing heartily, and smiling. I felt the warmth of those moments intensely. And guess what? I either began to well up with tears, or I outright sobbed. They were not tears of anguish. More like ones of joy. Pure joy.

 

It puzzles me. For instance, on Mother's Day I went over to Mom's with a gift in hand. One of my sisters and her daughter were there. The four of us were having a grand time. There was much joking~as there always is whenever any of us get together. Because I am going to help Mom redecorate one of the rooms in her house, I was rummaging through a shelf in an attempt to clear it of unnecessary items. I came across a diary she had kept during 1996. My mother has kept diaries from the time she was very young. There are some years she missed, but not many. April of 1996 was when my father suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. I wondered if she had stopped writing in that particular diary when he took ill. I looked over at her and told her what I had found. I asked if I could look at it. She nodded.

 

The first entry I turned to was Sunday, March 24, 1996. This is part of what she wrote, "I noticed little rainbows reflected on my cream carpet. They come from the sun shining through the living room window and through the crystal candlesticks on my coffee table-so fascinating. I guess it shows that in life little rainbows can be found in unusual places to make life happier."

 

I once again looked to her and read aloud that passage. I had an overwhelming urge to cry. I could not help but instantly recall all of the dreadful things she has experienced during her life, and the simple words of hers about rainbows tore at my heart. Both my sister and niece were moved by her words, too. But not to the degree that I was. I choked back my tears and directed my attention to something else.

 

Those rainbows have stayed in my thoughts since Sunday. I think about the timing of her discovering them when she did. Her spending time admiring them and then recording in her diary what she saw. Perhaps their images were sealed in her mind to help her cope with the following heartbreaking years of Daddy's illness and passing. The promise of rainbows.   

 

And that is how I find myself these days. Empty or full. Edgy or light. Quiet or loud. Singing or silent. Vulnerable or strong. Laughing or crying. Yearning for an unknown something to complete me or feeling fulfilled. No middle ground. And the feelings can change in a heartbeat. It alarms me sometimes. How can I go from one extreme to the other like that? And just how long will this battle of emotions last?

 

So, yes, I feel fragile. Handle with care.

 

But if you mention the dreaded menopause word to me, I will punch out your lights. ::laugh::

 

"At twenty you have many desires which hide the truth, but beyond forty there are only real and fragile truths - your abilities and your failings." ~T. S. Eliot