A guest writer ---Picasso smile

Below is a poem from my friend Kim. I find her words beautiful, almost magical. Every word so carefully chosen. Its as if she were in my head, taking my thoughts, and putting them to paper. I wanted to share 1 of my favorites pieces with you today.


I look into my mirror, a shattered picture as it falls,
and dig into the shards of glass to restore the image I recall.
A broken scrambled vision is all that I can see
but somewhere in the pieces must be a part of me.
As though I were a kaleidoscope, with each turn the pictures change
and though its my hand on the vessel, I cannot control what is arranged.
Where have I disappeared to? Can somebody tell me how
I could lose my own identity within vanity's favorite shroud?
I feel so lost and fearful that I may never find
the person who still lives within the corners of my mind.
Did she once reside within a youthful stare?
Or have my memories forsaken me and left me painfully aware
that I may never find the girl the my broken mirror stole
and perhaps I never liked her even when she still was whole.
Even then I searched for the image to be enhanced
and never gave what I had to offer its rightful passing glance.
I've tried so hard to remember and yet cannot recall
ever smiling at myself to recite "mirror- mirror on the wall".
Perhaps that’s why the mirror fell, like a broken heart unhealed
as if to say "you never did appreciate the person I revealed".
So as I put together each piece of broken glass
I see each shard representing future, present, and my past.
and I wonder as I come closer to my end of time
what proof of my existence will I have left behind-
The color of my children's eyes, the words I chose to style
or perhaps a broken mirror with a Picasso looking smile.
I pray there will be many treasures I will have to give,
the good, the bad, the everything that’s says
I was here, I lived.
-Kim-

Wellness Woman

If someone were to ask me: What magazine's do you read? Two weeks ago, I'd say "None."

I love reading books but I'm not really into magazines. I'm not sure why. Maybe the content doesn't capture my attention like a good book. But I have to say. That's all changed now. If someone said what magazine do you read?

I'd say Wellness Woman Magazine. http://bit.ly/WellnessWoman40andBeyondEMagazine.

This magazine is jam packed with wonderful, beautiful tips and insight we can all benefit from. It's formatted like a real magazine. You flip through the pages as if you are holding an actual magazine. It's a great layout and fun to read.

If you are looking for a little inspiration, check it out.

The Wellness Journey

I'm so looking forward to being on The Wellness Journey today. Listen live at: 

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/thewellnessjourneylive/2013/10/24/pieces-of-me-life-of-a-recovering-dysfunctional

Last Kiss (page 13 of Pieces of Me: Life of a Recovering Dysfunctional)

“Love is something eternal; the aspect may change, but not the essence.” — Vincent van Gogh

The big red numbers on the clock lit the room. Six thirteen a.m.; it was way too

early to call Angela. I rolled out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, and turned on the
 
shower. As I stood waiting for the water to warm up, I wondered if I should write down

my dream. Would I remember it by the time I talked with her? Something told me I

would never forget it. As I drove to work, I replayed in my mind every detail. It was so

real. It had to be real.

But why would Charlie come to see me?

It had been six years since he passed away.

It was the first time anyone I truly cared about had passed. I was only 24 when he

died. He was just 26. His death shocked all our friends, but most of all it sent Angela

reeling. Charlie and Angie had been in love since they were 15. I don’t know if any of us

fully got over the loss of Charlie. I am not sure if Angie ever will.

When I got to work, I looked to see if my boss was in yet. I couldn’t wait to talk to

Angie. I couldn’t wait another minute. I sent her an email asking her to call me as soon

as she was free.

I let out a little laugh when my phone immediately rang.

“Angie?” I said.

“Yea what’s going on?”

“I had a dream last night.”

“Was it about Charlie?” she asked.

“Yes!” I said filled with excitement.

I knew it! It was too real. I knew it!

I asked her, “Did you dream about Charlie last night?”

 

...
 

Check out Pieces of Me: Life of a Recovering Dysfunctional for the ending to this story and many more.

 

http://www.amazon.com/Pieces-Me-Recovering-Dysfunctional-Volume/dp/0615663222/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1377976480&sr=8-1&keywords=pieces+of+me+diana+lynn

 

Thank you for your service!

Do you ever just flip through the channels and randomly stop on a show you never watch? For some reason it just catches your eye. That happened to my husband yesterday. He stopped on a show neither of us watches, although we have passed by it many times.

Bomb Patrol, Afghanistan

It was scene after scene of these men blowing up roadside bombs. Some were blowing bombs up with remote control devices and some had to walk right up to the bomb to prepare it to be blown.

We watched one man balancing on the side of the cliff putting a device over a bomb to blow it up. It was pitch black. We couldn’t really see what he was doing we could only hear his breathing. I was frozen watching him.

He safely prepared the bomb and returned to the other’s waiting for him.

As he smiled he said, “That got real.”  Then he said, “I hope my mom doesn’t see that one.”

This is someone’s job. This is someone’s job! There is a mother out there that has a son that blows up bombs, in a different country, for a living. I cannot even begin to imagine what his family must feel on a daily basis. How do you adjust to that? I freak-out when my son goes to Seattle on a Saturday night.

I know. We all know that there are people risking their lives. I know we lose men & women in battle--in war often. But as I sat watching these men building devices to blow up bombs it really hit me what they risk and sacrifice every day.

I found myself saying, “This is sad.” “This show is sad.” “I feel sad.” “I don’t want to watch this anymore.”

I think now what made me sad was me. I’m sad I didn’t give them the respect, the care enough to think of these guys daily. To pray for them daily while they are over there and for their safe return. Heck, I couldn’t even stop on a show about the men & women working so hard for us overseas.

Of course, I would be thankful and I would think it’s terrible we are over there.

But. I get it now. I see it differently.

I am so truly grateful for what the service men & women do for this country. I am so truly appreciative of the families waiting for their children to come home.

A very heartfelt thank you!

Local Author’s Inspirational Memoir to Aid in Encouraging Homeless Families in Transition

Kirkland, WA – July 10, 2013 – A local non-profit is receiving a gift of books from a Kirkland insurance agency with hopes the story will encourage men and women faced with the challenge of homelessness.

John Cysewski, owner of Insur-All Agency in Kirkland, purchased 20 copies of Pieces of Me: Life of a Recovering Dysfunctional for donation to Vision House.

Vision House, founded in Renton in 1990, provides transitional housing and services to homeless single mothers and their children. Residents are allowed and encouraged to stay up to 36 months in order to gain stability and self-sufficiency. Its new Jacob’s Well housing complex in Shoreline is opening this fall, increasing Vision House’s capacity to accommodate 35 families. On-site counseling services, case management, child advocacy programs and licensed, accredited daycare are some of the key services available to residents.

Pieces of Me is a personal story of perseverance in the face of many struggles endured by local businesswoman Diana Lynn. Lynn overcame the challenges that accompanied young motherhood, an abusive relationship and divorce, estrangement from one parent and death of another, starting a business, and finding a new relationship. Through it all, she remained optimistic and upbeat. Her story is an inspiration to readers of all ages.

Lynn met Cysewski at business networking functions. He heard her story and sought a way that it could help others. Vision House’s mission offered that. Cysewski‘s Insur-All Agency at 11416 Slater Avenue NE in Kirkland supplies Allstate Insurance products that provide support of one sort. His donation of Pieces of Me will lend support in another manner.

Learn more about Vision House at www.vision-house.org. Pieces of Me can be found online through Amazon.com at http://amzn.to/X8y08d or can be ordered at local bookstores.

Only Fools Believe (page 51 of Pieces of Me)

Only Fools Believe

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart; and don't lean on your own understanding. In all things acknowledge him, and he shall direct your way.”--Proverbs 3:5,6

            It sounds crazy to want to see a psychic. All that phony-bologna stuff. They aren’t real. They steal your money and give you false hope. They are evil. They take advantage of the innocent. Only fools believe.

I’ve heard it all. Yet, I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat as my hairstylist spoke of a psychic she met at a party she recently attended. She listened as the psychic told a stranger a story of his grandfather who had passed. She watched the man cry, along with everyone else at the table. They were mesmerized by this woman’s words.

I had heard of a local psychic, Teresa. She was friends with a few of my girlfriends. I met her once. I thought of speaking with her many times. I just couldn’t get the nerve to ask.

I missed my mom. I missed her just as much as the day she passed, June 18, 2001. They say it gets easier. They say with time…

What I say is, “You never fully get over it. Life will never be the same.”

Does life go on? Yes, of course. Do I laugh? Yes, of course. But there is not one happy occasion, holiday, or accomplishment achieved that isn’t a little less grand because she isn’t here to share it with me.

I used to run through her front door shouting out whatever good news I had.

She would run up to me, throw her arms around me, and say, “That’s my girl!”

She had a way of making everything in life a little better.

            I thought, if I could just talk to my mom. If I could just have a few moments with her I would know she was OK. I would know she was up in heaven. I would know she was safe. One day, I will see her again. One day, I will hear her voice again.

I popped out of my own internal thoughts when my hairstylist said, “Yeah, her name was Teresa.”

“Teresa!” I shouted. “I can’t believe that’s who you saw! I know her.”

Could it be I was being pulled toward her? What are the odds? I fought internally for weeks. You are a fool. But, what if? You are crazy. But, what if? The coincidence was too great.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting on Teresa’s couch.

I felt the nerves and emotions rise as I sat quietly looking around her home. My hands started to shake and my heart race. I wondered if she could tell I was scared. I felt the tears welling up before she even spoke. I looked at this beautiful woman as she slowly closed her eyes. She rubbed her hands as if she was putting lotion on them. Quietly, she started to pray. She opened her eyes looking deep into mine.

“How is your sciatic?” she asked.

“Oh my gosh, that’s crazy!” I shouted out. “It’s bad. I am getting a shot in my back on Thursday. How did you…?”

“I’ve got an uncle figure here. He is an artist. A painter. Known for his unusual brush strokes. Very unusual. They kind of run together,” she said.

“This is crazy! Crazy! That’s my Uncle Frank. I have one of his paintings in my living room,” I said.

“He’s here. He’s here with an Uncle Tony.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s his brother. I can’t believe this,”

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t clear my head. I was just looking at her, looking for words. How could she have known?

We spent the next two-and-a-half hours talking about my family members who had passed. We talked about my future. We talked about my dreams. Things she never would have known. Things even I didn’t know about my own family. I was overwhelmed with the information she had given me. I was thrilled with my new discoveries but still a little disappointed that my mom didn’t come through.

She asked if I had any questions. I wanted to shout out, “What about my mom?” But I just couldn’t make myself do it.

“No, no…I don’t think so,” I said.

She looked at me and said, “Who’s Joyce?”

“My mom.”

To hear the rest of this story and many others check out my book. Pieces of Me at http://amzn.to/X8y08d