Category: Poetry

Singer/Song Writer – More Past, Present, and Future

Continuing, somewhat, on last week’s theme, I have had hopes and dreams for my music for many years. My writing and composing flourished in the early 2000’s. I recorded some of the early music in 2013, creating the album Catching Up On Life.

During and since that time I have written a plethora of lyrical poems. For many I have composed guitar accompaniments. Subjects for these songs include close family, people I worked with, acquaintances, and personal experiences. Most have not been recorded.

I’ve always wanted to share my songs with, well, anyone who would listen. I hoped, and continue to hope, that the lyrics evoke memories and/or emotions for at least some in an audience. My music, though simple, has evolved into an easy-listening style. I admit that I like my songs and poetry. Some have told me they enjoy it and relate in some way.

But I never gave my hobby my complete attention. I never committed to learning enough or practicing enough to get really good – good enough to go professional. I have dedicated time over the last two and a half years. However, that time was not enough for me to feel comfortable going on the road. Sure. I am comfortable playing for small groups of mostly known people. But I am not “good” enough to play public venues. Now I am convinced that I never will be.

Which brings me back to the link with last week’s them of past, present, and future. My hopes and dreams are evolving. I am still creating. I still believe in my music. I like most of it and believe I have something to say and a way to share it.

Now, though, I have a new dream. Some day, someone with professional knowledge of music will listen and say, “This is good stuff. I think I can get ? (unknown artist) to record this and get it distributed for the public to hear.”

I have a hope that I can find someone to help me make demo recordings. I don’t have the means to hire a bunch of studio time. Especially considering I lack professional vocal and musical skill for a finished product. As I’ve said before, I can’t seem to figure it out for myself.

My voice and my hands have limited time to produce the songs I want to sing. I do not read nor write music. I just play it. So I don’t have hard (or digital) copy. My lifespan is uncertain. But certainly shortening. I know my songs will be my legacy to my family and close friends. I had hopes for more. I guess I still do.

A few years ago I looked into software that would transpose my guitar notes into sheet music. I was not impressed. I am taking another look for newer, more user-friendly options. If anyone knows of one that is worth paying for, please let me know. Thanks.

Short of that, I have to find a way to record. I think it needs to be better than my phone (sound quality issues). But less sophisticated than a mixer (unless someone wants to help me out 😉 ).

Well, this post has certainly turned into a personal muse and plea. But it does reflect some looks at the past, realities of the present, and views of a possible future. I wonder what it will bring. I wonder if I will dedicate myself to fulfilling more of my hopes and dreams. I suspect all of you have similar questions about how you will fulfill yours. I hope you are successful!

“Welcome Back My Friends..

Three completely different musical events. All amazing. All exciting. All, literally, sensational!

To The Show That Never Ends…”

I keep thinking of Karn Evil 9 1st Impression, Pt. 2, by Emerson Lake and Palmer, as I contemplate my three-week absence from blogging. Even then, it was a desperation post coming before the election. That post was preceded by a one-week lag due to travel.

Well, welcome back. I kind of hope you missed me. None of this rambling has anything to do with the topic of this post. Except, I saw one of the performances I am about to discuss while traveling.

I have had the pleasure of attending three completely different types of musical performances over the past few weeks. I attended the first performance with my friend Cathy and two of my three sisters while visiting family in the Atlanta area. My younger sister bought tickets for a Judy Collins show at Byers Theatre in Sandy Springs for Jan’s and my birthdays.

We had months to anticipate the music she would play and the nostalgic feelings we would have while listening. Though the theatre is relatively new, it has the look and feel of a much older traditional venue. Judy walked onto the stage where her 12-string guitar and piano/pianist accompaniment were waiting. She entertained with a combination of songs and stories that did not disappoint. I closed my eyes and listened. I thought of the places and times I associate with the music. Her one-woman show exuded peace and serenity. It was delightful and fulfilling. Judy Collins is truly an icon of our time!

We attended A Motown Christmas the day after our return to Iowa. Hoyt Sherman Place is truly the epitome of a traditional theatrical venue. It is housed in the Sherman mansion built in the 1850’s.

In total contrast to the calm, soothing sense generated by Judy Collins, this was a high-energy, multi-sensory experience. The band was good enough to perform on its own. It featured horns, strings, drums, and piano. It was the perfect complement to four incredibly talented performers. They dazzled with flashy apparel, amazing harmonies, and wonderfully synchronized dance.

The concert was billed as a Christmas event. Still, most of the two plus hour show was filled with hits from the sixties greats. Songs of Dianna Ross and the Supremes and Michael Jackson accompanied hits from the Temptations, Contours, and Miracles. The plethora of medleys was intermingled with jolly holiday hits from our younger years. If they come back next year, or you see that A Motown Christmas is coming to your town, I highly recommend it!

Linda Robbins Coleman was a classmate of mine in high school. I did not know her well. She was always upbeat and smiling. I did not know her artistic genius even if she, at that time, did. You absolutely MUST visit her site. Linda also co-wrote the book Boyhood’s End with her late husband William S. E. Coleman.

Last Sunday I had the chance to watch and listen. The Des Moines Symphony played The Celebration: A Symphonic Jubilee composed by Linda. It has been played, along with her other works, all over the world. Linda’s piece was between two performances. Pianist Jon Kimura Parker played Gershwin on the piano with the orchestra. Then, the orchestra played Beethoven’s 8th.

We were thrilled to have a chance to talk briefly with Linda before the performance. It was the first time her music was played with this symphony. She was ecstatic. Her energy, contagious! So much fun. Her composition was excellent and expertly played. In fact, the entire concert was phenomenal!

We were further blessed with being invited to an open house in Linda’s honor at yet another alumnus’ home. Barbara Beatty M.D. is the President of the Des Moines Symphony board. Conductor Maestro Joseph Giunta, as well as several musicians from the orchestra, were in attendance. Several fellow alumni were also there, giving us a chance to have a mini-reunion.

Linda is 2nd from the right. Barbara is behind and to Linda’s right.

We enjoyed excellent refreshments and socializing with those we know, and with new acquaintances.

Three completely different musical events. All amazing. All exciting. All, literally, sensational!

It is nice to be back. I am happy to have an uplifting, enjoyable topic to write about. I’m still not sure what direction Wut Javia should go. But…

Welcome back my friends!

Buns Hold the Cold!

This phrase came up in conversation this week relating to how parts of our bodies seem to retain the cold (I’m not so sure about heat) when exposed, even through our winter clothing. It struck me as so funny that I had to put it to rhyme.

Took a walk one frosty morning
The sky was clear
The air was cold
Came in side, took off my clothing
And I noticed a little chill
That's when I knew -

     Buns hold the cold
     Buns hold the cold
     Whether riding down the highway
     Or sitting on the commode
     You know you're going to feel it
     'cause your buns hold the cold

When I get up in the morning
And the blankets are a mess
As I walk toward the closet
Where I know I'm going to dress
I take off my tightie whities
And I put my skivvies on
That's when I notice - 

     Buns hold the cold
     Buns hold the cold
     Whether riding down the highway
     Or sitting on the commode
     You know you're going to feel it
     'cause your buns hold the cold

So, if you're feeling a little warmish
And you think you might be sick
Your forehead feels a bit feverish
And your mouth is feeling thick
Just slide your hands behind you
And grab some posterior beef
You'll get some cool relief, 'cause -

     Buns hold the cold
     Buns hold the cold
     Whether riding down the highway
     Or sitting on the commode
     You know you're going to feel it
     'cause your buns hold the cold

© Unpublished 2024 Keith Javia

I am the messenger. Just shoot me!

Birds

A pair of Cardinals has been nesting somewhere nearby for several years now. They mate for life. They warm my heart for several reasons. They are beautiful, regal birds. The male’s bright red color, complete with pointed tuft, exudes confidence and power. He is first to the cardinal feeder, approaching cautiously, peering out from one of the surrounding trees before swooping out to perch on the tray filled with Safflower. The Mrs., though less conspicuously brown with red highlights, matches her mate in majesty with the same tufted head and powerful profile.

When I wake early enough, I see them in the dawning light, half hiding as in shadow so as not to be seen and somehow in danger. Always cautious, the slightest movement, either from the outside, or if I am seen through my window, puts them to flight. They repeat the pattern at dusk. I find myself keeping open my blinds in hopes of catching a glimpse in the fading light after sunset. Sometimes, and it seems especially on these cold, snowy days, they come out during the day. Mr. Cardinal prefers the feeder, Mrs. Cardinal, the ground (or snow currently) where seeds have been kicked off the feeder ledge, mostly by the many messy sparrows that ‘grace’ our feeders every day – all day.

Mr. C. at Sunset

Pam’s Mother loved cardinals. Thus, do her children and grandchildren. One of them gave us a Metalbird tree ornament that now protrudes from the Birch tree outside my living room window near the feeders. Since her passing several years ago, the prevailing thought is that somehow the presence of a cardinal indicates her spirit visiting among us, usually at times of want or need. I don’t know about that, but they are no less a reminder of our loved ones (I now include Pam) whenever they appear. That is special!

Cardinals are by no means the only birds to visit the feeders my neighbor and I have hanging on shepherd’s hooks between our houses. Most numerous and pesky are the sparrows. I’ve counted upwards of forty fluttering balls of brown and white feverishly attacking every type of feeder and the spillage on the ground around them. They remind me of coots on a lake swimming along the shore in hoards, hoping for some tasty marine morsels. Or bluegill in a pond, lurking along the edges and milling just under the surface in the deeps, always hungry; ready to snatch the bait or tied flies I cast in hopes of bass or trout.

Fewer in number, and not quite as pesky, are the house finches. Their size and shape are similar to sparrows. But their colorings make me think that at some point there must have been some hanky panky between some cardinals and sparrows. I like them, though, I guess for their colorings as much as anything.

Chickadees are so much fun. They flit about like cardinals, always cautious, always aware. Often arriving in pairs, they first settle in the trees then dart over to the cardinal feeder, take one seed, then return to a branch, pecking at it between their toes to break the shell and enjoy the meat inside. Then off again to the feeder and back. But never returning to the same branch. Their lighthearted appearance lifts mine as I watch.

I also like the juncos. They are typically ground feeders that seem to be around more in the winter months. They are easy to spot against the snowy blanket and dine on the buffet created by sparrows spilling their fare from the feeders above.

Many years ago, in another town, outside another window, I had two woodpecker feeders among several others. I delighted in attracting several species from downy and hairy, to flickers and pileated. Once in a great while a true red-headed woodpecker would grace me with its presence. So far, since hanging the feeder here, my only patron has been the downy. But I keep hoping.

Just recently, a pair of blue jays found their way back to the area after a very long absence. Though they are bullies, they are beautiful so I like seeing them around.

There are many other birds I listen and look for when I am walking through the woods or along the waterways. Of course the eagles and hawks enthrall me still. But now the one I wish most to see is the Bluebird. They are somewhat rare around here, migrating from the south to breed. I’ve always enjoyed seeing their bright blue plumage. Now this species means so much more to me. The bluebird on my mantel reminds me also of the beauty of the person I once knew as my wife. This could be the makings of a song (or at least a poem). Oh, wait. It already is.

My Little Bluebird

Born of a Cardinal and a stone
She never wanted to be alone
Much too soon she flew away
The world will never be the same
She was my little Bluebird

    My little Bluebird You flew away
    Could you not stay for another day
    With broken wing and a heart of gold
    We never had the chance to grow old

A lovely bird kept my feet on the ground
Her arms around me, so comfortably bound
As one together, yet free to be
Our love of each other let us see
She was my little Bluebird

    My little Bluebird you flew away
    Could you not stay for another day
    With broken wing and a heart of gold
    We never had the chance to grow old

Now you live on in my heart and mind
A new life I now must find
Without you I feel so alone
But for you I will make it on my own
You are my little Bluebird

    My little Bluebird You flew away
    Could you not stay for another day
    With broken wing and a heart of gold
    We never had the chance to grow old

You gave my life meaning
Yet we didn’t understand
Why you were losing yours
Why am I keeping mine?
I go on for you my little Bluebird

    My little Bluebird You flew away
    Could you not stay for another day
    With broken wing and a heart of gold
    We never had the chance to grow old

(c)

“Are You Sitting Comfortably?”

What a question. What a concept.

In fact, I was sitting comfortably, sipping my morning coffee, listening to SiriusXM radio Deep Tracks (Channel 308) from my stereo speakers connected to the TV, when The Moody Blues song asked just that question.

Take another sip my love and see what you will see,
A fleet of golden galleons, on a crystal sea.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Let Merlin cast his spell.

Ride along the winds of time and see where we have been,
The glorious age of Camelot, when Guinevere was Queen.
It all unfolds before your eyes
As Merlin casts his spell.

The seven wonders of the world he’ll lay before your feet,
In far-off lands, on distant shores, so many friends to meet.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Let Merlin cast his spell.

Raymond Thomas

I know I’ve touted the beauty of The Moody Blues music previously. This is another example of how, over many years, their songs continue to speak to me or reflect my current lot in life. Sitting comfortably is something I have rarely been able to do for several years. Yet here I was. Feeling rested. Feeling strong. Aware of my loss, yet not consumed by it at the moment.

Then comes this mystical music and tantalizing lyrics. I’m also a big fan of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth fantasies, and of the stories of King Arthur’s court. Raymond Thomas sets the lyrical stage while The Moody Blues weaves its musical spell.

Several challenges face me in the coming weeks. In addition to the traditional holiday season and what would have been our 27th wedding anniversary, my siblings and I are preparing to transition our nearly 99-year-old (January 7, 2024) Mother to a memory care facility in the middle of this time. Sitting comfortably for a few minutes, listening to some of my favorite music that mirrors my emotions, is a true ethereal gift.

Also good is my recognition of such gifts. It is easy, as the days grow shorter and colder, to sink into the gloom with the season. In deed, last year at this time I was pretty much an emotional mess! I’ve been concerned about how I would fare this winter. But though it has not actually arrived yet, my comfortable chair and easy listening offer a glimmer of hope to me and to the season.

I will be with various geographically distant family members over the holidays. Last year I worried whether I could remain emotionally stable – for good reason. I was only marginally successful.

I still anticipate some difficult moments. Last year my family was instrumental (no pun intended) in my coming through the darkness of my grief. This year I am hopeful to enjoy them and celebrate them along with the holidays. I am not a religious person, though I have delved deep into faith and dogma. Nor am I a fan of the commercialization of the holidays. But I do appreciate people. I love people. I love family. And I love our common hopes and dreams for ourselves and each other.

So here I am, sitting comfortably in my office chair, writing these optimistic and hopeful words. I don’t really care who casts the spell. But if it continues to be a good one, please don’t break it!

Tomorrow (Sunday, November 12, 2023) marks the 18 month anniversary of Pam’s passing. I had no concept of the emotional challenges that I would endure nor how my life would change without my other half. I still love Pam and am in love with her. This fact has given me strength to reshape myself into a new life. It is transformed and is still transforming. I can no longer be what I thought I would be with Pam. I can only go on being me without her. Yet, knowing she will always be part of me. In doing so, I am confident that, even with my fits and sputters, she would be happy that I am.

I can sometimes now sit comfortably with that knowledge.

Another Season

Driving the back roads toward central Iowa this week, I was reminded again of the beauty in the changing seasons. Giant, rolled hay bales break up the landform of freshly harvested, stubble fields. Machinery still dots tire-track paths around them.

And the trees! I was lucky to have picked this week to travel. Last week would have been too soon. Next week the cold and wind will bring down most of the colored leaves in the trees and turn those remaining, brown and brittle. As viewing goes, this year’s turning is, in my opinion, above average, with the full range of greens, yellows, oranges, reds, and browns splattered on the clear blue canvas sky, in contrast to plain tan/brown fields at the feet of trees on the hill tops and along the waterways. These pics were taken on my return trip. A cloudy day with periods of spitting rain.

(There is more to read after these pictures)

Near the Iowa River
Cemetery Road

Two recordings came to mind while driving and gawking at the wonders of nature. The first is Leaves That Are Green by Simon and Garfunkel. Beautiful poetry! Kind of sad. Light and lilt tune.

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song
I’m twenty-two now, but I won’t be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl
I held her close, but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripples run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Hello, hello, hello, hello
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye
That’s all there is
And the leaves that are green turn to brown

Simon and Garfunkel

The other “song” is The Dream from On the Threshold of a Dream album by The Moody Blues. I’m sure I’ve quoted The Moody Blues in prior posts. So many of their songs spoke to me in my youth and young adulthood. Shout out to Sam who suggested To Our Children’s, Children’s, Children as the first vinyl album I ever bought. At one point, I’m sure I owned a copy of them all! My brother, Bruce, always suggests their earlier music, pre-Justin Hayward. Also good stuff. He also gave me an excellent Moody Bluegrass album.

When the white eagle of the North is flying overhead
And the browns, reds and golds of autumn lye in the gutter dead
Remember then the summer birds with wings of fire flame
Come to witness springs new hope, born of leaves decaying
And as new life will come from death

Love will come at leisure
Love of love, love of life and giving without measure
Gives in return a wondrous yearn for promise almost seen
Live hand in hand and together we’ll stand
On the threshold of a dream

The Moody Blues

Also previously mentioned, nearly everything I experience on a daily basis reminds me of a song or some music. Or, in moments of revelation, I create my own. Simply said, I love music!

“To everything there is a (another)…“

Ecclesiastes (and The Byrds)

On Thursday, a neighbor showed me a picture of our neighborhood, taken from a drone, showing the fall colors. Beyond the Field Day Brewing Company building and condos are our homes. I can see the red-leafed tree in my back yard, and the one in the picture leading this post! Amazing photograph and colors. Enjoy!

She Won’t Be Back Again

Much as I want to share my experiences on other subjects, like Windmill Choreography, I cannot escape my feelings of emptiness and loss. Today they spilled out in some poetic form. I’ll work on travels and windmills, family and friends, beauty in life (and death), and other such things. But today I woke to a description of my current reality. And thus I share.

She Won't Be Back Again

From dreamless sleep I waken
But the nightmare continues
She won't be back again

The sun is shining
The breeze is blowing
But the nightmare continues
She won't be back again

I see her in her children
Grandchildren carry on
And the nightmare continues
She won't be back again

Talking to an empty room
The pain of her absence lingers
And the nightmare continues
She won't be back again

Looking at pictures of her
She smiling back at me
But the nightmare continues
She won't be back again

Laying down to slumber
Dim the lights, mute the sound
Dreamless sleep a solace
In the morning the nightmare resumes
She will never be back again

I continue to cry. So many reminders do me in. The world continues to turn. Its inhabitants go on with their lives. So many seemingly impactful events unfold every day. I am aware of them but they seem less important than my grieving. And though I still wear the grease-paint, “I hurt all the time deep inside.”

Next week I’ll have another opportunity to be more cheerful in my musings. One can hope! Until then, know that I continue to ride the wakeful waves of dreams and nightmares. I hope for good dreams and wakeful states for all of you this week and beyond.

A Play and a Poem

You know, I really do want and hope that you, the readers of this blog, gain something positive from the reading. I write about what’s happening with me, but my hope is that you can somehow internalize the words as reflecting your sorrows, griefs, loves, successes, hopes, and dreams. This week’s post is no different, unless you can relate to its being more positive, well, than at least the last one. Two experiences highlight my week, and both are positive.

The spoiler (the poem) is at the end. The second experience took place on Thursday. I was at a local music store picking up some equipment when Thaddeus mentioned that they were holding an open mic session in the recital room that evening. Thaddeus, who hosts, said he’s been struggling with turnout. “Please come play.” It would just be, hopefully, two or three musicians. I quickly realized it was time to put up or shut up. I agreed to come back that evening.

And so it appeared to be – at first. Then people kept arriving. A total of seven musicians performed, of which I was the third; five singer song writers and two pianists. There were also nearly a dozen others in the audience.

My heart began pounding as Thaddeus started things off. Probably the most polished of all of us, he played four original songs. In fact, all five guitarists played original music. By the time Joe finished his five originals, I knew I was next up. Though I felt that I at least belonged there, my stress level was high.

I played five songs beginning with Anything to Please (not yet recorded), Chameleon, Heart of Logic, Tell Elizabeth I Love Her, and The Song I Never Wrote For You. All were received well and applauded. And though I made several mistakes, some obvious, I was clearly in an empathetic crowd. After all was done, several people came up to me with appreciation for my playing and my songwriting skills.

I did it! I played in public in front of people I don’t know. It has begun. I am fulfilling a commitment I made to Pam (posthumously) and to myself, to step out into a new life that includes sharing myself, and in a way Pam, with – the world?

As you might imagine, I was pretty stoked when I got home. A nice Spring evening. I opened a can of beer and walked around the pond. It was then that my emotions caught up with me and, of course, I began to cry (as I am while writing this). Pam was not with me to share the dream. That coupled with the realization that I was actually going on with a new, still unfamiliar and uncomfortable life. And Pam would approve. Such a melancholy gift. Yet I have to move forward with my heart still in the past, hoping for a future that honors her life – and mine.

The Promised Poem – Promising Spring

Last Tuesday I began my day in contemplation, as usual, staring out the window at the birds flitting around the feeders, and suddenly this popped into my head. I had to write it down immediately in the journal I keep by my chair. I rather like it. I like its positivity. So here it is:

Flitting Birds
Branches Rustling
Sweetly Singing

Towering Trees
Skyward Reaching
Gently Swaying

Flowers Panning
Pedals Unfolding
To Heaven Praying

Greens and Blues
A Sunny Day
Gone the Gray

At Least Today

Four Trips in Eleven Months

And I just might make it on my own

Yes, I’m still counting. Last week I was in the Atlanta area visiting my Mother, sisters, and brother-in-law. It was the fourth visit since Pam died in May of 2022. Each trip has been impactful and in some ways represents the progression of my grieving process.

My first visit last June was just a month after Pam’s passing. It had been 2-1/2 years since my previous visit, a combination of COVID isolation and Pam’s and my challenges here at home. I was a mess. I didn’t really want to go but it was time. It takes me two days to drive there. Not quite short enough to comfortably make it in one, yet a bit too short for two. Which leaves me time in a motel to contemplate – whatever, further exacerbating being alone for hours in the car.

Much of the time that first trip was spent crying and wanting to get back home. Sure. It was good seeing my family, but my raw emotions were almost too much to bear, and obvious to those around me. But I made it through. And somehow I knew that it was part of my process, getting out of the house, seeing family, being alone with my thoughts and sorrows.

Leaving home was not much easier in September. I was still attached to everything Pam, and Pam and me, in the house. I chose different routes to and from Atlanta that trip. Exploring. Hoping for new attractions and distractions along the way. Still a long time to think and feel, wonder and cry.

Still with raw emotion I visited, trying to express my feelings while attempting to engage and empathize with everything going on with those I love. They were great! I began to feel safe in my grief. I was allowed, and allowed myself to just be me, trying to at least see the top of the wide and deep hole, the void created by losing half of myself. But I still found myself longing for home. As if Pam was still there waiting for me, even though I couldn’t call her to tell here of my experiences, couldn’t listen to her voice as she told me what she’d learned of our grandchildren or of news in the neighborhood. We used to talk often and long when we were geographically separated.

Between September and the end of December the holidays were painful and sad. This was Pam’s favorite season. Decorations, cooking traditional holiday foods, buying and wrapping gifts and, of course, incredible hand-made greeting cards. She would be beaming! But not last year. I managed to bring up the mini Christmas tree with its tiny white lights to put on the window sill. But that was it. No cards, some gift-giving. Visits from our children. Lots of crying – lots!

I left for Atlanta after Christmas and was there with family for New Years Eve and my Mother’s birthday in early January. Once again leaving the house was difficult. While visiting, I sensed change in my emotional stability, not quite as tense, able to engage more “normally.” By then I was no longer counting the weeks since Pam died, just the months. Little changes, but still trying to climb out of the hole.

Last week’s trip had a significantly different feel. I was anxious to go. I even used the excuse of impending severe weather to leave a day early. I enjoyed the drive down and was comfortable with my stay in Clarksville TN, west of Nashville. A side note: this was just days after the shooting and in the midst of the Tennessee legislature debating ousting three Democratic representatives for demonstrating about gun control laws.

Staying with my sister, Mother and brother-in-law was completely relaxed. My other sister visited every day. I played my music several time to this enthusiastic and safe audience. We ate and drank and generally enjoyed each other’s company. Clearly my disposition is changing. I thought of Pam often and missed calling her to tell her about what we were doing. I missed her terribly, but only had one serious bout of uncontrolled sobbing. A clear improvement.

As I drove toward home I realized for the first time that Pam is no longer here (at home). She is with me in my heart. I am trying to go on with life knowing that she is always with me.

Made in the shade
Shabby view – NOT

I sat at an outside table at T-Rav restaurant in Jackson MO (near Cape Girardeau). As I waited for my pizza I started writing. I don’t usually share “unfinished” lyrics or those without accompanying music, but I’m making an exception in this case. I wrote them in an app on my phone, from which they are copied here. I’ve named it I Just Might Make It On My Own. Clearly written to Pam in my heart.

I just might make it on my own
I didn’t plan it so to be
No doubt I didn’t want to
Have to live without you

But here I am
Venturing out
Taking it all in
Making it on my own

It was supposed to be us
Stepping out together
Basking in sunshine
Splashing in the rain

But here I am
Venturing out
Taking it all in
Making it on my own

You and me
Wandering roads and byways
To see the beauty of the world
Meeting others who want to see

Now here I am
Venturing out
Taking it all in
Making it on my own

Eleven months since Pam died. I believe she would be happy with my progress. But I almost feel guilty going on without her. I’ll just have to keep her with me. Here in my heart. I know I will, as I make it on my own.

I have plans for a different sort of trip next month on the one-year anniversary of Pam’s passing. But I’ll postpone writing of that until afterward. Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to make it – though not completely – on my own.