This thing called love…

This thing called love is a fickle beast. It’s warm and gentle. It’s hurtful and rude at times. It’s sweet and innocent or jealous and spiteful. Loving someone can hurt, if it’s unrequited. Sometimes even requited love can hurt. Love teaches us about ourselves and others. It, also, shows our loved ones how we feel. Love has many different faces, words, and actions. Sometimes love looks like a mom tying her child’s shoe, or a dad teaching his son to catch. It’s a parent making their young adult child learn from their own mistakes and supporting them in their decisions afterwards. It’s a girlfriend holding her boyfriend’s hand during hard times. It’s a husband holding his wife’s hand during childbirth. It’s a friend telling you that you’ve made a big mistake. It’s your child wiping the tears away when they catch you crying…over spilled milk, of course. It’s giving your loved one space when needed, and being with them when you know they shouldn’t be alone. 

The most important thing about love is that it is. Love is. 

Love is. 


Life has happened…

Wow, the past nine months have been so busy, but these last four have just about killed me!  Between school, homework, papers, my son, his therapy, and life, I’ve just about got enough left over to be a regular person.  This Spring semester was the hardest.  I almost literally never really had time to just breathe and get organized.  It was always one thing after another, and I was constantly trying to write papers in between EVERYTHING else.  My weeks were constantly on-the-go, and could hardly get enough time to completely finish a thought…let alone write it down.  However, the semester has ended and I find myself with some “spare” time.  I have begun making para cord bracelets (see my Etsy page: and facebook page:  I’ve also started a Facebook page for parents who have children with Autism (, so parents have a place to vent, praise, and learn about their Au-some kiddos.

My hope for this summer:  to do well in school, build my bracelet business, shed some light on Autism and what it’s like to be Autistic, work on my novel, read A LOT, and write more poetry.  I did manage to write about six poems this semester (I’ll post them separately later), and they’re actually pretty good.  Each poem has a bit of a description since they were written for my Intro. to Poetry class, but I’m happy with them.  I’ve never had to write a poem where I was told that it had to reflect something/someone else or someone else’s work, so it helped me to exercise my poetry brain.

I took a class called Readings in the Short Story, and that one really helped me figure something out.  I’m just not cut out for writing a novel.  For our final paper, we had to either write a short story or do a research paper which had something to do with one of the stories we read for the class.  I decided to use a section of my novel for this purpose, because I figured the story was already there and I could just edit it for content and structure.  I seriously thought it would be a piece of cake.  I was so totally wrong!  It took me over a week to edit it enough to be somewhat satisfied with it, and I still wasn’t done.  Granted, my professor said it didn’t have to be perfect, but it had to be perfect for me.  I was my novel after all.  I have no idea what kind of grade I got on it, but I did get an A for the class…like I’d get anything less ;).  Anyway, after working on that section of my novel, I decided that maybe it would be better if I turned it into a short story.  I could divide the entire novel into shorter sections that could stand alone, and would also tie into the other sections.  It would help to alleviate the stress of getting the first draft done, and it would also make the editing less time consuming.

You see, short stories don’t necessarily need excessive detail and it’s a bit easier to leave out back story.  You can just essentially write a scene and be done.  There’s no need for great details, because it’s all left to the reader.  However, by linking the short stories together, questions will be answered, but the reader can still use his/her imagination to put the pieces together…or they can choose to just see each part as individual stories.  I so love this idea much better…plus I can throw some poetry in there and books can fly off the shelves!

On that note, I think I’ll get back to my motherly duties…you know…laundry, cleaning, and paperwork for the Little Dude’s therapy stuff.

Have a great day, and I’ll see you all soon 🙂


I absolutely love how this author compares something as simple as a towel to life and its simplicities.  Life should be simple, and the smallest or seemingly insignificant things have a purpose.  Sometimes, those small things have a bigger purpose than we can readily see.    I honestly wish I had a bit more to say about this poem, but I just don’t.  I love the simplicity of it, the use of a common household item as symbolism for something much bigger.  Yet, it’s also open to the reader’s interpretation.  Bravo, Mr. Hazo, bravo.




by Samuel Hazo

What purpose have they but to rub
    skin dry by being drawn behind
    the back two-handed down
    the showered spine or fluffed
    between the thighs and elsewhere?
Yardgoods lack what towels
    proffer in sheer, plump tuft.
Wadded after use and flung
    in hampers to be washed, they clump
    like the tired laundry of men
    who sweat for a living.
                                                    Spun dry
    or spreadeagled to the sun,
    they teach us what renewal means.
Touch them when they’re stacked or racked,
    and what you’re touching is abundance
    in waiting.
                          Imprinted with the names
    of Hilton or the Ritz, they daub
    with equal deft the brows
    of bandits or the breasts of queens.
What else did Pilate reach for
    when he washed his hands of Christ
    before the multitudes?
    when retired to the afterlife of rags,
    they still can buff the grills
    of Chryslers, Fallingwater’s windows
    or important shoes.
    small, it seems they have
    their part to play.
                                                    But then,
    en route from use to uselessness,
    it’s no small asset ever
    to be always good at something.

“Towels” by Samuel Hazo from The Song of the Horse. © Autumn House Press, 2008. Reprinted with permission.

For Fathers of Girls by Stephen Dunn

I subscribe to a website called “The Writer’s Almanac,” and they send me an email daily with a new poem.  This is the one I received today, and I must say, I do like it very much.  I love it when poets tell a story without actually spelling it out for you.  I like to read something, then sit back and say “huh?”  Lately, they’ve been putting out sub-par poetry, but this one was well written, in my opinion.  I hope you all enjoy 🙂


For Fathers of Girls

by Stephen Dunn

          for Susanne

When sperm leaves us
and we cockadoodledo
and our wives rise like morning

the children we start
are insignificant as bullets
that get lodged, say,

in a field somewhere
in the midwest.
If we are thinking then

it is probably of sleep
or the potency of rest, or
the one—hand catch we made

long ago at the peak of our lives.
Later, though, in a dream
we may imagine something in the womb

of our heads, neither boy nor girl,
nothing quite so simple.
But when we wake, our wives are

breathing like the wounded
on the whitest street in the world.
We are there

we are wearing conspicuous masks
for the first time,
our eyes show the sweat

from our palms.
Suddenly we are fathers
of girls: purply, covered with slime

we could kiss. There’s a cry,
and the burden of living up
to ourselves is upon us again.

“For Fathers of Girls” by Stephen Dunn, from New and Selected Poems. © Norton, 1994. Reprinted with permission