I seem to be awake more; the hours between 2 and 5 a.m. spent with my eyes wide open, reluctant to lose the luscious warmth of my quilt, yet brain on overdrive.
Oh, well. I used to punch the pillows and toss and turn, and now I take the time to dream, dream big and well, to touch the soft contours of my body in thankfulness, and not worry about it.
I am wearing boots, leather that smells good boots, and a red sweater. I am on Oprah, and even in my daydream I blush, because I am being vain. She interviews me about my latest book, and gushes over my metaphors and deep mysticism.
I blush again, knowing that is all crap and all I want to do is tell stories, and make enough money to travel about like a Celtic fairy and tell more stories.
I laugh at myself, liking the boots and red sweater, and fall back asleep, right on cue, at 5 a.m.

The world is not linear; it is circular, always breathing in and out, a rhythmn, a pulsing, wheither we choose to realise it or not.

This week marks the return of autumn here on Delmarva, and it was quick, harsh, and in the breadth of a week.
I guess I was in denial. I love my beach day. I put on my trusty black bathing suit and filled my beach bag with oils and books, and when I settled in my chair this Sunday, it took me an hour to register that the air was chill and I needed a sweatshirt.

I picked up my things and felt sorrow pass through me like the waves on the beach. Time to say goodbye, to summer.
Now I will look forward to sweaters, boots, and autumn leaves.

It's 3 weeks today since David died. Last Saturday,in the hours between his wake and a final gathering of close friends, I found out my tiny nephew Hunter, only a month old, died of SIDS.
If I am a mermaid, I am swimming in a sea of sorrow. David was, in his words, "part of my soul fabric". If it wasn't true, I would have thought it to be a great pick-up line.
For anyone that reads this and wonders if life exists after death, I will tell you the last gift that David gave me. He knew well the trauma of my father's passing when I was a little girl. He knew he reminded me of him. He died just after 1 am, 3 weeks ago, and I woke that morning with the following dream..
I walked into the hospital, and there was no name on his door. I was filled with dread, and walked back to the nursing station and said, "I'm here to see David Adams." The woman behind the computer was black, with high cheekbones and a full face. She typed for a moment, then wordlessly shook her head with eyes filled with compassion. "It's ok," I said, "I know he's gone."
The next morning I went to see David before work. I told the volunteer downstairs "Room 227". I went upstairs, past the nurses station, and walked to his door. There was no name on it, and I walked to the nurses station...
My dream unfolded in front of me.
I know it was David who sent me the dream, just to prepare me. I know he is still part of my soul fabric. I cannot talk to him in my world anymore, but he still exists.
I wish I could give comfort to my niece, and my sister, about Hunter. I didn't see his sweet little face, or smell his baby scent. I don't know why he left the earth. Tomorrow is his funeral, and I am haunted by the image of a pristine white coffin, so infinitely small, sealed with a blue ribbon.
I will go to Assateague, where the Indians believed souls ascended to Heaven, and throw white roses into the waves.
Rest well, David & Hunter.

Around The Bayside Dave Adams Will Be Missed On The Eastern Shore
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The first time I met David Adams, he was lounging against a wall at the Waterline Gallery with a glass of wine in his hand. I felt an instant current go through me – he looked just like the beloved father I had lost at age 11.

His green eyes were beautiful. His fingers were tapered. His black turtleneck was Joseph Campbell with an attitude. His first words to me were not so kind, though.

"So you're the broad who got me fired and took my job."

I had only moved to the shore six months earlier, and had no idea what he was talking about. My relationship with the caustic and controversial columnist of the Ocean Pines Gazette, Bayside Gazette, and Coconut Times had just begun.

He challenged me to be the best writer I could be. He told me I wrote like a female Hemingway, even though he was convinced I was the Erma Bombeck of the Eastern Shore. He begged me to engineer a public feud between us, and said it would make readership go through the roof. (I declined.)

He shuddered at my use of excessive commas, and when the resemblance to my father grew too great, he held me in his arms like the gentleman he was and let me weep arrested little girl tears. Though he often infuriated me, he taught me to gentle my passions by learning my ABCs ... (Act right, Be niCe).

David died on Aug. 23, at age 48, after a brief illness. The day before his death, he told his trusted friend Paul he was "going home."

Though my grief is intense, I recognize that I am not the only one who will miss him. He named people; I became "Foxy Brown," his best friend became "HepCat," his fellow musician and spiritual advisor became "Gentleman Joe." The select few who were part of "Club Cat" know who they are.

Though he was an accomplished musician, writer, and song writer, those talents were not his true strength. Orphaned young, instead of being bitter about his fate he became a father and mentor to boys who had a troubled past with their own Dads.

Phone calls at 3 a.m. were routine from his "boys." His theory was they suffered from too much "estrogen poisoning," a condition that arose from a lack of a male role model in their lives.

My God, David, I am going to miss you. You entered my life like a shooting star, brilliant and brief and never to be forgotten.

I can hear some of your quotes in my mind:

"Dance in the kitchen, with someone you love."
"Growing tomatoes, like love, isn't rocket science. Give them what they need, and they will give you fruit."

"Women talk, talk, talk. Enough, already. Practice your ABC's, and your man will listen."

"Tony Bennett knew the secrets of a woman's heart."

"Give your man a break, he's trying, even if he's silent. He's there, isn't he?"

And at the end ... "I prayed, and God didn't answer me. I always tried to do the right thing, and things didn't turn out the way I wanted. Is He really there?"

At the very end, he answered his own plea. “God has given us free choice, and in that giving, doesn't interfere in our choices. He loves us unconditionally, and when it is time, welcomes us Home.”

Now I have a writing angel to watch over me. Like so many others with their own personal stories of how you have touched them, I miss your physical presence so much it aches.

On Sept. 8, at 10:30 a.m., there will be a requiem Mass for David at St. Andrew's Catholic Church on 145th Street in Ocean City.

Please forgive the commas ... love you, Foxy Brown.
*******************
the above was my tribute in my newspaper column to my friend, David.

The happy dance photo just goes to prove that anything done with love is always a good thing. My Aunt Patti turned 60 this year, and I had that photo of me taken for her birthday present. It was a perfect beach day, and what you CAN'T see is I am standing inside a heart drawn in the sand. I love her up to the sky and as deep as the ocean....She says she looks at it every morning, and can't help but smile.

Before my family started reading my posts, I felt free as a bird to write whatever I wanted and fling it into the Universe. I finally have realised that the only thing stopping me was the fear of being myself. So, I'm back:)

It can't be over a year since I have written! When I started blogging, hardly anyone had heard of it. Now, blogging is a household word. I am still writing my column, so I thought I would post the latest dated January 11, 2007 for "Hole in Heart," by request....Around The Bayside, January 11.... Have you ever had a thought that just wouldn't leave you? You worry it like your tongue against an aching tooth, you forget it is there, yet it keeps coming back, until it is fixed. Or, in my case, written about.
You men might want to grab your testosterone and head for the nearest football game on this one, because the thought I couldn't get out of my head was about "love".
Recently I was in a room with a friend and his very pregnant daughter. They are gloriously, maddeningly high decibel, and someone not used to Italian heritage would almost say they shout when they become impassioned.
The subject they were discussing was his view that he would love the new baby, the product of a blended family, more than her existing stepson.
"Of course I will love the new baby more, because your stepson is not blood". He said.
"Dad, that's horrible!He is just a child and I love him as much as if I had given birth to him". She said. She was so upset she almost cried, but he was adamant. "I always kiss him hello, I like him,but, HE IS NOT BLOOD". He repeated.
I knew better than to interfere, though I wanted to. In my life, I have seen the "blood is thicker than water" adage play out time and time again in families. My own sons are technically "half" brothers, and I was always vigilant to ensure they were treated equally by my husband's family.
Now that I am old enough to be a grandma the discussion between my friends really grabbed my heart. I always wanted a daughter and I consider her a "daughter of my heart", especially since she lost her mom at a very young age. I am also blessed to love my eldest son's girlfriend very much, and she is my other "heart daughter".
They both have children from a previous marriage,so can I REALLY be a grandma to all of their children? What happens when I become a grandma by blood? Will I love that child more?
It was a painful look inside. I realized that blood did matter to me,but only because to hold a child created by my child was to try to recreate that cherished past when he was a baby, and establish my lineage for the future...part of me would live on, even after I was gone.
But the love? Love transcends bloodlines. Love transcends race. Love transcends religions. It's there for all of us, if we open our hearts.
I have come to my own solution for the grandma thing. I will be Nanna---(as others are Mohhma or Mom-Mom or Buhba) and it will mean we can make cookies,and take walks, and I can slip them money, and listen to their secrets. We will play and eat sugar with abandon, and then I will send them home thankfully to their parents as they bounce off the wall.
There will be only one requirement for me being their Nanna...they want me to be.
It's wonderful to be back, see you next week!