OOPS!

Dear faithful and unfaithful followers of my blog,

I made a few minor changes on my blog but saw that one particular minor change omitted the check marks. These check marks were from your reactions to a specific post. So I wanted to apologize if yours was omitted.

Please feel free to add back your check mark if you would like. If not then no problem...

Thanks for checking out my blog!

Shalom, Kim

I Love You Song...by kim written in 2005

“i love you”

this heart and this life
is wandering among this world
not always sure where i’m headed
but you have your eyes on me

with the air so cold
and my breath caught in my throat
i take you in and you freshen me - and i say. . .

i love you
i love you
i love you
(3x)

with the sun peeking through the mist
the morning’s here to greet me
the trees, they whisper your name
deeper within me - and i say. . .

i love you
i love you
i love you
(3x)

the inconsistency of my life
breaks your very heart
spirit, you’ve got a hold on me
no matter i may stray
you embrace me

my words are few and simply said
my heart deeply inspired by you
oh, my voice calls out to you
you complete me - and i say. . .

i love you
i love you
i love you
(3x)

bridge:
i don’t always understand
i can’t even pretend to fully know you
but you keep stepping in
to free me (last 2 lines - 2x)

oh my lord, oh my god
oh my father i love you
(3x)

i love you
i love you
i love you
(1x)

Pouring Forth (2nd go-around for post)

Pouring forth from the depth of the soul:

In the desert with blowing sand, in the rain barefoot, in creativity with artistic passion, in voice with much to speak of, in welcoming arms willing to share their lives, in words for those willing to take in, in photos of unseen captivity, in love til death do us part, in rhyme with no reason, in poetic justice for those living unjustly, in the forest under a safe canopy of brooding arms, in the heart that is restless for much adventure and misadventures, in the eyes that they may see and do all that is of me, for me in the past, the present and and all that I was created to be and am becoming.

The talking wind: poetry by kim (2nd go-around for post)

Speak to me of my life•
Make it so I can understand•
Whisper the love that has embraced me•
Whisper the kindness of this one's sweetness•

Speak to me of my life•
Make it plain for me to see•
Show me visually where I have done wrong•
Show me visually how I may make it right•

Speak to me of my life•
Make it so that I can hear•
Sing to me the grace that I may grasp•
Sing to me the grace that I need and must extend•

Speak to me of my life•
Make it difficult or make it easy•

Speak to me of my life•
Make it so that I will always show love in the most possible ways•

Speak to me of my life•
Make me embrace the one that I am and grow in understanding to the one I will become•

Oh, you the spirit that takes shape as the wind•
Blow through this complicated being and cleanse me within•

Oh, you the spirit that takes shape as the wind•
Come sweep your loving and feather-soft hands across my furrowed brow•
Soften the wrinkles that show of my concerns in life•

Come swish your gentle body through this fragment of a figure so that it may be ready•
Ready to take in the love of others, the pain of others, tears of children, the loss of memory of old age, the broken hearted, the homeless wanderer, the rapist, the victim, the abandoned, the one in the darkness of their soul•

Blow through me so that I am no longer entrapped by my selfishness •
Blow me out so that I too may become like the spirit who takes shape as the wind •
So that I may bring peace to others, extend grace to others, to endure and love others, to help others in their very moment of need and most of all make time for others at all possible moments•

How quickly life can leave us and sometimes without a moment to say goodbye•
Oh, spirit that takes shape as the wind•
Please speak for me when I am gone so others will know I have loved, I have enjoyed, I have laughed, I have thought of them•

Oh, spirit you are marvelous in all your ways: through the wind, through my dreams, through my words, through my eyes, through my heart and most of all through my life•

Oh, spirit you have given me a wonderful and marvelous life•
I shall cherish it to the end•

Oh, spirit draw near and close to Michael always•
I whisper to him of my love in moments of despair, in moments we shared•
But when my time has come I know he will be in great pain•

Oh, spirit speak to his heart, his mind and comfort him of my love for him, forever more•
Blow your spirit through him of who we were together and what he will become•
I know you make me arise so that others will know that I have lived and loved in and through them•

Shalom,

Kim

The Glory of A Returned Journey : poetry by kim (2nd go-around for post)

The hills beyond the grassland whispers of things to come, to see and enjoy.

Walking knee deep in the golden thresh, of the sway, of the grass brings to mind the journey one must take to reach the next moment of exhilaration.

The air is stale making the lungs work greater for deeper breaths.

The humidity of the day does not let on that it will reprieve itself from the cloudy sky.

Reaching deep within the confines of this biological, skeletal being, the muscles work to move every joint, every member in a rhythmic cadence.

The quiet crushing of grass underfoot is a reminder that it's an intruder wandering this land of ancestors.

The surroundings are lush and green.

There are vast pockets of water that seem almost frozen with movement.

The air is foreign to this being, this intruder, who continues on its way to the next new moment.

There seems to be a noisy quietness that overwhelms the grassland, as it supports the hills from below.

The grassland teems with a great amount of life, wild, free, and unpretentious to its friends the hills.

The hills themselves seem to speak of a more quiet air that even dare say seems more sacred, more holy.

As each footing moves forward in direction, the ears are open, the heart is beating quickly, the mind works to recall perhaps a hint of familiarity, and the eyes are simply overwhelmed.

The aroma of this land is pungent, foreign, repulsive, yet welcoming to this intruder.

Just beyond the grassland and these hills bounds a more rambunctious bit of life beyond the horizon of this land.

The whizzing of motor bikes, the smells of fresh dishes, the chatter of a people selling their goods, street-side.

The noise is most overwhelming and constant but speaks of the goings on of a people in perpetual motion.

There are delicacies to be had, fresh from a boiling pot, there are trinkets made by hand, and drinks to be shared with another.

The sites and sounds only begin to subside as the day slowly draws to dusk, but the remnants of the days activities are still fresh in one's mind.

You'd think with all the noise of the township, that it would clearly echo its voice loudly and clearly to the quiet of the grasslands and hills, but neither knows of the other except by way of the traveling beings from one place to the other. Only to speak of such things when the other is not near.

This intruder prefers the quiet of the farmland, while its adventurous side looks forward to another day in the land of the masses. But only to return to the grassy lands where the vast pools of water, that mirror the hills from beyond, as though they were within reach.

This journey has only just begun and whether this has all been in one's head or whether it's footing has actually touched the quiet grassland, there could never be another journey quite like this - of one returning to one's motherland.

These Hands: poetry by kim (2nd go-around for post)

These hands have been in motion from the moment I was conceived.

These hands were the cilia that helped me figure out my world as a small child.

These hands, though asian are no different than my white sisters, my black brothers, my indian friends.

The phalanges that extend from the wrists of this being have learned to color with crayons, write with a pencil, do cursive in permanent ink.

They have held my body in midair as I learned to do cartwheels.

They have gracefully interpreted the emotions of a classical ballet piece.

They have gripped a tennis racquet, with sweat in between the leather and my epidermis, while running around on a court in hundred degree weather.

These hands have had my fingers jammed from 'setting' the volley ball for my fellow players.

These hands have created many a artistic projects for my family and friends on special and non-special occasions.

These long, somewhat slender fingers have dreamed of being a concert pianist while playing the ever challenging musical piece 'chop sticks'.

My hands have held the very hands of my husband from day one to the present, every day.

My hands are the tools in which I have learned many skills that employed me, have given me joy, have gotten me in trouble, have covered my mouth in a frozen surprise, have waved hello and goodbye to many loved ones through the years.

These hands with many miles on them are still young in years, and yet with so much life in them still, that I need not be surprised by what they will do for me next.

These hands have so desired, along with my heart, to embrace a lost child, an orphaned child, a sickly child, my own child,

So as the years have come and gone, these hands, my hands have allowed me to comfort the hurting, celebrate with a loved one, hugged a homeless person, clapped at a child's accomplishment or silliness, caressed the face of a newborn baby, and spoken another language through signing.

These hands, my hands have given little, have taken much and seek more ways to be used in the life of others.

These hands that have been so carefully and wonderfully made perfect, as well asfunctional, await for the abundance of new work, more sorrow, always ready to get dirty, waiting for a future of continued purpose.

Thank you, god, for these hands...

Ashes, Dust, Life...poem by kim (2nd go-around for post)

Life begins with a breath
Exhale
Inhale
Draw in what you need

Life plays out individually
Some share tall tales
Some share interesting tales
Others will share sad tales
More will no longer have a tale to tell

Life ends for each of us
Some unexpectedly
Some with celebration
She with terror
He with weakness
They with understanding
The little one unknowing

Life means something different for each of us
It was exuberant
It was interesting
It was nonexistent
Others it meant little
Others it was colorful

Life is a different color to each of us
Some saw red
Some saw African sky orange
She saw the purple of old age
He saw the yellow of a cornfield
They saw the grey of a gun barrel

Some say life and death are really the same
I used to not fathom such talk
But now I see how it could be
Life is fullness
Death is having had the fullness of life
And to remain fulfilling even past death

How could that be one may ask
I don't pretend to know
But if life is living, death is dying
then passing on must lead you to somewhere or something
Yes?
No?
I don't know...

Life
Death
Ashes
Dust
Still alive and with fullness
You, me us, they, them
Scatter where we long to return

To the sea
To the mountains
To a loved one
To home, wherever that may be
or in whom it may be

Hope Is Present In The Quiet Of The African Night...poem by kim (2nd go-around for post)

The wisp of the netting contains one in it's sheath, providing protection from the life beyond the threads of the thin cloth.

The native wanderers wait for just the right moment to come forth, entering the present of the night.

The settling of the earth is warm from the day's heat, yet welcomes the cool of the night

The cloudless african sky glitters with the life of the stars beyond, illuminated simply by the light of the moon.

The quiet of the african night lays claim to the souls that have settled in for an evening of sleep, of rest and a stillness unlike the day.

The night lends itself to the rhythm of the very souls breathing, as the dreams in their heads lay simple and pleasant joys wanting and remembered from long ago.

The quiet of the african night freshens the weary souls whose lives find each day more challenging than the next.

In the quiet of the african night, a sense of hope still prevails before the golden sun rises in the East, leaving the calm of sleep in the eyes of one awaking to the light of day.

Hope can remain in the quiet of the african night.

Hope must remain in the quiet of the african night.

But hope must also push through the quiet of the african night, to the rays of the dawning day. So that the very souls have more than sorrow and hopelessness to rise above from.

Hope is present in the quiet of the african night, but may that same hope be present in the light of day, every day. Not just in the night.

painting by mo osmon

The Sounds of Life...poem by kim (2nd go-around for post)

Listen here.

Still your footsteps for one moment.

Stop your breathing for the moment so as not to interfere with the other sounds of life.

Do you hear the water trickle from the stream, as it makes it way around twigs and pebbles?

Close your eyes to catch the sounds of a butterfly flitter from one flower to the next.

Still your heart to the beat of drumming tribes.

Halt your mind from whizzing by this way or that way.

Open your mind to the sounds of a child being born this very moment.

Tune your ears to the wind as it whispers gently across the face of a parent working in the fields.

Slow your hands so they hear the footsteps of your child running into your arms.

Calm your spirit as it wonders what all the noise is about.

Whisper to your spirit that the sounds of life are to lift you away to places unknown.

Whisper to the spirits of others that you have come to enjoy the sounds of their lives.

Speak deeply to your soul so that it may be comforted by the aching cries within you.

Call to jesus that his spirit will free you to venture to sounds of the lives of others.

Listen here.

Come my way to be quieted and given peace of the sounds of your life.

Listen here.

Plant your footsteps in my path that will halt the sounds of your fears.

Listen here.

Return To The Familiar...poem by kim (2nd go-around for this post)

There comes a time when the soul must wander into new territory
Sometimes that new territory is familiar

Familiar because one has tread upon its dusty roads, slept upon its cemented floors, taken up residence with a familiar people
Familiarity as common as spoken words, tribal songs, shared life, experienced death, and danced without hesitation

When the soul finds its place of familiarity, it seeks out greater experiences than it once had before
Not because it disliked those experiences prior, but simply to be reminded why the soul has returned from time apart and why it now desires the love it has been distant from

The soul is reminded of sunrises, sunsets, windswept days, smells not so foul to them, laughter in the distance, wailing of death in the evening air, footprints going and returning from the village market, rickety buses expanded by the life of chickens, the freshness of fruits, the wreaking of sweat, the loudness of the roaring engine, the crampness of lives touching so closely and so familiar.

Music is universal and so too is a rhythmic soul
Clapping, smiling, laughing, drums beating, the circle of life unbreakable, children observing their elders,
dogs barking in unison, the earth moving in joyous sound and thunderous movement

There comes a time when the soul will experience far more than it can handle
Though laughter is present, so too is the reality of life so limited, sometimes so harsh, and death is inevitable, regardless where the soul wanders

But what shame that the soul must experience death in a manner that is victimizing, rampant, a terrorist among
the throng of people
It is a means to an end with no real understanding of its purpose
Mothers, fathers, aunt, uncles, grandparents and children will see the end of their lives
Greater number of mothers and fathers will lose their lives early
Grandparents will be left with the children to raise unless they too leave this earth before the children have had
time to grow up in life
The children will wonder what will become of them if all have left them, with nothing to help carry them to their future

Oh, the children...The future without AIDS
Their lives so innocent, so refreshingly alive, and yet what will become of them
Who will dry their tears, who will comfort them during a thunderstorm, who will embrace them when their soul is weary
What will become of them
Does anybody know
Does anybody care

Sometimes the soul must wander into new territory
Sometimes that new territory is familiar
It is the soul that will find a way to help these people to help themselves in living a better life
It is the soul that will need to teach, educate, demonstrate, implement ways that they, the children, the grandparents, those left behind and not afflicted by the enemy of AIDS
It is the soul that must find ways to deplete the destruction of AIDS to so many
and yet other enemies will come calling though they are not welcomed, though they may be familiar

What greater value is there of one's future, the children, as they carry on with the traditions, the culture, the language, the stories, the history
So it must be said that the familiar ways the very soul has interpreted is as their own people, their own families, their own sisters, brothers, aunt, uncles, grandparents, their own likeness yet a world and many miles away from their own

Though the soul is strong in many ways, it simply cannot take on all that is before it, without the asking of other hands, hearts, prayers and resources
The soul is weak without these others
The soul will simply crumble among the monstrosity of the familiar and the enemies
The familiar desires the soul but not for the price of its death, whether in spirit, money, government or in body
The familiar relishes the love and the embracing from the soul in whatever regard

Familiarity is spiritual, is worthy, is appreciative, is a presence so unlike something the soul could ever experience and forget

There comes a time when the soul must wander into new territory
Sometimes that new territory is familiar
The soul asks nothing more than the familiar

I've Become Blind... (2nd go-around for post)

When I think of someone getting old, I don't think of myself.

Have I gone mad? Have I gone blind?

What makes one old in the eyes of another?

When did I begin to realize that I am no longer 25?

What possessed me to remind myself of what I feel like and not what my age may give away?

When did the laugh lines begin to form down and no longer up?

Where in the world does the concept of aging gracefully come from?

Why is there is a difference of standard for aging women versus men?

Why do most women tend to age more uh, shall we say less beautiful with age?

Is this god's sense of humor toward women?

Or was it to continue to boost men's egos up until the very the end?

I sure hope my being Asian will truly be an advantage to me, and so far it has, but will I be one of the lucky ones who ages with beauty over time? Or just the opposite?

Yikes! Imagine me at 65! Hello, world here I come! Wrinkles, flab, gray haired, saggier eyelids, salt and peppered moustache between the nose and upper lip, and a triple chin.

Good thing I already had a face lift before all these things could happen to me at 40. If only I could have afforded to...

So, I guess I've become blind as the years have gone by, but I guess it's helped in the sanity department. Too much too soon would have pushed me over the edge. And not a moment too soon.

So, the secret to aging is not acknowledging it all and just imagining oneself when viewed in a mirror that 'I am the fairest of them all.'

I don't think I will be able to keep up that mantra but hey, I'm alive and that counts for something!

Wind, Rain, Storm...poem by kim (2nd go-around for post)

Wind, whistle away, whistle away, say the swaying trees. We bend, we dance, we stir with passion for the coming rains.

You, wind are the drums that keep the rhythm of the storms to be.

Rain, come down, come down, says the ground below. We await the quenching of our thirst for you, and for the nutrients you provide so abundantly.

You, rain are the pounding of feet dancing around a ring of fire.

Clouds full of moisture, you are the towers that spring forth the water from your silos.

Thunder and lightening, you are the friends who are the life of the storm. You bring excitement, fear, and a beautiful show that can be seen and heard from miles away.

I'm in awe of how all of these instruments come together to create beautiful music from time to time.

I never tire of their company nor of the rich and beautiful gifts in which they each bring with them.

How lucky am I to enjoy the show and applaud the creator who provides the stage for such a production.

Bicycles...photos by kim (2nd go-around for post)

Today is just so beautiful in Chico. Though I would prefer it to be a bit colder and more crisp. But it's not and I needed to enjoy what we have. So I went to One Mile, in Bidwell Park, and took a bunch of photos.

I always have fun just enjoying the smells, the sounds and whatever catches my eyes.

Bicycles seemed to one of the themes while I was out and about. So hope you enjoy!

So Much...photos by kim (2nd go-around for post)

I was only at One Mile the entire time I was shooting photos. There was so much to shoot in just that part of the park alone. I barely covered maybe a sixteenth of Bidwell Park!

Which is so amazing to think about how much land was held as open space for folks from all over to enjoy. And I am one of the lucky ones. I look forward to tracking other parts of the park and seeing what kind of goodies that I will see through the view finder.

There is so much out there to see that I often wonder what it would be like to be blind. I know Helen Keller and many more lived and continue to live such amazing and productive lives. But I wonder some times if I would be able recall such beauty before having gone blind. It seems like I would but then other senses would be highly enhanced due to the loss of one of the senses. So I wonder how I would do. Just a thought..

Old Photos Taken...photos by kim (2nd go-around for post)

Do You See Me? I See You... (2nd go-around for this post)

Sometimes we have the inability to see one another. But most of the time, I believe, we intentionally ignore one another because of our unwillingness to stop and engage beyond a surface level.

How are we to speak to another if the 'Burqa' covers who each of us is? Why not stop and ask to remove the hindrance so that we can honestly and openly communicate with them? Why are we so afraid of each other? What will we lose by taking time to speak beyond just the quick, casual glance of the eye?

Isn't this why we are on earth together? To get to know and understand one another better? How are we to do that if we keep ourselves behind locked doors, behind dark sunglasses? Behind our tinted windows? Behind the magazine at the grocery line?

I feel there would be less people feeling alone if we were just capable of sharing our lives with one another, with an acceptance and permission to be truly open and honest.

This doesn't in no way imply that we will not have days where we will hide behind our own 'Burqa' or of another's. But it is imperative that we take big, small and many moments in our lives to speak eye to eye. So that each sees the other for who each is.

It can be done. I think it needs to continue to be done. And as long as we are on earth with one another, shouldn't we be finding ways to better understand and love one another?

Why Is It?

Why is it when you want something so badly that you ache so deeply that you wonder if you will survive?

Why is it that getting angry is such a good feeling some times? Yet sucks as an aftermath?

Why is it that my daughter feels she has an important duty to whine every single day and for hours at a time?

Why is it that I am still a tomboy but still hate and loathe, really, bugs of all kinds. This is one of my beefs with god...hahaa!

Why is it that when we have become the some thing that we've always wanted to be, and then find it is not all it is cracked up to be...and then still some how try to pretend to ourselves that we are enjoying it and that this is what we always wanted...so just suck it up? Why do we torture ourselves like this?

Why is it that humanity makes it so difficult to be TRULY authentic of a person, especially in terms of sharing one's rawest of emotions, one's rawest of stories that may show a dark side of you, or feel that we have to hide behind such facades in order to be considered 'okay' by what...society? EESH!

Why is it that I have found a place of escapism that makes me keep checking to see if others value me in some way or another?

Why is it that I always have these friggen deep and raw thoughts, and have to resort to writing in in a blog, and wondering if anyone is going to read it or even make a check mark or comment on any postings of mine?

Why is it that self deprecation is not considered a 12 step needed program?

Why is it that my dreams are always so vivid and realistic that I'd rather not sleep than to have to be frozen for those moments, but seem like hours of reality dreams. And then I'm exhausted the next morning?

Why is it that some parents can handle 'twins' and 'triplets' and others like me feel like I'm such a wimp - meaning that I don't take them to the park or swimming or to Chuck e. cheese by myself? I see other parents doing it...

Why is it that I have so many friggen questions that no one is going to answer, yet still feel like they need to be stated?

Why is it that I feel at a loss for when I most need them?

Why is it that others get great breaks and others don't?

Why is it that my son, nate, is the sweetest most lovable teddy bear yet has the patience the size of a mustard seed.

Why is it that matthew will never be ours forever?

Why is it that I am shoving, pushing, hitting, screaming, yelling, crying at/to god when things are good, yet I feel perpetually out of sync?

Why is it that I did get an amazing hubby, but still can be mad as hell at him from time to time?

Why is it that I wear my emotions on my sleeve and now my words and my world in both a virtual and a blogging world?

Why is it that being married is easy yet so silly yet so complicated?

Why is it that I/we can't live in a world that every one accepts everyone for who they are and not put limitations on someone's love for another?

Why is it that I am so damn liberal and yet I have chosen to live such a traditional lifestyle?

Why is it that some of these questions will not or just don't make sense?

Why is it that a new/continued Seinfeld isn't making me laugh heartily anymore?

Why is it that I am so short, yet not called a midget?

Why is it the term midget means midget?

Why is it that I am continuing to ask questions that make no more sense?

Why is it that I can't seem to stop typing these questions?

Why is it that...