Stone from the Grave of the Father… and Feeling the Love and Smiling

Last year, while I was very sick and my back and left hip were being a bastard(ish) duet, I spent a lot of time in physical therapy, occupational therapy, and other special therapies schools. I was the youngest person in almost every class… and the most talkative… and most cackly, too. When the pain was at its nastiest, making bad jokes and laughing truly helped. But nothing was as effective (at the art of dealing with pain) as finding ways to help other people ignore their own agony for a bit.

I haven’t seen any of the people I went to therapy with since last spring. So I was more than surprised when I received a box from Robin, a stroke survivor. She was in therapy in order to relearn how to use her extremities. Her case was particularly difficult because she was a metal worker, something that involved precise use of her hands. One day, we were exercising side by side—she worked her fingers by sculpting a dragonfly out of something that looked like playdough and I wrote on a standing desk (to see if my shoulder, back and hip alignment could handle the stress). After a short while, my bad shoulder and arm began to shake. I kept on writing…

“If your body is complaining that much,” Robin said, “you should stop.”

“Not yet,” I told her. “I’m going to beat my old time record of 47 seconds, become a crippled handwriting champion, and make this bastard shoulder my bitch.”

Robin laughed. Her mirth echoed through the physical therapy room. The wonderful sound gave me a boost, and I wrote for nearly a minute without stopping.

We continued exercising together, moving through the different machines and stretching stations as a pair. Robin told me about her stroke, how she felt useless at first, how the process of getting better made her “feel like she was dying…” But after some time, she started to feed on what she had left—her love for her work, her expertise, her obstinacy—and was now working on giving birth to herself.

“I might have to steal your words and your healing approach,” I said. And I did. If a 62-year-old woman could reclaim her Self, from the claws of pain, then so could I.

A few days after that, I wrote “Wet Dragonfly Wings” and gave it to Robin.

More than a year has gone by… But earlier today, I got home from the hospital to a package from Robin. It contained a silver picture frame—decorated with dragonfly wings and flowers—a golden pencil holder, and four pairs of fantastic socks.

I was rather happy when I got home, since my doctors told me that my gut and bones are getting better… but Robin’s gifts multiplied my joy. And because the Universe felt that my witchy self should be even happier, I also received a chest and two jars I purchased from Eliora, plus a tote and sweet little witch I won from a giveaway hosted by Tales of a Needle and Thread.

Are you wondering about the first bit of my title, my Wicked Luvs? Well, that part was inspired by a gift that makes me grin every time I look at it. Some weeks ago, my friend Esther went to Edinburgh to present a paper. Because she loves the Harry Potter books as much as I do, she brought me a stone from the grave of Thomas Riddell, the real person “believed to have inspired” the name of the character in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter Series. So there you have it, I have a stone, “from the [grave of the] father, unwillingly given”. Bwahahaha! *cough, cough, cough* Ha!

1* picture frame, refurbished by Robin
* the darkest of the two stones is from Esther

2* pencil holder, also refurbished by Robin

3* yummy socks, from Robin (I asked her if I could share one of the “Wicked” pairs with a wonderful lady who loves purple. She say “Of course!” They are on their way to said lady)

4* chest and jars by Eliora (can’t wait to tell you what I’m doing with the wee jars)

5* my tote, witch and chocolates from Tales of a Needle and Thread (thank you, Kerry!)

6* say hello to my little witch 😀

Magaly Guerrero- Nov 13* now say “Hey, sexy!” to the Wickedest Witchy Writer of Them All

In a world that seems completely rotten with meanness, ridiculous bickering and all sorts of pain-causing nonsense, there will always be a person (or 13) who takes the time to give (love, things, time, an ear…) to others. And that, my Wicked Luvs, is the reason why I always try to blog about what I’m given and the things people do for me (when they don’t have to): we need to remind each other that there are people who don’t suck.

I Shall Not Cry over Dead Flowers…

…unless I must; if I must cry over the withering carcasses of what used to be, then I will wail for my blooms in style.

Three days ago, I found out that if my health continued improving (or if it remained stable) then I would be able to do all the things I’ve wanted to do for a while. As you may imagine, the news had me over the moon. If we are Facebook friends or if you visit my blog regularly, then you probably read my delight oozing out of everything I shared.

Then, yesterday, I cut the tip of my left middle finger… and didn’t feel it… in fact, I didn’t realize I had cut myself until I had already bled all over my keyboard… The cut looks angry right now, but I can squeeze it until it bleeds and still feel nothing. It seems that I’m not healing as yummily as my doctors and I hoped. And a gazillion and three tests will be added to the million and one that had already been scheduled for the next few weeks.

What does this mean for me, aside from lots of future time at the hospital and many bad jokes about how I might not be able to flip people off with real feeling anymore? Well, it means rearranging my writing and publishing plans, yet again. I had planned to publish something big in April… and a smaller something in December. Only a handful of people knew this—my Piano Man and a few of my closest friends. I didn’t want to get you all excited and then have to disappoint you.

I was very sad, last night… for a couple of hours… I even cried a bit… okay, I kind of screamed with rage (and probably gave my neighbors ideas of calling the police or animal control). But after a few hours rewriting my schedules and glaring at Fate while baring my teeth, all was well again. Life happens, and I will happen with it; when life throws me lemons, I’ll make mojitos… and all those other super-annoying (and rather tasty) clichés.

I can’t publish what I wanted to, but I can do something else. I’m thinking a very short collection of poetry featuring all my loves and the mayhem that makes them wonderfully mine. Imagine it, my Wicked Luvs: December poetry set in AlmaMia Cienfuegos’ world, winter with Lum and Darlene, and what does Drusilla do for the holidays?

So there you have it, Fate dearest, I won’t cry for my dead flowers… I’m a witchy woman, remember? I’ll rearrange the remains, until the corpses of my blooming ideas look pretty.

I Shall Not Cry over Dead Flowers…