A Bumpy Path:Steps of Positive Change

Countdown

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 17:18:00 PDT

This golden girl’s saga continues…

Suffice it to say that it was a bit premature to feel better about this whole Obstructive Jaundice/Gallstones mess that I found myself in. (Read What healthcare system? and Life goes on for this golden girl to get the full story.)

By Sunday, my tolerance for the lack of forward motion dwindled to nil. The surgeon’s nurse didn’t call me back with the answer to the question about taking the gallbladder out before having an ERCP.

Deflated and angry, and feeling worse every day that passed, I vented in the only way I know how: I wrote. It took a bit of searching to find places on the UAMS site to communicate, and stumbled on two. One was a form found by following a bunch of links through the physician referral section, and the other a “comment” email address.

If you know me, you know that if I am passionate – or angry – I tend to write in $10 words. I imagine it to be my way of asserting myself with diplomacy instead of ripping new bodily orifices. So, short and sweet, I penned my attack. The first paragraph was the history of the situation. The second paragraph went like this:

At this point, I am extremely jaundiced and in a great deal of discomfort after meals. However, my greatest dissatisfaction is with the lack of cooperation between professionals who's primary goal is patient care. I am afraid I am running out of coins to toss in my favor, with the very real chance of an illness far more severe than what I am already suffering in the near future.
Please look into this situation and help me bring this to resolution.

Oh, if only those words could hold the tense, clenched teeth and hissing voice that I imagined when I wrote it! I had hopes though, and hit the Send button with enough force to warrant pity for my innocent mouse.

Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. I checked my inbox and kept checking my phone, and nothing. Tuesday afternoon, I called the nurse. She’s always so sweet and apologetic that I quickly forget my anger. But, this conversation netted the revelation that she was told the UAMS Gastro doctor wasn’t accepting self-pay patients!

In essence, if a procedure is elective, there is nothing to guarantee a person without health insurance can have that procedure done. But, it is against the law to turn away an emergency. Therefore, since an emergency is much more expensive, the hospital and doctor will lose a whole lot more than if the same procedure was done as an elective. Where is the logic in this?

Lo and behold, Wednesday morning, UAMS calls me. First a nurse tells me that the Gastro doc received an email and he wants to see me that afternoon. I asked a few questions, asked about the many referrals from my surgeon’s office, and suddenly, the infamous doctor himself is on the phone with me. It wasn’t until the nurse was back on the line to tell me to bring my insurance ID that I told them that I was self pay. I could hear her hold her breath for a few heartbeats before she told me that the appointment would cost $104. Fine. Just fine. I’ll be there.

Keep in mind that I’m at work, making a mad dash to arrange a sudden trip to Little Rock between work tasks and updating my boss. Tim went with me, and a friend, in the midst of doing the same mad dash to arrange knee replacement surgery for her husband, drove us down to the massive jungle that is UAMS. But, feeling worse by the minute, not before I left work early to lay down for an hour before journeying south.

My very yellow coloring announced me well, along with an adamant refusal when the doctor reached to palpate my stomach. The ERCP is scheduled for tomorrow. I am on the verge of sepsis and it can’t be delayed any longer. I insisted on being knocked clean out, I throw up when I wake up, and I must be knocked clean out. Nervous as hell, my mouth ran a mile a minute and returned often to the “I must be knocked clean out.” The doctor won my heart when he said, “I don’t care if you’re self pay, I will take care of you. I will be right there with you.”

On the way home, we stopped at a new Chinese restaurant to eat. I was famished – and prepared for the following agony. To my delight, one of the waitresses quickly created the beautiful lotus out of a paper napkin and handed it to me. What an honor to be the recipient of such simple beauty that completely took my mind off my predicament.

Finally, the ERCP is scheduled for tomorrow. I hope I make it that long.

Life goes on for this golden girl

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 06:43:00 PDT

Diagnosed on February 29, and still, nothing has been done. I’ve called myself “the golden girl” for the past week, jokingly. Despite the obvious yellow color, I’m not overly sick; just uncomfortable now and then. And tired.

I figured I’d hear something on Monday. For me, Mondays are productive. I get organized, I tie up loose ends, I plan out what to do when. Mondays are also the busiest days of the week in the office, so the day flew by. It wasn’t until the day was done that I realized UAMS didn’t call and didn’t schedule the ERCP. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I had the time to call the surgeon’s office.

The sweetheart of a nurse was surprised when I told her I was still sitting and waiting. She’d call down there, then call me back, and she did a few hours later.

“I’m so frustrated,” she said. “All this time, I’ve been referring patients there with no problem. This time, they decided I was referring all wrong, so I had to refer you again.” There was an implied promise to have the procedure scheduled by the end of the day.

“I’m confused,” I said. “I thought this was a pretty important thing to have done ASAP, or is it not that bad?”

Yes, the doctor thinks it’s bad, and yes, it has to be done soon. “Are you itchy yet?” Well, I wasn’t – until she asked me. But no, I’m not itchy yet.

Other options? Sure – if I had $1,000 up front, I could have it done at Baptist Medical. Finally, the nurse told me to bring a book and go to the ER at UAMS when I’m bad again. They’d have to do the ERCP then. They can’t schedule me, and I’m supposed to trust them to do the procedure right?

Will the surgeon schedule and remove my gallbladder before the ERCP? Give me a light at the end of my tunnel, I said, and maybe he can eyeball things when he’s in there to see if that ERCP really is necessary. No, it doesn’t work that way, but she’d ask and call me back.

I felt pretty good after that conversation, pretty assured that things were moving forward. But, she never called me back.

So much for feeling better.

In the meantime, life goes on. Lawmakers have thrown a major wrench in things at the worst possible time, which means work will be intense starting April 1. It’s been so warm that we’ve had the AC running, and we’ve mowed the lawn already. Odin had his feet trimmed yesterday and is ready to ride. I’m not.

Then again, maybe I will go ahead and ride, golden color and all. Life goes on.

What healthcare system?

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 08:18:00 PST

Take a ride with me. I’m going to tell you the story of my latest bump. I’ll get over my angst about ranting over a personal problem, something I find a bit uncomfortable, because I know with certainty that my experiences aren’t unusual.

About a month ago, I ran through the drive-through of a local fast food fish place after a long day. I ate about half of the fish and cole slaw and went to bed. A half hour before the alarm went off the next morning, I was in the bathroom, sending that poor excuse for a meal down the drain in a projectile manner. Convinced I was dying, I called in sick to work and went back to bed.

Besides the hung-over, hit-by-a-truck feeling the next day, I was fine enough to return to the land of the living. Without thinking, I indulged in my favorite cheese. A few days later, I felt like I indulged in that cheese a bit too much. Right below my sternum and over the top of the two wings of my rib cage was a hard lump, and I figured I stopped my pipes up good and solid. That lump stayed there for almost a week with nothing moving through and the ol’ body retaliated in the only way it could by rejecting everything I tried to feed it. About to head to the store for some heavy-duty laxatives, my body presented me with the next symptom that scared me enough to skip the store and head to the clinic: dark, discolored urine.

I don’t have health insurance. For the most part, that hasn’t been a big deal. The walk-in clinic has been just fine for the occasional flu and infection treatment without breaking the bank. And, the folks there are quite competent – and careful. What more could you ask for?

I rattled off my symptoms, gave a gallon of blood, peed in the cup and was tickled unmercifully by the ultrasound wand. The verdict: gallstones and a plea for me to seek a surgical consult. ASAP.

Uh oh. No health insurance. That ain’t happening. I can’t afford surgery out-of-pocket, not on what I earn.
I slept on it. Well, sort of slept. Too uncomfortable to sleep and more than a bit sore. I broke down and called the clinic for that surgical consult appointment. I bit the bullet and decided to at least hear what a surgeon had to say. And, I was a bit scared by the “ASAP” part of the equation.

For $100, I got to hear that yes, the gallbladder must come out, I’ll feel a whole lot better when it does. But first, first, I must have an ERCP because, apparently, what is causing my discolored urine and now obvious jaundice (yellow eyes and skin) is a gallstone stuck in the common bile duct. If that stone moves to block the pancreatic duct, I’ll be in a world of trouble. That is an emergency, dammit, and one that will take me down in a big way. Even worse is that there is not a gastroenterology facility in the area and I would have to go to Little Rock to have it done. Oops, no health insurance, so the only choice is UAMS.

Well, it’s been days since the UAMS gastroenterology department has had my referral. What is ASAP for me to prevent a major emergency means nothing; they have not called me to schedule the procedure. Why? Is it that I have no health insurance and will be paying for the procedure in small monthly payments for the rest of my life?

I passed the cheese block and had a ray of hope shining… until I asked the surgeon’s nurse if it was possible to pass that stone in the common bile duct on its own. Nope. Still jaundiced, still puking and still peeing tea. I can hope, can’t I?

The logic of this whole thing eludes me. It will cost UAMS much less to finance an ERCP as an elective procedure than it would an emergency. If this becomes an emergency, it would mean a hospital stay, more care, more emergency personnel and more costly resources, and since it would take me out of the running for a lot longer, a lot less money I could make and have available to pay for all of the above. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.

I am assuming, of course, that UAMS won’t turn me away in an emergency. Assuming. Are hospitals still bound to treat emergencies, regardless of ability to pay? I’m not so sure. Not so sure at all. Maybe they’re hoping I die before I make it down to Little Rock. That wouldn’t cost them a dime.

I know what’s happening isn’t unique. How many people today have to suffer with ailments that are easily remedied because of the lack of health insurance?

The saga will continue…

A day with Odin

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 22:59:00 PST

It’s a breath of fresh air and a sight for sore eyes to see the white fencing that runs across the front and lines the driveway. The short drive up to the farm is all uphill and the place feels like it’s much closer to the sky, leaving behind the small city’s noise and hubbub.

Odin’s pasture is back behind the barn, but as soon as he hears my car, he heads in to his stall to wait for me.

I’m here much earlier than my usual, after work time, in full light, and Odin is a wreck. He must’ve had a heyday rolling around in the mud because he was covered. The look on his face when I came out of the tack room with his halter and rope instead of a scoop of feed was priceless. But he met me at the stall door and put his nose in the halter, willing to do something a bit different than usual.

Curry comb first, to break up the mud and scratch the itches. Odin stretched out a front leg for me to scratch an armpit and belly. He brought his other front leg out front too, his way of lowering his back for a good scratch on top.

Inspired by our interactive communication going on, we headed out to the arena for awhile.

It’s been awhile since we played, and though he responded to everything I asked, his attention wasn’t always on me. There’s cows pastured next to the arena, a neighbor’s Longhorns and they caught his eye.

We ran through our usual things, which he did willingly and perfectly. I got a notion to ask him to jump over a barrel, but that didn’t happen. We’ll try that again next time. I stepped up on a flatbed trailer and walked him along side it. Yes, it will be tall enough to be a mounting block for me, and he had no problem with it. (No matter how limber I get, reaching a foot up to about the height of my shoulder to get on Odin ain’t gonna happen.) We worked a little on shadowing, then headed in, but not before I snapped another photo.

A scoop of feed and another of alfalfa cubes and Odin was content. Today, the cat didn’t climb up on the water tank to drink with him like she did the other day, but she thought about it. I guess she was still a little miffed about getting a little tangled up in Odin’s feet as he trotted around me in the arena.

It was a good day, a fun time playing with Odin. Time to head home and back to the city. It was hard closing the stall door behind me, locking up the tack room and sliding the barn doors closed. It’s hard to leave that peace behind. But, leaving the farm, I am treated to one last slice of beauty.

The top of the hill, much closer to the sky. It soothes the soul. I’ll be back tomorrow.

Not only on Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 13:56:00 PST

There is a charming little town set up on the outskirts of the city as a museum to preserve the history of what life was like “back then.” The buildings are a collection of structures brought in from many little towns – a cabin, a general store, post office, jail, a train depot and a few outbuildings. Striving for authenticity, the display is today’s interpretation of what life must have been like; with a few “holes” filled in with much more modern items (dollar-store throw rugs, color photographs, manufactured dolls) than would have been found in the late 1800’s, Still, when I toured the little town with my camera clicking away in November of 2009, I was caught up in the charm and the respect for the people who put the display together, all the while battling the incongruences in the back of my mind.

We all have our set of preconceived notions about the way things ‘should’ be. That is our world view, our frame of reference and the way we navigate through life’s ups and downs. When inconsistencies, incongruences pop up, the world is tipped, tilted, skewed until we find a way to shove those disparities into neat little compartments in our mind, returning us to a livable equilibrium.

The only southern state on the western side of the Mississippi River, Arkansas is smack-dab in the heart of the proverbial Bible Belt. Hailing from the north east, upstate NY, I had my own set of preconceived notions of what the Bible Belt meant, and at the top of that pile of preconceptions was the idea that church-going, God-loving people must be good people. No matter what the definition of “good” is, I wanted no more of the ultra-conservative, gangster, big-fish-in-a-small-pond mentality of the shit little town I came from.

More churches means more people go to them. More people going to church means more people have a sense of right and wrong. More values built in means fewer judgmental, selfish, self-centered, irresponsible, close-minded, greedy, cruel people. Right? If the constant exposure to the 10 Commandments and Jesus as a role model doesn’t minimize at least some of the darker aspects of personalities, what will? Right?

I long ago deduced that people go to church to be forgiven their sins, and that forgiveness gives license to rip through the week doing whatever ill they desire. It’s a perfect cover for the typical spouse abuser that believes everything is just fine as long as he apologizes after turning his wife’s face into a bloody pulp. He’s an outstanding member of the community, gives generously at church every Sunday, and no one would believe what goes on behind the front door of his beautiful home no matter how many of his wife’s x-rays prove otherwise.

For the most part, it’s not quite that drastic. Not all the time. But my heart sinks when I hear a capable, talented woman proclaim her life is good because God made it that way, or when a man sends out a prayer request that he finds a job compatible with his ministry – the man’s ministry, not God’s. Neither acknowledge their responsibility for their current state of affairs.

Take a moment to examine your beliefs, no matter what they might be, and be honest with yourself. Are you practicing what you preach or just spewing pretty words?

Just like it is unlikely to find a molded figurine with a Made in Taiwan sticker on its base in an 1800’s home is as unlikely that being a good person only applies to Sundays. Not hardly. You is or you ain’t. It’s that simple.

See more photos taken of the quaint, charming pioneer village of Little Red on my photo blog, Out in the Back Yard: November 2009 archive.

Ah, it’s a new day

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 02:31:00 PST

Is it a good thing, or a cause for worry? Every now and then, I’ll tell someone that I can’t remember if I had breakfast, let alone what I ate, so don’t bother asking what I did the other day.

On one hand, that’s good. My sights are set to forward, tally-ho, gung-ho and all that look-out-here-I-come bull-in-a-china-closet mentality at its best. If my feets are a-moving, that’s a good sign of life and I don’t look back.

(Have you ever tried to type while peeling a Cutie mandarin orange? Me neither, so give me a second to … Oh, now that is good. Was good. Where was I?)

On the other hand, I’m at the age where memory slippage just might be a concern. I’m all for trying things once, with some things earmarked quickly for the Never Again category, and memory slippage would be at the top of that list. The second thing, following closely behind forgetfulness, is getting so caught up in the drama of the day that The Moments fly by without notice. Not good. Not good at all.

Every day holds many of those moments that take your breath away and make all the rest of the crap worth enduring. And, if you forget, no problem. There’s more, many more moments ahead. You just have to recognize it for what it is, kick yourself back into life and pick up where you left off.

(That second Cutie was just as good as the first, and quite the ray of sunshine to my tastebuds.)

So there you go. It’s a new day.

I won't look back

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 20:18:00 PST

I won't look back. No. My sights are locked forward, straight ahead, myopic tunnel vision and all. 2011 was a year with as many shots up cut short as there were plummets to depths averted by twists, turns and loop-de-loops.

So no, I won't look back. There is only ahead to look.

It's all a blur anyway. I am blessed with shoddy memory, never remembering to eat breakfast, let alone remember what I had. And that's a good thing. It takes the sting out of traumas and dramas.

Because, you see, it's all about potential. It's all about taking each moment and making the best of it. Always. Time is linear; we are linear creatures and time drags us right along. We can go kicking and screaming, or we can look forward at what can be and make it so. Are there gray areas? Are there times when the fight against the tide muddies the waters and the vision? Sure. But, a simple realignment is all it takes to clear things up again. Straight ahead.

Yes, it's just that abstract. Take it from someone who can't do anything but wonder at the powerful drugs Picasso must've indulged in to create the messes he made and trust that the past is just that - a mess of an abstract. It's done. It's over with. It's set. Time to move on.

Ahead. I'm ready. A new moment is waiting.

Happy New Year!

Update: See? Picasso was a nut!

Sex isn’t a secret. It’s a key.

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:18:00 PST

Of course I remember; it was The Big Day. I had no idea why, though I suspected it was a Big Deal considering how many whispers behind hands were fed into ears. It was Sex Education day in the grade school, and we were all to watch a film shown to all the 6th grade classes that day. Whispers and wiggles. Whispers and wiggles.

I must point out that it was a relief that lunches were only long enough to bolt down the sad excuse for food slopped on a sectioned tray because they were nothing more than slab seats attached to slab tables that folded to move out of the way. The film started shortly after the lights went out, and that’s when the wiggling finally stopped. It must’ve been made in the 1940’s – it was black and white, streaked, stuttery and utterly boring. My seat because uncomfortable and fast.

I have no idea how it started, this ancient film, or how it ended, but I was unimpressed throughout. I had nothing to do with sex! It had hand-drawn diagrams with Latin words, the official words for body parts, and not in the least bit interesting. I was never one for cartoons or abstract art, could never quite see how it could be possible that there was such a thing as a Roadrunner or Popeye in real life, and that’s how I saw these line drawings of cross-sections from the waist down. I had never seen a boy with his pants down, and if that funny “womb” and ovaries were inside me, I sure couldn’t feel them. If there was a lesson, that lesson was lost.

That film showed menstruation – in drawings that had no meaning to me. It said that the womb cycles and menstruates monthly, the mark of fertility. What? But, there was no classroom discussion afterward. No one talked about the film. Even the whispers behind hands stopped. I took that to mean everyone else was as unimpressed by the film as I was, and that was that.

A few months later, my body kicked it in and I was horrified. I was bleeding! I hadn’t done anything, hadn’t fallen or cut myself and I was terrified to see the bright red blood. I was given a belt and a pad through a half-opened bathroom door, figured it out, put it on and went to bed.

The next day, I felt that line-drawing womb and ovaries with a vengeance. I went to school wearing the same belt and pad that I was given the night before. By the afternoon, the thing was soaked and heavy and I asked to go to the nurse. I had no idea that I would bleed and bleed for days on end! And the pain…! My father came to pick me up, never said a word, and I went to bed. I figured I’d die and I only wanted to be laying down.

It was another few years before the dreaded mating hormones took hold, and my response to them was based more on how my friends were reacting to them than to what I actually felt. All of a sudden, “sex” meant a lot more than just this damned uncomfortable monthly cycle. I had no idea how or why, but boys were supposed to stick the penis in, it was supposed to feel good, and nothing could be more important. It sure didn’t sound like something pleasing. Not at all.

By junior high, the girls that let boys put their pee-pees in them were called sluts. Nothing could be more important than to have sex, yet if you did, you were a bad girl. The boys knew which girls “put out” and they stood in line for it. But, only the jocks succeeded. The rest of us boys and girls just did the ol’ dating thing, and that just meant phone calls and an occasional football game or two. Boring.

The dance didn’t make sense to me, nor did it relate to that god-awful monthly period, and who knows where fertility came in. It was many, many years before I learned what pregnancy was, and by then, I was convinced that, no matter how many times I tried, I would never have sex that felt good. As far as I was concerned, my biology let me down.

All I could think during the past few weeks is how a few, simple conversations back then would’ve changed a lot about how I then went through life. Am I the only one so utterly clueless? Oh sure, things worked out for me in the long run, but maybe not in a typical sense. I didn’t become a pregnant teen statistic, nor did I catch a big, bad disease. But, that was luck.

So, what makes sex such a taboo topic between adults and kids? Not only would I have been spared a lot of discomfort growing up, but that’s not all. Look at all the kids sexually abused. What is it about adult males that drives a fixation with sex with children, girls and boys? If rape is a power thing, then what do men get out of dominating little, helpless children? And, how could these men then go around beating a drum against abortion? If you want to end abortion, end the cause by zipping up your damned pants!

There’s a lot to talk about, folks. A lot. What is our biology plays a major factor in life developmentally, psychologically, socially, governmentally and religiously. It’s the whole she-bang and at the root of how we all get along together. Isn’t it time the human race grew up?

Get talking! Sex isn’t a secret – it’s a key!

Just do your job already!

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 19:42:00 PST

I must’ve walked over these leaves a half dozen times before I really looked down. There, in a pile of leaves blown up against the stoop, were two leaves unlike all the others. Somewhere, a sycamore had dropped its huge leaves, but there is no sycamore around; not in the yard or the neighboring yard of magnolias; not across the street, not down the street. Yet, there they are, two sycamore leaves, joined with the countless others piled up against the back door step. That’s the mystery, the story behind this photo, and a pretty good symbol of what my mind has been caught up with.

Questions I’ve struggled with often rose up to the surface yet again today as I walked my usual steps through the day. These are the questions that I find ultimately separate me from a good number of my fellow human beings. No matter how many times I ask these questions, I never find a suitable answer.

How can you go to work day after day and not enjoy what you do?

I can’t do that. I tried it once and never did it again. Oh sure, I’ve had jobs that weren’t the most optimal, but there was always something about those jobs that I enjoyed. And sure, a few of them took a bit of imagination to produce a positive side to the job. But today, here and now, my job is doing what I believe in, what I enjoy and what I’m good at.

How can you go to work day after day and not do your job?

This one gets me every time I notice it happening. I can’t imagine going to work, being “on the clock” and not doing what I am being paid to do. To go in to work and not work while you are being paid to work is thievery! It’s theft, plain and simple. OK, in my case it might be petty theft, but it’s still stealing. This is beyond the scope of doing work that is not your best; this is doing work, any work at all.

How can you do a job and not actually help the people you were hired to help?

This is a question that actually puts the first two questions together, but asks a bit more by asking it. If you work in an agency that delivers a specific service to a specific segment of people with a particular need, then those people coming into the office are the sole reason you have a job to begin with. So, why resent when those people come in? Why resent that people actually have the particular need you are there to help fulfill? What, are you “better” because you don’t happen to have this particular need at the moment? Really?

How can you do a job and do a half-assed job?

My God, Jim! If you’re going to start it, finish it, do the whole thing, get ‘er done, do it all! Why? Well, you’re getting paid to do the job, the whole job and nothing but the job. Not doing the whole job leaves your work for someone else to do, and most likely be far more difficult to complete because of the problems caused by not doing it right the first time. Can’t do it? Then go find another job!

Then I think back to the picture of the leaves, those two lone sycamore leaves on top of a pile of the countless other, common remnants of swinging in the breezes. Going all Freudian, is that big leaf me? It felt like it today. I hope those leaves aren’t there tomorrow so that I’m not reminded again of all these burning questions with no answers. I might never find the answers, but the solution is obvious:

Just do your damned job already!

Test it out for yourself: the law of attraction

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 06:42:00 PST

Positive thinking goes a long way in making the world a better place to be.

Having said that, my mind drew a blank. How can I prove it? I thought of a rainy day. Sure, rain puts a damper – on some things. Like, it tends to make seeing a bit difficult when trying to peer through rain-spattered glasses, and it makes for a Bad Hair Day. But, a rainy day means the air is cleaned, the grass will grow, and colors stand out brightly against the gray.

It’s the negative thinking that tends to suck the life out of even the brightest, sunniest day. The ugly thoughts spiral down until no amount of sun can brighten the mood. It’s the negative thinking that gets in the way of finding your way out of a difficult situation, and what might be just a difficult situation then becomes a full-blown crisis. Think of a teenager waking up in the morning of her prom with a huge zit on her nose. Yeah, there is nothing more traumatic.

How you think – positive or negative – has an immediate impact on everyone around you. Negative thinking nets negative responses, and visa versa. How you choose to think, negative or positive, is the framework for how you act toward others. The people you interact with, as a result, react to and act toward you in the same way. In essence, you attract to you what you expect.

Go ahead, test it out. Let me know what you discover.

Speaking of expectations…

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 08:12:00 PST

I find this time of year a bit difficult. It seems like the color is just washed away and everything is left a sad, drooping gray. My mood droops along with it.

There’s an unexpected plus, getting into photography. Looking around constantly, my mind’s eye searches for anything that might be remotely interesting within the lens frame. It’s like everything is frozen for an instant for a longer look at what’s really there instead of my eyes impatiently scanning it all in the search for color.

Yesterday, it was raining, sometimes not so gently, during my half-hour drive up to Heber Springs. The wind and rain had knocked all the fall leaves off the trees and most were a murky brown on the ground. The clouds in the sky were a uniform gray, lifeless and uninteresting. It didn’t take long to notice that color of any sort stood out sharply against the gray backdrop, with the speed of the car making those instances of interest more fleeting and startling in passing.

So, when my eye caught this scene, I checked the rearview mirror before braking and backing up. I rolled down the window and aimed my iPhone, hoping that the muted gray light was enough to capture the effects of all the fast and furious rain. There at the bottom of a small valley is a stream, quiet now, past the point of rushing to wash over the road. Bare trees, sharp rocks and drowning ground cover are all reflected in the still water, and you can see that it’s not the usual state of affairs for this little spot. Still and quiet.

I’ll narrow things down a bit and try to limit my expectations to myself by saying that I expect to be on the constant hunt for visual interest. It’s these moments, detached from everything else, that just might keep me sane. Hopefully, they’ll work their magic on you too.

Rusty old expectations

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 00:18:00 PST

Expectations are tricky, and they are everywhere. Some are covertly subliminal and others brash and smacking you in the face at every turn. It seems that no matter how staunchly we shore up our defenses against disappointment, those expectations find a way to sneak in a cold-cocked whack to the jaw every now and then.

I don’t watch TV any more; not in the traditional sense. I view a few of my old favorite shows online. I expect that I am better off not watching TV, sucked into its forced scheduling and endless commercials, watching mindless shows while waiting for the one I want to see. The old VCR used to ease some of that pain. I could watch the shows I wanted and fast forward through the stupid commercials, but then I’d be watching my shows a day late, after everyone else saw them, unable to participate in lunchroom discussions about them.

I skip the majority of the pain now by watching my shows online. I see them a week late now, and that’s ok since my half-hour lunches are too short to get into any sort of discussion at all, let alone favorite TV shows. I’m not even sure any of my coworkers have favorite TV shows, let alone be the same ones I enjoy.
At first, watching online was ad free. Now, not so much. I don’t have to sit through endless commercials like with TV, but that may soon come to an end. It started with one commercial stuck in where you’d expect a commercial break. Then, it became two. Now, we’re up to 3 and 4. And this all happened within a few short months. There’s not quite enough to leave it running and make a quick dash for the bathroom, so there’s no choice but to hit Pause, make the pit stop, then come back and sit through those stupid advertisements for brand new cars I’ll never be able to afford or Geico car insurance that I already have and now know for certain that my premium payments go for idiocy instead of in the pot to pay for any accident I might have.

And there’s Christmas commercials. Not all the time, not like I’m sure I’ll see in a few weeks; but still, it feels too early to be pumping Christmas when Thanksgiving hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it’s because I never noticed before when I used to watch TV because I spent commercial breaks in the bathroom. I guess Thanksgiving isn’t commercial enough to go overboard with advertisements.

Now there’s this commercial from Kay Jewelers. Have you seen it? This little boy dressed as Santa comes into the room with his antler-adorned dog and hands his mother a little box with a bow on top. She opens it, sees this huge, garish ring I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing and sighs an “oh, Santa” into dad’s eyes like it’s the greatest thing in the world to get that dime-store piece of junk – that, by the way, retails at $2,400 to $22,000 that flashes quickly by in the fine print at the end of the commercial. Like, that ring under the Christmas tree will really make for a perfect life! Seriously?

Hey, somebody better fax Kay Jewelers fast about the recession and the disappearance of the middle class. That ring is too cheap for the 1% and the rest of us, the 99%, sure couldn’t afford that huge waste of money! And, I’d be calling a divorce lawyer if my husband took out a second mortgage to pay for a gaudy status symbol like that. No, that is not the dream life, the desired way of living I expect. Nothing could be more out of reach than that. Jeesh!

So, here I am going about my business today and it hits me. There are times when my iPhone takes as good as photos as my souped up point and shoot. Now that’s inspiring! It also blows expectations out of the water. And then I see a bin filled with the remnants of the welding class across the hall.

Expectations aren’t limited to technology and the entertainment industry or even the marketing ploys of worthless-to-me products. There is a lot more, engrained deeply into our being so that we are not able to identify them as expectations but instead know that they are a given. There is that steel, the fragments of a sheet of metal left over from creating something. It sits in an industrial bin, piled high, waiting for recycling. It hasn’t been there long, maybe a day or two, yet already it is rusting, deteriorating, pitting and weakening. Metal, the strongest of building material, yet shows that its strength is compromised by the briefest passage of time.

It got me wondering about a lot of things. There’s a mountain of things I still don’t understand and I wonder how much of that is because of rusty, old expectations.

We Are The Many

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 05:43:00 PST

If you wondered what Occupy Wall Street is about, here’s your answer.

Nature takes its course

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 04:13:00 PST

Ah, the beautiful fall colors. So radiant, so vibrant, and here for such a short time! It’s that line drawn in the sand, the mark between an end and a beginning.

This time, I think to myself, I am not going to let the winter bring me down.

I had to make one of those huge, life-changing-or-not decisions, and finally made, I thought “that was that” and it would be done. I chose to stay the course, follow through with what has been a long time coming and that I’ve waited so patiently for. It means changes are ahead, but in the form of increasing the way it’s been instead of something totally new. I’m pretty happy with my choice, and the fact that I can change my mind later makes it the right one. Heh.

Bopping along with that choice made – it’s always a relief to end the decision-making process – I was doing fine until one lone comment crashed the party: “I get so tired of hearing people whine about losing everything…”

The myopic negativity threw me, caught me behind the knees and threw everything out of whack. Once whacked, all the other negativity threatened to come rushing in. The news is filled with negativity about coaches sexually abusing children, the peaceful Occupy Wall Street protesters getting maced and shot with rubber bullets, the piss-poor economy, all on top of the people I see every day out of options to keep their boat afloat. Add to the pile of crap floating around on a constant basis the tunnel vision of some people. You know the ones I’m talking about. The ones that think the unemployed are just a lazy bunch of slackers wanting the country to support them, and all the other right-wing, detached-from-reality bullshit that goes along with it, is who I’m talking about. Their world view is as far from reality as the polarization of wealth in the country is the way it was all supposed to work out. There you have it, the ever-widening gap between the way it is and the way it was supposed to be. The race for the all-mighty dollar turned into a war, and just like the Civil War, one side has guns and cannons and the other side has hay rakes and sticks. History repeats itself.

You see, it’s not whining. It’s terror, it’s a major threat, it’s more stress and it’s fright. It’s a caught-in-the-headlights kind of paralysis. We are all one foot away from that, and that you are not faced with losing everything right now doesn’t mean it won’t be like that for you tomorrow. It’s just a matter of time before your number comes up. That’s the way things are going and it will happen. It’s just a matter of when.

The thing that makes it possible to move beyond the paralysis is forward thinking, and what you and I and everyone else can do to keep things moving forward is helping people to see that there are options. It just takes a moment, some openness, some effort, to listen and help people figure out what their options are. That isn’t hand-holding, that isn’t becoming a wet rag, that is just consideration and compassion.

What is at stake here is the sense of self-worth. At this point in history, I’d have to say the most important thing that we all need to support in ourselves and each other is our sense of worth and value. When someone is in crisis, one moment of affirmation can be the difference between total collapse and moving into goal setting and problem solving. It is a life and death moment eased by one kind word.

That is the nature of the beast. It is the natural course of things.

The choice is yours. You can sit there and angrily, defiantly, petulantly defend your wobbly toe-hold on maintaining your status on that side of the unemployment line, or you can put that aside and reach out to everyone else who lost that battle. In the end, it doesn’t matter how much you struggle to hang on, you will lose. It’s not your choice. Not really. So why waste all that time and energy being miserable?

Nature must take its course. Here’s the key: It is natural to be considerate and compassionate. It is in our nature to be caring and giving.

Why fight it? Let nature take its course.

What dreams are made of

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 08:25:00 PST

Have you forgotten how to dream?

Have you forgotten how to hope?

Maybe so. Is it time to dust off and try again?

Make it so.

If you can think it, then it is possible.

Dreams are thoughts, uninhibited by your reality.

Dreams are your thoughts.

Thinking is your power.

That’s what dreams are made of.

We need to get on the same page

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 23:51:00 PDT

I can’t sleep.

Is it that tonight there is an extra hour to sleep? No. We fall back every year, but I’ve never not been able to sleep through it. So, what? My mind just won’t shut off.

The truth is, I am afraid. Very afraid.

I have a built-in excuse for not following the Occupy Wall Street movement as much as I want to: I work for a state agency, and like most everyone, I have to keep my job. I can’t rock the boat, no matter how much I’d rather speak my mind and be a part of the protests.

Sitting on the outside looking in, albeit from a distance, I can see where it is heading. And, I am afraid. Very afraid.

We don’t have a monarch, a king, one single ruler that is soaking up all the gains from the toils of his peoples. We have an oligarchy, a small group, that is hiding behind the shirt tails of politicians instead. OWS doesn’t have a clear “enemy” and as a result is without a unified purpose. Without unity, with only dissatisfaction to drive the protests, the movement may be doomed.

Or not. It could follow the footsteps of Syria and become a battlefield; a growing sea of blood as more people join the fight just because of the violence. It’s starting already as police continue to use excessive force toward peaceful protesters. What would it be like if the United States fell into war within itself?
I imagine that business as usual would come to a screeching halt. But, what is that like? Well, take the tornadoes, the hurricanes, the early snow, the earthquakes, the tsunami and multiply the effects by 100 and you’ll have your answer. No power, no communication, no shipping of food, no money for necessities, and all during winter. People will be freezing and starving to death. People will be stealing blankets, food, water from each other, not from the few that caused this mess.

There has to be another way.

Let’s face it, there won’t be any way to stop the greed. Deregulation set it loose, and there’s no way to close those floodgates. So, the answer is to bring on a drought.

The transition is the hard part, and it has to start with you and me. Stock up on food, pull your money from the big banks, and plant a garden next spring. Turn down your thermostat and wrap up in blankets this winter; minimize as much as possible your use of energy. If you can’t produce what you need, trade for it. I can plant a garden, but I can’t quilt. The lady down the street quilts, but has no land. If you can’t sew or grow, perhaps you can cook or teach.

The key is to move from selling your time to trading your value within a self-sustaining community.

No, I don’t have all the answers, nor have I thought through how this would all work. But the point is to smother out the big corporations and monopolies that have strangled us for so many years. Their gravy train has to come to a halt. Somehow, some way, it has to end. It is time for slavery to truly end.

It has to end, the way things are now. It must. But, it has to end in a way that we all not only survive, but come out ahead. The way things are now is not the way humanity was supposed to evolve. We are an intelligent, creative being worthy of a good life for all of us, not just a few.

We need to get on the same page. We are smart enough to do this without violence, without loss of life.

We all need to see the beauty.

The perfect ride to the Air Force Ball

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 04:59:00 PDT

As the sun set, the night quickly became chilly. Yet, those who parked in the distant lot chose to wait in line to be shuttled to the Air Force Ball held at the Little Rock Air Force Base last Friday by one of the three carriages provided by The Princess’s Carriage.

One look and you’ll understand. The all-white carriages were impeccable, and as comfortable to ride in as they were pleasing to look at. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves accented the plush romantic ride while the occasional whinny announced the carriages’ arrival.

The horse and carriages added the perfect touch to the airmen’s night. It’s a night they won’t soon forget.
The Princess’s Carriage web site has plenty of photos to browse, the blog tells the story behind each event and even more can be found on Facebook.

Rainy Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 08:25:00 PDT

On Flikr, the most often used camera is the iPhone.

After showing you all the photos of Heber Springs taken with my iPhone4 – and becoming used to seeing that quality of photo – I decided to dig my ‘real’ camera out for a few shots this morning.

The difference is astounding, even on the crappy laptop I have. There is much more color capacity, which gives a great sense of depth to the photos.

But, no matter which camera, digital zoom leaves much to be desired. There is a lot of noise and speckling, and loss of color gradation. It’s time for a full DSLR with a decent zoom lens.

I have to be honest: I stood in my back door, nice and dry, and shot from there. Photo ops were limited, to say the least. Still, the detail in the raindrops in the first photo and the rust on the corrugated steel make for decent stills. Besides, these are glimpses into my little world.

What do you think? Is it worth digging out the ‘real’ camera?

Caught up in big

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 00:07:00 PDT

This week, I started working out of a satellite office in Heber Springs, Arkansas. It’s about a 30 minute drive over winding country roads through the mountains, and the trip is filled with amazing sights. The most shocking sight to see is Sugarloaf Mountain.

Sugarloaf was the first thing I saw as I rounded a bend, and my trip to work circles around its base. The office is in this very long steel building that is what is known as the Old ASU. (A new ASU campus was built right up against the bottom of Sugarloaf and looks like a ski resort you’d find in the Swiss Alps.) Every time I walk outside, I look up at that square-topped mountain and wonder. Like everything else in this beautiful area, it is big in a big way.

And I do mean big. The woods along the back edge of the campus are dense and the undergrowth makes it impossible to walk into them. From what I could tell, there are a lot of hickory and willow and a few sycamore, and a lot of vine creeping up.

Today, the parking lot was empty today and the huge building was quiet. The old campus is now used for welding and art classes, and it houses Adult Education, Career Pathways, and my office, the Department of Workforce Services. Yesterday, someone was playing a bit of old rock and roll on an electric guitar, a nice change from the usual welding sounds.

Standing outside my office door, those sounds came from that third door on the left. I was able to pinpoint the sound on my way down the hall to the bathroom, which is way down, almost at the other end of the building.

It is big. Everything is big. And everything is beautiful in Heber Springs. I stuffed my good camera into my purse and have been carrying it around with me, but my iPhone is always in my hand, so it’s the camera that is always at the ready and the one I used to take these shots.

Just as big as everything seems is as quickly as wondrous sights pop up. I cross the Little Red River several times on my drive back and forth, and travel through some amazing countryside. Today, I saw huge geese fly up from the river and over the bridge I was crossing. Yesterday, I rounded a bend and found a herd of about 20 deer crossing the road. I pass huge ranches set far back and circled with white fencing, huge hay fields peppered with round bales and huge herds of cattle wandering through endless pasture land, all under a huge blue sky.

Yes, I suspect I’ll have quite a few photos to share before too long.

Are things getting better or worse?

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 01:33:00 PDT

"Things are getting better, yet people always think things are getting worse."

When I heard that, it stopped me in my tracks. It seems to be completely opposite of the way I’ve been thinking lately: Things are getting worse, yet people think things are better. I think it’s worth looking at, peeking around the corner a bit, just to see what’s on the other side. Hey, if something comes out of the blue that affronts a long-held belief, then it’s worth a look-see, right?

One of the major things about getting old is that it’s harder to remember things. Well, no shit, Sherlock. As time goes on, there’s a lot more things that happen, it all accumulates, piles up and gets deep. What, we’re supposed to remember it all? I mean, isn’t it logical that a 20 year old with only 7,300 days to his name could remember something that happened a few years ago compared to a 50 year old with 18,000 days to sift through? See what I mean? There’s no Fading Memory Syndrome; it’s just plain math. There’s just way too many things to remember, even for the sharpest Crayon in the box. It’s the needle-in-a-haystack thing, and my haystack is reaching mountainous proportions, ok?

The other day, an image was circulating Facebook that said something along the lines of, “Calories: those gremlins in your closet shrinking your clothes.” OK, now that they are identified, where’s the bug spray for it? Surely we’re smart enough by now to come up with an antidote for our growing poundage.

Hazy memory and all, it’s not hard to remember going to the grocery store and buying food instead of chemicals. Way back when they first came out with TV dinners, they were just as poor an excuse for food as they are now. But, instead of getting better, they just created more items labeled as food that are even worse. Go ahead and see for yourself. Right next to the age-old can of slimy noodles in chicken broth with the complimentary 3 microbial chunks of chicken for authenticity’s sake you’ll find an equally slimy excuse for potato soup and clam chowder and chow mien. A quick glance at the label’s listing of ingredients and you will see that we are all nothing more than drug addicts because we’re not ingesting food. Not even close. We are, collectively, existing on a diet solely made up of chemicals. Gremlins, indeed.

It hurts my head to think about it, but even the staunchest Republican can’t ignore the numbers that make up the great divide that is income disparity. My old memory ain’t so bad that I can’t recall the ability to earn a decent living, complete with a little pocket change after rent and utilities were paid. I remember the protests, the sit-ins, the rallies against the Vietnam War and the marches for civil rights. I also remember that we won a few battles along the way. My baby boomer generation fought long and hard for basic human dignities and equality, yet the Old Boy Network still has its death grip stronghold wringing the life out of life. “We are the 99%” might just as well get it over with and send the 1% our paychecks ‘cause they’re going to get it anyway. In the end, the baby boomers lost the war.

Cars are plastic, cheap garbage. Yet, a drive through the country and you’ll still see a few of the old steel dinosaurs going strong. I remember when Levi and Wrangler jeans were made in America and a pair lasted a good 10 years of rough wear and repeated washings. I remember when shoes were always made with leather, not plastic, and also made right in the great U. S. of A. Oranges came from Florida and California and corn came from the farm down the road a bit. Now, everything comes from somewhere else, and by the lack of quality, I suspect that ‘somewhere else’ is not on this planet.

I’ve seen a lot in my 50 odd years of existence. I’ve seen the advent of color TV, ball point pens, microwave ovens, touch-tone phones, cable and satellite TV, personal computers, the Internet and cell phones, to name a few. As exciting as all the advances have been, it is soured and tainted by the reality of it all happening for the sole purpose of greed. I am still looking for that one thing created for the betterment of mankind, distributed to everyone everywhere.

Can there ever be such a thing?

Then it hits me: This is all about things. Things are what we own, touch, ingest, and what drives us all to make money to buy these things. Our whole lives are wrapped up in this endless race to fill our bellies and our physical world. We all need to survive. It is survival, not an insatiable desire to consume as marketers want to believe. We are people, individuals, a society comprised of creativity and ingenuity.

At the core, people are good and have no desire to harm each other. People are so much more than the Darwinian notion of ‘survival of the fittest.’ People are good. It is against our nature, our hard-wiring to be greedy, ugly, selfish, harmful. We are good. You are good.

I think it’s time that we all remember that. That’s when things will get better.

What being on welfare is really like

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 06:20:00 PDT

No, no one can live on $162 a month. It’s not possible.

$162 a month for a single mother with a young child with mandatory participation in work search, school (GED, vocational education), paid work, on the job training, or unpaid work, minimum of 30 hours a week.

That is “being on welfare” in the state of Arkansas.

There is a long list of “musts” that go along with it, with a much shorter list of assistance in the form of Food Stamps, Medicaid, limited childcare and, once in awhile, mileage reimbursement. A mother must turn over all child support money received, must put in that 30 hours a week work activity, must participate in counseling, must vaccinate her child, must report any changes in circumstances, must meet with the caseworker twice a month, must sign a release of information…

To dispel a common misconception, if a woman becomes pregnant and has another child while participating in TANF/TEA, the amount received does not increase. To dash another myth, that 24 month limit is a lifetime cap.

Can you imagine what it would be like if this were your reality, your life?

Media blackout, misinformation, misdirection the beginning of a very slippery slope

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 06:43:00 PDT

The last few days, I’ve held my breath, waiting for the news about the “Occupy Wall Street” protest to hit the headlines; but I’ve been waiting in vain. Then, last night, I found a very short AP article about how 80 of the protesters were arrested. YouTube is far more forthcoming with news of the protest, though none of the videos’ view counts go over 50,000. As if finally ceding to the uproar about the media blackout, the NY Times shot out a quick, highly critical, painfully short of substance, article today where the obvious purpose is to fragment and vilify the story. The article implies that the protesters are nothing more than a few unemployed college students who have no idea what “corporate personhood” is. So, the information leaking out into the mainstream is only misinformation. None link to the Occupy Wall Street website, as though it isn’t easy enough to find via Google.

Of equal importance to us, those of us that fall into the 99 percent of people in this country not opulently wealthy and living the good life, is the fact that, once again, the government is headed for a shutdown. It effects us, the people, though it is of little importance to business. The Washington Post goes a step further in information deflection by putting out a story today called “Senate likely to reject House-passed spending bill; shutdown still possible” with an address that indicated the headline originally read “Boehner tries to give House GOP conservatives a lesson in spending fight.” In a typical Google search for information on the looming government paralysis due to childish politics using obvious search terms such as “budget” or “shutdown” isn’t likely to return anything substantial about what is going on about the crisis the everyday Joe is going to face next week if the operating budget isn’t passed. Since this round of budget negotiation isn’t married to the debt ceiling and the country’s credit rating in the global market, it has little impact on business. It will only effect you and I and those that work in government jobs and the military, and people who receive Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security, Public Assistance, Food Stamps, Unemployment Insurance.

We are like children sitting at the beginning of a very slippery slope. We’ve been pried apart, separated and exploited in support of a capitalistic economy of greed and are now stripped of voice, choice and freedom. It is a horribly frightening turn of events that blatantly worsens every day.

9/11–America’s obituary

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 07:08:00 PDT

The horror is no less palpable today than it was last year or ten years ago. The specifics may have blurred with the passage of time, but not the pain, the despair, the trauma of the birth of a new and different way of thinking about life.

The 10-year anniversary of 9/11 brings a torrent of emotion, and try as I might, none of those emotions can be called positive.

I grieve for the loss of a country with a future. Hegemonic or not, there was at least a semblance of humanity in the pre 9/11/01 days, and that is sorely missing today. For this reason alone, al Qaeda has succeeding in bringing ruin to the greatest country on earth. Sadly lacking in leadership, this country – and its peoples – have sunk into a barbarism, a marked regression into savage self interest that can only lead to an implosion and destruction on the scale that makes the attack of 9/11 minor in comparison. Yes, al Qaeda succeeded. al Qaeda won. One act of terrorism, not a war but just one act, resulted in financial and political ruin.

The huge, gaping wound still lies open and seeping. The site of the attack is still a construction zone ten years later. Those that gave their all in the aftermath to help are denied recognition for the price they are still paying for their selfless courage on that day. Like the veterans that served in a war fought only for the protection of profit, the heroes walk the streets of their living nightmare, alone and forsaken. The military veterans and first responders gave all and are given nothing in return, a nothing in the shape of antimatter creating a gaping hole in the country’s humanity.

The natural way of things, Mother Nature herself has worked hard this year to slap some sense back into the peoples irritating her surface. Earthquakes, fires, floods, tornadoes and hurricanes buffet and batter the millions who have regressed so fully into self-aggrandizing pity and greed. With the maturity level of a mass of junior high school children caught up in a St. Vitus’ Dance, politicians, those chosen by the people to lead, drown in squabbles and skirmishes with themselves, too caught up in their drama to do their jobs. They ignore natural disasters as much as they ignore each other, and the downward spiral continues unabated. Yes, al Qaeda succeeded. It is far more important to secure oil than it is to secure humanity.

I’ve had to write “9/11” a thousand times this week, each time felt like yet another pound of salt poured into the gaping wound. Still, ten years later, the wound seeps, aches and throbs. Instead of healing is infection, cancer, physical and emotional dysfunction. I almost envy those who lost their lives and were spared the total destruction of this grand country. The pain is palpable, traumatic and never ending.

We cannot forget. We will not forget. There is no way to forget when healing has yet to begin. Countless lives were lost that day and countless lives continue to be lost in its aftermath.

Be well, Larry

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 05:45:00 PDT

My thoughts are with my friend Larry, who is awaiting quadruple bypass surgery in St. Vincent’s hospital in Little Rock. A tight chest and shortness of breath led him to the hospital before he had a major cardiac episode, but blockage is pretty severe. Surgery was originally slotted for 7:00 today, but has been rescheduled for tomorrow.

I’m sending healing thoughts your way, Larry. Be well, Old Man. Be well.

When the wind kicks up

noreply@blogger.com (Theresa Komor) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 17:16:00 PDT

Like all horse-crazy little girls, I read all the Black Stallion books, cover to cover, over and over. Walter Farley gave the dream of feeling the power, the strength, the wind, the warmth and the heat of riding a horse. But, not just any horse. It was a big, black, incredibly fast stallion. I had no idea what a stallion was, and Farley didn’t quite explain it (other than it was a male horse), but I wasn’t all that happy that he chose to make the horse black. Black, at that point in my young mind, meant back luck, and the story pretty much played that out. So when Farley came up with a book about a red horse named Flame, I was in love. Hands down, a red horse meant fire, burning life and perhaps not so much bad luck. Even though a red horse, a sorrel, is the most common color for a horse and not exactly desirable, I still love a red horse.

It’s no surprise that the horse of my life is a big, red, flaming horse. Today, with the wind whipping up (compliments of the edges of Tropical Storm Lee), Odin treated me to his flaming side. Every time the wind kicked up, up went his head, his ears, his tail, and he’d take a few prancing steps back and forth. He was worried about something only he could see back along the tree line. He’s so pretty when he’s worried.

This had been an incredibly rough year. It turned from a crappy winter right into a miserably hot summer. I’ve spent most of the time hibernating in the house, sitting at my desk, hour after hour, day after day, week after week. Odin has spent much of his time alone, waiting for me. Today, the weather finally broke. It was a cool 81, no humidity and clear skies. And there was the wind. Lots of wind. Odin’s prancing and dancing was how I felt inside, and it was like life was breathed back into my tired, old body. In the next heartbeat, Odin took my breath away by striking yet another beautiful pose.

When the wind kicks up, so does life.