I just have to put this out there because I have been hearing all different excuses for this or lack of for years. Men that do not wear their wedding bands. Now, I have about heard every story in the book about this one.
"It's too hot, my fingers sweat."
"It's too cold, I can't wear my gloves."
"It bothers me when I drive."
"It gets caught on stuff."
"I don't really like jewelry."
"It's so uncomfortable to wear all the time."
"I usually wear it, but I forgot to put it on this morning."
I have heard them all. I'm not buying it. Not buying it one bit. I am a homing pigeon when it comes to wedding bands. .
I was a bar once, it was dark, crowded, and my friend says, "Oh, look cute guy across the way." I smile, "No, good. He's got a ring." She looked at me astound. "How the heck can you see from all the way here!" "Ahhh, it's a combination of raw talent blended with years of experience on the single scene."
I have become so good at it that I can even spot the occasional guy who tries to pull the wool over my eyes. At one occasion, a guy wearing a ring that I had spotted a mile away, looks my way and smiles. He starts approaching me to ask a question when he suddenly must have remembered, "Damn! I have a wife!" And, so he starts to very smoothly cover the ring. "Too late." I said. "What?" He looks at me trying to be slick. "I saw the ring, dude."
Here's the deal guys. Single girls are pretty good at spotting single guys. Married men whether they wear their rings or not are branded. Sorry, but you are. So do everyone a favor, keep the ring on. If wearing a simple band of gold is a burden, I can only imagine what the actual marriage must be like.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Love Story
It is ironic how Ryan O'Neil started his young career, with a movie by the name of "Love Story". His character falls in love with the love of his life only to lose her to at the end. I watched this years ago, I was very young, and missed the message. Decades later, life imitates art, and the message is crystal clear to this little girl who still believes in everlasting love.
Tears of joy should be shed when souls find one another and are able to share whatever time the universe allots them. Whether it is a "brief" romantic encounter or "years" of this life's crazy ride. No vows are necessary when true love is found, and words are even more of a burden. All that is needed is to look into one another's eyes and you will know.
Love is not about a big fancy designer dress, or flowers, or a big reception. Love is not about standing at a church, temple, or even a court room to utter vows. Love is not about diamond rings and empty promises that will probably never be kept not because you did not mean to but because promises almost always are broken. Love is not about spending thousands of dollars in a huge production to please the masses.
Love is simply accepting the soul that shares your life as they are. Love is being frightened in the middle of the night and being able to find comfort in the warmth of the soul next to you. Love is knowing that your time together is precious, that you both have demons to battle, and that regardless of life's challenges, you will stick it out together. Love is understanding that we are spiritual souls in human form and will therefore have faults. Love is sharing all that comes our way in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, till death do you part. And, this does not have to be said out loud, it just has to been known in the heart.
You do not need a priest, rabbi, pastor, or judge to confirm your love. You do not need special vows or a big party. You just need to know, and you just need to be there. Vows are a soft whisper from the heart on a cold winter's night.
Oh, yes, and my favorite line from the movie that was etched in my mind forever, "Love means never having to say you are sorry."
Tears of joy should be shed when souls find one another and are able to share whatever time the universe allots them. Whether it is a "brief" romantic encounter or "years" of this life's crazy ride. No vows are necessary when true love is found, and words are even more of a burden. All that is needed is to look into one another's eyes and you will know.
Love is not about a big fancy designer dress, or flowers, or a big reception. Love is not about standing at a church, temple, or even a court room to utter vows. Love is not about diamond rings and empty promises that will probably never be kept not because you did not mean to but because promises almost always are broken. Love is not about spending thousands of dollars in a huge production to please the masses.
Love is simply accepting the soul that shares your life as they are. Love is being frightened in the middle of the night and being able to find comfort in the warmth of the soul next to you. Love is knowing that your time together is precious, that you both have demons to battle, and that regardless of life's challenges, you will stick it out together. Love is understanding that we are spiritual souls in human form and will therefore have faults. Love is sharing all that comes our way in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, till death do you part. And, this does not have to be said out loud, it just has to been known in the heart.
You do not need a priest, rabbi, pastor, or judge to confirm your love. You do not need special vows or a big party. You just need to know, and you just need to be there. Vows are a soft whisper from the heart on a cold winter's night.
Oh, yes, and my favorite line from the movie that was etched in my mind forever, "Love means never having to say you are sorry."
Copyright ©Lucy Tamajon 2009
For Whom the Bells Toll
The life of a poet is probably the most difficult of all. You may think I am crazy, well, I am but that is not the point I am trying to make. Poetry is almost never understood. People just don't get it. It is confusing, upsetting, and just too coagulated to comprehend for most.
The poet's job is to describe emotions through words in the simplest of forms. We give feelings to objects that normally cannot feel. Trees bleed, ocean's roar, bird's cry. Often times the reader just does not understand.
Most of my poetry is dark. I rarely share it, and I understand why I don't. When I write poetry, I tap into a very dark and hidden place within me. It is almost as if it is not me at all. I transform into what I try to write about. I know that this sounds insane, perhaps, it is.
I had a professor once pull the most deepest of emotions from me through an assignment. The lesson was not to just write a poem, but become the object in the poem. "I don't think I can." He looked at me, "if anyone can. You can." And, I learned to transport myself out of my body to another place. I became the person in the poem, the tree, the river, the sky. I closed my eyes and learned to feel emotions and relate the feelings into words of that object. I remember writing about piano keys. He was impressed, "this is exactly what a piano's key would feel like if it could feel."
I keep my poetry hidden deep, deep, deep within my soul because it opens a window that few can relate to. I can now understand completely why some of the great literary minds have retrieved and lived confined within their own minds. The more we give of ourselves through our writing, the more vulnerable we become, and the less understood.
Hemingway was an alcoholic, ultimately committed suicide. Virginia Wolf filled her pockets with coins and walked into the ocean. Sylvia Plath put her head into an oven could not handle rejection. Yet, she earned a Pulitzer Prize for her dark and disturbing poetry. Elizabeth Browning was prescribed opium for her "affliction". Even the great master, Shakespeare was laughed at and struggled as an artist and died thinking he was a failure.
Emily Dickinson was said to be an anti-social and secluded herself. She died a premature death diagnosed by doctors as a cause of stress and depression. Upon her death, her sister instructed all letters and writings not published to be burned. Thank God a friend intervened. Emily kept her poetry vague and was often criticized and labeled as crazy and having a "fictitious lover." The more her work was torn to shreds, the more secluded she became, but she did not stop writing.
It takes great courage to pour emotions onto paper. Your heart bleeds and as it does, you write not with ink but with your own blood. And, then, you are misunderstood. You accomplish what you set out to do in the process, bringing the reader into a world they had never thought of. But, you, the poet is misunderstood. Hence, the struggle of the great love I have for words. Memorized by the power within my soul, I can only write what is in my heart.
My life closed twice before its close.
It yet remains to see
If immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell,
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Emily Dickinson
The poet's job is to describe emotions through words in the simplest of forms. We give feelings to objects that normally cannot feel. Trees bleed, ocean's roar, bird's cry. Often times the reader just does not understand.
Most of my poetry is dark. I rarely share it, and I understand why I don't. When I write poetry, I tap into a very dark and hidden place within me. It is almost as if it is not me at all. I transform into what I try to write about. I know that this sounds insane, perhaps, it is.
I had a professor once pull the most deepest of emotions from me through an assignment. The lesson was not to just write a poem, but become the object in the poem. "I don't think I can." He looked at me, "if anyone can. You can." And, I learned to transport myself out of my body to another place. I became the person in the poem, the tree, the river, the sky. I closed my eyes and learned to feel emotions and relate the feelings into words of that object. I remember writing about piano keys. He was impressed, "this is exactly what a piano's key would feel like if it could feel."
I keep my poetry hidden deep, deep, deep within my soul because it opens a window that few can relate to. I can now understand completely why some of the great literary minds have retrieved and lived confined within their own minds. The more we give of ourselves through our writing, the more vulnerable we become, and the less understood.
Hemingway was an alcoholic, ultimately committed suicide. Virginia Wolf filled her pockets with coins and walked into the ocean. Sylvia Plath put her head into an oven could not handle rejection. Yet, she earned a Pulitzer Prize for her dark and disturbing poetry. Elizabeth Browning was prescribed opium for her "affliction". Even the great master, Shakespeare was laughed at and struggled as an artist and died thinking he was a failure.
Emily Dickinson was said to be an anti-social and secluded herself. She died a premature death diagnosed by doctors as a cause of stress and depression. Upon her death, her sister instructed all letters and writings not published to be burned. Thank God a friend intervened. Emily kept her poetry vague and was often criticized and labeled as crazy and having a "fictitious lover." The more her work was torn to shreds, the more secluded she became, but she did not stop writing.
It takes great courage to pour emotions onto paper. Your heart bleeds and as it does, you write not with ink but with your own blood. And, then, you are misunderstood. You accomplish what you set out to do in the process, bringing the reader into a world they had never thought of. But, you, the poet is misunderstood. Hence, the struggle of the great love I have for words. Memorized by the power within my soul, I can only write what is in my heart.
My life closed twice before its close.
It yet remains to see
If immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell,
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
Emily Dickinson
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The All About Me Newsletter
It amazes me how egos get the best of us. How we lose track of what is really important in order to feed our ever growing and never ending egos. Most people think that it is just men that have these egos, but I beg to differ. Egos are gender-free.
I was recently asked to contribute to a local friendly newsletter put together by a group of what appeared to be very sweet ladies. We'll keep the identities of the parties anonymous so that we do not further feed their egos What started out as a group effort by all parties involved has turned out into the "ALL ABOUT ME" Newsletter for one particular lady. So much so that she is screening and deciding what to print when it is not even her job. Not only does she want to decide what is going to print, she is going to tell the writer what to write. It has become a one woman show all about her. What was a simple five or six page newsletter with basic and simple information has turned into a monster 15-page ego feeding declaration of "look at me! Look at me!" Oh, yes, and we cannot forget to put her name on everything even if it has nothing to do with her.
As a creative soul, I respect her ego's need for attention. However, I will not partake in the One-Woman Show. I simply withdrew from the drama and the bulling. Yes, sorry, bulling of this sweet little lady that wants everyone to know all that she does and how good she is and how much love she has for the whole wide world because she does not miss a beat and reminds us daily.
Oh, brother, lady. Give it a break and get over yourself. Here's a newsflash for your "All About Me Newsletter" ... the world does not revolve around you. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
I was recently asked to contribute to a local friendly newsletter put together by a group of what appeared to be very sweet ladies. We'll keep the identities of the parties anonymous so that we do not further feed their egos What started out as a group effort by all parties involved has turned out into the "ALL ABOUT ME" Newsletter for one particular lady. So much so that she is screening and deciding what to print when it is not even her job. Not only does she want to decide what is going to print, she is going to tell the writer what to write. It has become a one woman show all about her. What was a simple five or six page newsletter with basic and simple information has turned into a monster 15-page ego feeding declaration of "look at me! Look at me!" Oh, yes, and we cannot forget to put her name on everything even if it has nothing to do with her.
As a creative soul, I respect her ego's need for attention. However, I will not partake in the One-Woman Show. I simply withdrew from the drama and the bulling. Yes, sorry, bulling of this sweet little lady that wants everyone to know all that she does and how good she is and how much love she has for the whole wide world because she does not miss a beat and reminds us daily.
Oh, brother, lady. Give it a break and get over yourself. Here's a newsflash for your "All About Me Newsletter" ... the world does not revolve around you. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Why I Write
"No Tears in the writer. No tears in the Reader." Robert Frost
Writing is more than just a craft or a talent, it is flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. When I write, I open my heart and soul and pour every emotion into the blank pages before me. The colors come alive not with a paint brush or paints but with words.
I sit quietly listening to the voices in the silence that feed the words. Words that will come alive in my pages. I listen to the rain and the sound of the pain of every rain drop. I hear the laughter of the butterflies that frolic in the yellow roses in a random garden. I grasp the shade of blue in the ocean and spill it on to the white page before me. I never cease to ask questions and wait for the answers that come in the form of all that is created by the Master's hand.
I open my heart, and in doing so, I invite the reader into the world born from all that is within me. If I do not shed tears then the reader will not cry. If I do not laugh then the reader will not find joy. My infinite and daunting task is to bring the reader into my heart, open the door to my soul, extend a chair, and let them into to the depths of all of my emotions. In doing so, I become naked and at the mercy of the reader.
If I cannot become one with the reader than I am not a writer.
Lucy Tamajon
Writing is more than just a craft or a talent, it is flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. When I write, I open my heart and soul and pour every emotion into the blank pages before me. The colors come alive not with a paint brush or paints but with words.
I sit quietly listening to the voices in the silence that feed the words. Words that will come alive in my pages. I listen to the rain and the sound of the pain of every rain drop. I hear the laughter of the butterflies that frolic in the yellow roses in a random garden. I grasp the shade of blue in the ocean and spill it on to the white page before me. I never cease to ask questions and wait for the answers that come in the form of all that is created by the Master's hand.
I open my heart, and in doing so, I invite the reader into the world born from all that is within me. If I do not shed tears then the reader will not cry. If I do not laugh then the reader will not find joy. My infinite and daunting task is to bring the reader into my heart, open the door to my soul, extend a chair, and let them into to the depths of all of my emotions. In doing so, I become naked and at the mercy of the reader.
If I cannot become one with the reader than I am not a writer.
Lucy Tamajon
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Taps
Taps
What must it be like
to be a million miles from home;
in a foreign land
strangers staring
while you sleep.
Hungry, tired, and in defeat
marching in the blistering heat.
What must it be like
to be frightened and alone
wondering if anyone truly cares;
praying in your mind
never giving up hope in your heart.
What must it be like
to watch the world pass judgment
on the uniform you proudly wear
and those filled with hate burn the
flag of your loving homeland.
What must it be like
to love your country so
and serve without remorse, questions,
or rewards.
What must it be like to
be brave and cry a silent tear
to defend what so many disregard
for the land that you hold dear.
What must it be like
to hold your brother in your arms
and sooth his restless heart
as he makes his final stance.
7/6/2009
Lucy Tamajon
What must it be like
to be a million miles from home;
in a foreign land
strangers staring
while you sleep.
Hungry, tired, and in defeat
marching in the blistering heat.
What must it be like
to be frightened and alone
wondering if anyone truly cares;
praying in your mind
never giving up hope in your heart.
What must it be like
to watch the world pass judgment
on the uniform you proudly wear
and those filled with hate burn the
flag of your loving homeland.
What must it be like
to love your country so
and serve without remorse, questions,
or rewards.
What must it be like to
be brave and cry a silent tear
to defend what so many disregard
for the land that you hold dear.
What must it be like
to hold your brother in your arms
and sooth his restless heart
as he makes his final stance.
7/6/2009
Lucy Tamajon
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Hello, again
Well, I had taken a break from my blogs because I did not think that anyone was reading them or even remotely interested. Then one friend mentioned how much they enjoyed my blogs, and when I asked a few people they told me that they did read my blogs but just didn't want to comment. "It is the quiet ones, like me, that look forward to your writings the most." That was a comment from a friend, I was touched.
It seems that they find their voice through what I perceive to be my sometimes silly ramblings. They find comfort in my words. And, even look for guidance during some of their difficult times. I was touched and overwhelmed with emotions.
Therefore, if I can touch one person, make a difference in one person's life, then, I will blog. After all, we are all here to do God's work; and, God's work at times may be doing the small things in life often enough to make a difference.
I welcome all comments, ideas, suggestions, and feedback. Your input helps me be a better writer and a better person, and that is what my heart longs for.
I will be blogging regularly. I will make this interesting, different, and uniquely me. Much love and peace.
It seems that they find their voice through what I perceive to be my sometimes silly ramblings. They find comfort in my words. And, even look for guidance during some of their difficult times. I was touched and overwhelmed with emotions.
Therefore, if I can touch one person, make a difference in one person's life, then, I will blog. After all, we are all here to do God's work; and, God's work at times may be doing the small things in life often enough to make a difference.
I welcome all comments, ideas, suggestions, and feedback. Your input helps me be a better writer and a better person, and that is what my heart longs for.
I will be blogging regularly. I will make this interesting, different, and uniquely me. Much love and peace.
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