A learned behavior…

Friday the 13th. Superstitions abound from not breaking mirrors, spilling salt, avoid walking by black cats, and more. Some people are so paralyzed by fear that they avoid any normal routine with engaging in business, taking airline flights, even just getting out of bed. This year, hatred is at the forefront and goes beyond references to the mythical Norse lore and from the biblical Last Supper.

This 13th of October, 2023, we are embedded as sickened onlookers to one more horrific event with part of our world now at war. The combative opinions of those professing different ideologies have designated a Day of Anger, gathering in countries and cities worldwide. The hatred being spewed by these factions does not stop, even for a moment, to share grief for those so brutally cut down by political and religious warfare, not even for the tiniest of victims who have suffered unimaginable ends to their precious lives. Regardless of chosen political or religious choices, how can anyone minimize, even ignore, such unspeakable human carnage?

When did hate become a predominant factor in life or do we personally pass off our “dislike” for people and events as a personal choice, maintaining our right to feel and say as we do? The majority of humans on this planet have moved beyond ancient dogmas based on genocide and destruction but, sadly, in certain geographical areas of our world, it’s inbred, within given populations, highly encouraged and taught, almost as a means of survival with a goal of achieving conquest over others.

We are, none of us, without fault or prejudice and it is impossible to comprehend deep-rooted animosities towards who and what we seek to control but cannot. Thus enters hate and all associated actions enmeshed in quests to obliterate portions of humanity. The ancient wars and beliefs from pages of history continue to be re-written and re-lived in a permanent chapter called “Hate”.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop:Write a blog post inspired by the word: hate
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A sound you hear…

Those moments of silence we often wish for? I have them, although I’m not complaining. Each one is much like a refresher, a welcome pause, from life’s daily ruckus. Finding that necessary mental space as time keeps hurling fast-pitched thoughts at you can be a blessing. Silence is a sound you hear.


For a brief time, I can listen to rain softly falling, almost appreciating the sound as opposed to focusing on how it might impact plans which are on my schedule. Music drifts into my office from the kitchen and the song playing brings back a memory or two. Memories. They have a way of waiting until you stop long enough to let them in the door; that only happens when the sounds of silence take over.


Wrapped in the surrounding quiet, I hear footsteps running up my stairs and I think back to when my grandchildren were little and needed me more than they do now. I miss those precious sounds. I miss those precious “little’s” in my life even more.


Off in the living room, a chiming clock signals the passing, or arrival, of one more hour. This monitor of passing time seems even louder when everything else is so quiet. It makes me wonder just how many more chimes will I hear as time keeps moving along at warp speed?


A beep in the kitchen signals the shutdown of the coffeemaker, reminding me that another cup is called for while I can enjoy it in my silent surroundings. There is just something about doing that, whether early in the morning before the rest of my world awakens or, at any moment, where it’s just me and silence, my old friend.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Listen to the sounds in your house for 5 or 10 minutes. Write about what you hear.

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Twenty-two years

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Tragic events which leave deep emotional scars on those left behind tend to soften as time passes.  But not always.  Not even after these twenty-two years when, on that beautiful September morning, each of our lives were severely impacted by the willful, destructive ideology of radical Islamic extremists.

As I sat and watched the yearly ceremony in New York City, it seemed to hit harder than in previous years.  It was almost as if it had just taken place for the first time.  The incredible pain of watching innocent lives disappearing as two majestic icons collapsed into clouds of smoke and twisted metal was beyond overwhelming. 

My personal reaction might have been due to spending time at both the Freedom Tower and 9/11 Museum with my family.  The footprint of the North Tower had us walking on what I deemed sacred ground; there was a sense that many who had perished were watching over each visitor, perhaps looking for a familiar loved one, waiting to send some spiritual comfort to those left behind.

Today, I again watched, and listened, as names were read by family members.  Their tears gently fell as they spoke about the losses they suffered, each vowing to never forget.  Brave families, with such unimaginable voids in their lives, who took time to share sweet stories and express their love as they looked to the heavens.

Twenty-two years have passed; many more will follow.  Ceremonies and observances will continue.   One day, the September 11th tragedy will become a chapter in history for generations that follow.  That is, until those generations walk on hallowed ground and learn to never forget.

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