Sunday, July 30, 2023

HOLDING ME

 HOLDING ME


My small altar sits at the end of the credenza.

The wall-mounted television just above.

Furniture directed toward the TV, worshiping, God-like.


On the altar, a blue heart with the word “Hope.”

A “Live With Intention” small angel stands straight.

A prayer beaded necklace woven around a “Gratitude” heart.

An angel shaped dish filled with inspirational painted stones.

A favorite picture of my parents the frame’s corner draped with a “Love” heart.

A small slip of paper with my current wish one it for Sophia.

All a starting place for my ritual.


All touchstones of real times.

Hoped for times.

Imagined times.

The fullness of my life.

In single pieces.

Intentions leading to actions.


Sometimes a resting spot for heavy things.

Sometimes for things desiring remembrance.

Sometimes an appreciation of the beauty of it all.


Where I have been.

Where I am.

Where I want to go.


My dreams, my loves. my hopes, my wishes.


Tangible, sacred, alive.

Together in harmony.

Holding me.






IT'S BEEN QUITE A WHILE!!!

But I'm here now promising to write more and hopefully inspire you!

Smiles,

Caren

P.S. This exciting thing happened. A story I wrote appeared in the NY Times Tiny Love Stories column online and in Sunday's print edition next to the Modern Love Column on July 30, 2023.

As you can imagine, I'm over the moon excited!!!

Here's a link: 

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/07/25/style/tiny-modern-love-stories-gay-dominant-single-white-female.html



Sunday, January 24, 2021

Welcome!

 

If you popped over from my website, WELCOME! I find posting blogs here easier for my readers.

This is one of my first blog posts at this site caren-albers@blogspot.com. "Vintage Caren" can be found at my previous blog, carenalbers.blogspot.com

Glad your are here!

Smiles,

Caren 


No Regrets


In my early writing days, I wrote more than 500 blog posts on a women’s empowerment site. I only know the number because the charismatic leader congratulated me on my contribution. My participation came to a screeching halt after I attended an in-person event in Los Angeles. Five minutes into the Friday night cocktail mixer, I realized it was a cult.

 

“Life changing” programs were pushed hard, Ones where they tear you down and then build you back up, Ones costing thousands of dollars, Ones marketed with questionable tactics,

To people who I questioned could afford them.

 

My spirit was crushed. How did I miss this? After a quick call home to tell my husband the shocking news, I returned to the mixer. Now I needed a glass of wine. As I began meeting and talking to other women there, I soon realized, I was in the company of big dreamers.

 

Beautiful, earnest, vulnerable people hoping, needing a break. One particular group I friended had a fascination with Iraqi currency. Believing the Dinar would be revalued soon and anyone holding it would get rich. There were plans drawn on cocktail napkins about chartering private jets to fly them to collect their enormous gains and Cayman Island banks.

 

They believed it so much, I wanted to believe it, too. Not the private jet part that was crazy.

The part where this could happen for them. That they could finally step away from the financial cliff that was making the draw to the flame so irresistible.

 

I may or may not have some Iraqi Dinar tucked away in a drawer that didn’t live up to its promise…yet. My pay to play was a small wager that luckily I could afford. My reward, standing in the company of believers the likes of which I had never met before.

Priceless!


No Winners


The president has the Coronavirus.

The man who denounced mask wearing.

Who scoffed at social distancing.

Who equated wearing a mask with weakness,

or worse, being a Democrat.

The man who just the night before, at a rally,

already showing symptoms,

said the virus is rounding the corner and will be gone soon.

The man who disagreed with his own health experts.

The man who encouraged others to deny the science.

The man who claimed the Coronavirus was a hoax.

Compassion does not celebrate but the irony is not lost.


Some people have to touch a hot stove to learn.

Some people never learn.


I watch all day the thing I’d sworn off, TV news.

In the morning, they say “he has no symptoms.”

By noon “he has mild symptoms.”

During the day he received an antiviral cocktail.

By dinner, he’s boarding a helicopter for Walter Reed Hospital.

Everyone wearing masks, including President Trump.

The man who travels in superlatives everywhere he goes,

“The Best, Most Amazing, Most Perfect, No One Better,”

released a short video as the helicopter flies off.

He says “I think I’m doing very well.”


As the evening progresses more dominoes fall.

Several around the president test positive.

Many of them his surrogates.

Many who dealt in half truths, lies, and conspiracy theories.

Casting doubt, calling everyone else “fake news.”

Surrogates that helped him divide our country.

Even in something as simple as mask wearing.

Surrogates who support his “It is what it is” statement.

Referring to over 200,000 Americans killed by the virus.

Surrogates who will cross any line in support of him.

Compassion does not celebrate but the irony is not lost.


I wake up in the middle of the night afraid to look at the news, afraid for our country.

Tears betray my eyes for all the chaos and sadness of the last four years.

For all the damaged institutions and threats to our democracy.

For the dog whistles and fires of racism stoked daily.

But mostly, I cry for the families divided and friendships splintered.

Compassion does not celebrate but the irony is not lost. There are no winners here.


© 2020 Caren Albers

From Upcoming Book HOMECOMING

carenalbers.com