Wanderer

Dreams.

...the kind you have during the night, when you've been able to sleep continuously and deeply enough to reach the REM (rapid eye movement) stage... yeah those kind of dreams.

... the kind of dream that offers an explanation to a question you've had on your mind lately, or the answer to a problem you've been trying to solve.

...the kind of dream that takes you on a journey that seems to span a lifetime, or to a place that is not of this world, so fantastic yet so believable one could use the vivid imagery and bizarre events to spark a story. I imagine many books were sparked by a vivid and thrilling dream.

... the kind of dream that calms the soul. One doesn't even need to remember the details, nor any part of the dream, but if one wakes up knowing that she had been somewhere, with someone, and that something significant happened, without even knowing what or who, the accompanying sense of calmness is enough to know that it was a good dream.

Sometimes there are fragments... you only remember a single fragment, or several fragments, disjointed, seemingly unmatched and unrelated. Such dreams puzzle us, and we try to piece them back together if we can remember them long enough to do so. If you journal your dreams, you have an excellent opportunity to understand what is happening in your awake life.

Notice I did not say what is happening in your real life, for what happens to you (your psyche) in your dreams is as real to you as the events in your awake life. Fear, joy, and sadness have the same effect on your body in the dream state as when you are awake.

The Bible, a book I read nearly every day with an open mind and heart, shares stories of common men having divine dreams, visitations in the night from an angel, hearing God speaking to them. I believe the stories... that these people heard a divine message from the Lord, that God guided them, commanded them, instructed them, and reprimanded them, oftentimes he did so through their dreams. The most important result of the ancient patriarch's dreams and visions was in the manner that their lives were changed. Individuals, families, and entire communities/tribes were transformed by the direction they subsequently travelled... transformed by God, through their dreams. I'd love to write an entry about this topic, but that's not on today's agenda...

Many books have been written about dreams, interpreting dreams, how to apply what you learn from your dreams to your awake life, or dreamwork. I like to think I'm an expert at working with MY dreams. I can only ask questions of those who tell me their dreams, questions that might lead them to figure out what they mean for themselves.

But this post isn't going to be about that either.

This is about one little dream, a dream fragment I had last night.

It wasn't one of those big transforming dreams... but it did have a calming effect on me.

I feel the familiar soft fur at my leg, and for a moment he is with me, as he had been for nearly nine years. I turn and look down, and there is my Max, looking up at me, wagging his short tail.

In that moment, I reach down to him, to pat him, to touch him, and he does not walk away. I say his name "Max!... it's you.... you came back to me!" His eyes are bright, his tongue slightly hanging from his mouth, as though he had been running. I kneel beside him to hug him closer, ignoring the urge to pick him up because I know he hates to be picked up. "I knew you'd come back," I say.

For another moment, I hug and pet him around his head and ears. His coat is so soft, shiny and black.

Suddenly I realize I am dreaming, and I wake up.

Satisfied, I smiled... I had my Max dream. He's okay, I'm okay. I was waiting for that. He died March 15... all I could think as I lay in bed this morning was, "Max, what took you so long!"

And that is what this post is about. One little dream.

Also, I had a great day with my BIL and SIL and my DH.

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I thought I had time to make a journal entry, but then I looked at the clock and it's already 10:09 a.m. and I have to be dressed and ready to leave by 11:00 so I don't have time after all. Ooops. I'll come back later. I'm off to spend the day with my husband and my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Something we haven't done in years.

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Friendship: on-line and off-line.

When your off-line friend doesn't call you for a few weeks, you call them to find out if they're okay. If they don't respond to phone calls, you drive to their house and ring the door bell or walk right in. You have to know if your friend is okay, because if he or she isn't, you want to be the one to help them through whatever malady has taken them away from living their life as you know it. Friends will do that for each other.

But what does one do when an on-line friend doesn't post for several weeks? You return to their journal many times and you see that the blogger isn't posting, as he was in the habit of doing for a few years. So you email him. Or her. A week passes, no response from the email. You reread past posts to find out if there were any clues about a family vacation, or possibly a planned surgery, or other intended hiaitus. You find nothing. Not a word. Even previous emails leave no suggestion that the blog writer would be away for such a lengthy time.

What do you do then? You don't know their real name, you don't know phone numbers and addresses. You just know the story of their life as they have told it in their blog and in subsequent blog-related email communications.

One of the drawbacks of establishing an on-line friendship is that when the person disappears from life, they literally disappear. When they stop posting, how long should one wait before one starts thinking they might be in the hospital, seriously sick? or worse, they're already gone from this world?

I am feeling fearful about our blogger friend, Barry. AKA, Bbartle3, of the aol journal Vengeance. He started his aol journal in 2004 with an entry about reconnecting with a former classmate that he hardly remembered, but was able to find some common memories.

He wrote the following words: "Over time, not only do people die, become incapacitated, or ill, they also store up feelings of having failed, even when there is plenty of evidence of achievement, and growth in wisdom."

I don't remember my first visit to Barry's journal, but I do remember having to read and reread his entries to find out just where he was coming from. It took some work, but I soon figured him out. And now that I haven't seen an alert from him in over two months, I'm very worried.

So this entry is my APB alert... All Points Blog alert!

Has anyone seen or heard from Barry? He's a handsome gentleman in his seventies, has a very young wife (they've been married 15 years) from South America, and four beautiful sons (the youngest is just over a year old, Marc Andrew, and he sings Beethoven!).

I did a few minutes of searching through his archives this morning just for this entry, and found what I was looking for... photos of his beautiful family. Click here for that. and here is another great photo of the whole gang.

I miss Barry's entries, often caustic, always opinionated, and always reflective. You can tell his mood once you get to know him. He's a gentleman at heart... a real gentleman. 

Barry, if you read this, how about dropping me or anyone of your journal friends an email. Tell us you are away on vacation in that new car you just bought, or you off to Australia to visit your family. Please tell us something like that! Maybe your oldest daughter (previous marriage) will read this and respond.

I just want to know. Otherwise, I'm thinking you've left us for good this time. I don't like where that thought is taking me.

I'm praying for you, Barry, and your family. I hope this is just a temporary situation, and that all will be well. But I am worried.

If anyone has any inkling of information about the well-being of Barry of Vengeance, would you email me? My email address is bgilmore725@aol.com

 

 

 

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                                            Fear of thunder

 

Click on the title above for an entry that brings back fond memories. I wrote it back before I had learned how to add big photos to my journal. But you can make them larger by clicking on the words above the photo.

Every time I hear thunder, I think of Mr. Max.

Today I heard thunder during a light rainshower, and the memory of Max hiding in the bathroom came rushing over me. The tears began. I didn't stop them as I remembered. Has it been a month already? Almost.

Marti, of PorchStories, lost her dog Penny yesterday. Please go by and leave her a comment. I know she would appreciate it. 

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River is back, writing in his journal!

Some of us have been waiting for nearly a year to see an alert from him. This morning, I found two alerts from his journal.

I had hoped that the reason for his absence was that he had moved from Las Vegas and was able to get re-established with a job and a home again.

He had been homeless for nearly five months, living on the streets of Las Vegas. He had been writing about his experiences there, looking for shelter, food, and helping others who needed the same.

He reminds us that the homeless are "All God's children" as well. I don't know what he's going to write about now, and I'm even a little fearful for him, and for what he will expose as he writes about the fruitless deeds of a dark society.

His story is about relying on others, and relying on his faith in God, to get by. He returns with a mission statement, and now he seems focused on his work.

Won't you drop by his journal with some words of encouragement? He is among nearly 15,000 homeless people in Las Vegas.

He reminds us that not all homeless people are drug addicts or criminals. Many are there because of financial downfalls and have medical conditions that prevent them from working.

It may be no coincidence that the entry number for "Unfruitful Works of Darkness" is 911.

That means what he has to say is very urgent. Take heed, America!

You won't be able to read anything about him in his About Me column, but if you go to his third entry, called Introduction, you will learn more about his vision, his purpose, and his passion.

Welcome back, River!

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Ever hear of Aboriginal artist Clifford Possum? I had not heard of him until a few months ago when I started looking for ideas for classroom art projects. Two of my art classes are working on projects related to the culture of Australia. They've made tag board boomerangs (which I forgot to photograph, but will try to remember to do that this week) that are for show and cannot fly like a proper boomerang, and they're working on paintings based on the style of the Aboriginal Dreamtime paintings.

It's never proper to try to copy an artist's style, or a culture's style, but I do believe it is permissable and even encouraged to take elements from that style and make something new with it. That's where Clifford Possum comes into this story.

Clifford Possum lived from 1933 until 2002 in Australia. He is among the most famous of Aboriginal artists, if not the most famous, for having started a painting style called Dreamtime painting.

He discovered the art form for himself one day in the 1970's when a teacher, Geoffrey Bardon, gave him some brushes and paints and told him (and some other men)  to put their stories on canvas. Prior to this historical moment, Aborigines drew/painted their stories on the ground, on bark, and on their bodies. About as permanent as painting in the sand at the beach. The way I understand it, once Clifford learned how to paint on canvas, he encouraged other Aboriginal artists to put their dreaming stories on canvas as well.

This sparking event took place in a "rundown settlement called Papunya Tula". 

Clifford soon became recognized in this style of painting which came tobe called the Papunya Tula School, also known as dot and circle painting because of the use of both in abundance throughout the sacred paintings. It took many years for dot and circle style of storytelling to become appreciated by the greater art community.

A dreaming story is a like a creation story, of a family or a tribe of people. Dreamtime stories are individual and personal, and it isn't acceptable for one person to tell another person's dreamtime story.

You can read more about Clifford Possum and other Aboriginal artists at this website called Making Tracks.

What I took from Clifford's circle and dot painting was the circles and dots, and other lines. The students were told to think about the animals they see in their own backyards (North Carolina backyards) and to draw them on brown paper (to simulate the former Aboriginal style of painting on bark) using oil pastel crayons. They had to incorporate the dots, circles, and lines, and any other design element they were familiar with, into their painting. After they had drawn enough to fill their paper, they had to pick one color and paint watercolor over the entire picture.

The one above is mine, the teacher's model. If you've been reading my journal over the past two years, you know we used ot have a koi pond, and turtles, frogs, and all sorts of wildlife were subjects for me to write about. The painting represents a portion of "my Dreamtime story."

But as you can see in the pictures that follow, the students did a far better job with their dreamtime stories than I did.

Now kick back and just enjoy the color and the shapes.  The students haven't written their stories to go with the painting... I wanted them to paint first, then write. 

                              

 

                                 

 

                                    

 

                                              

 

                                      

 

Yes, these are the work of children. In 3rd-5th grades. Special Education.

 

 

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Many of you may remember that back in December, I entered a contest called 'operation turtleblog'. Contestants had to write a blog entry about Koopa the Turtle, then add a link back to the artist's website (turtlekiss.com) where the contest details were posted. In January, I learned that I had won one of Koopa's paintings. Kira and I had kept in touch via e-mail since then, and one day in February, she sent me pictures of Koopa... painting my painting!

I asked Kira, sort of an e mail interview, how Koopa went about his painting business, and how much input she added. After all, I knew someone had to build the canvas, and squirt the paint onto the canvas... that was a given. I had provided input about colors, and Kira used her artistic expertise to place the colors on the canvas in a manner that would, hopefully, prevent the effect of mud. To Koopa, mud would have been the perfect color.

Kira also assured me that she uses non-toxic acrylic paint, and gives Koopa a warm bath after every painting. I asked her how long it takes him to complete a painting, generally. She said about ten or fifteen minutes. You can read more about Koopa and how Kira first discovered Koopa's natural talent as a painter at their website, turtlekisses.com.

I'm a believer that pictures speak more than words, so here are some of the photos she sent me of Koopa at work on my painting.

First the basic layout, using words I had sent. The words are simply a creative way for Kira to add the colors. She also added symbols for the dragonfly and cicada because the words would have been too much paint. '1981' was the year we built our home.

                                  

Kira also added colors she needed to make sure there was the right balance of lightness and darkness between the colors. The canvas she painted orange in the middle because if she had added it as a wet color for Koopa to crawl through, most likely we would have ended up with a muddy, brown  picture (try mixing orange and blue sometime!). Although, that color would have reminded me of my pond, it was not something I wanted to hang on my wall!

                                  

Koopa takes his first step onto the canvas. Notice the word he is standing on. You can tell he's got a plan, and knows exactly where he wants to go. An artist usually starts out with some kind of plan, but as he works, he could possibly change his mind, or discover something about the composition that might look better done another way. I'm thinking Koopa does that sometimes!

                                    

See what I mean about a plan? There he goes... this little guy has purpose. He's walked across  'frog' and is heading straight for the word "pond."

                                  

Kira told me that often Koopa walks straight across the canvas and off it. She just turns him around so that he'll walk back on again. If I was Kira, I'd be pretty scared at this point.

                                   

Here you can see what is happening to that brilliant light blue. You can't really tell how beautiful that color is through this picture. When I saw the actual canvas I could see it had a luminescent quality... it shimmers.

                                   

I was looking at these pictures in the email a few weeks before I actually got the painting, and I'm thinking, oh my goodness... what if I don't like it? What will I do? This photo did not do the final product justice. But look at that turtle paint!

                                   

Kira sent me a photo of Koopa sleeping beside his heated box-house. You can tell this turtle is well pampered (by Kira).

Before I go on about the finished painting, you must know this about Koopa. He is not doing well this month, and it has nothing to do with painting. Kira is at her wit's end worried sick about Koopa. He won't eat, he won't come out of his turtle house. She took him to the vet, and some bloodwork was done. It didn't sound good.

Here's what Kira wrote in  her blog:

"He was treated for a respiratory infection as a precaution, but neither his health nor behavior has improved. Koopa received x-rays, had blood work done, and was tube-fed earlier this week. The x-rays showed nothing unusual, but today the vet called with the results of the blood tests. Koopa’s liver values are elevated, which could indicate cancer, liver failure, or a tumor."

As a result of this diagnosis, Kira retired Koopa. He is no longer painting. She is terribly upset, and I am telling you this because I hoped some of you would visit her website and read her entries. Leave her a comment. She could use the support as she watches her little friend struggle for his life.

You will see his other paintings, the ones that are still for sale. Koopa is world famous, and has painted "827 gorgeous original paintings hung in all 50 U.S. states and 9 different countries. There are only a few paintings remaining to be offered on eBay."

This sad news came about the same time that I learned from the vet that our other dog, Misty, has elevated liver numbers as well. Our vet said basically the same thing: it could be old age, and to be expected... on the other hand if the liver values increase rapidly this month, we are looking at either a tumor or liver cancer. At her age, surgery would be out of the question.

                                   

One day, after we got home from our trip to Georgia, this is what I found leaning up against the wall outside our door. I had been expecting it, and before I even unpacked the car, I opened the package.

Below you can see the painting in two different lightings. The first is taken outside with natural light on a semi-cloudy day. The second one is taken inside with flash. Neither one truly shows the beauty of the colors in that painting. There is a layer of varnish on the paint to protect and preserve it, and that's what is giving off the shine. I'm going to keep trying until I get a picture that shows it the way Isee it.

                                                    

                                                  

I may need to ask Greg (Photo Trek) for some photographic tips. Help me Greg!

I love my new painting. I titled it "Pondering," in memory of our koi pond which had to be filled in about two years ago. We miss it very much.

The painting is at school in my classroom for now. I've been showing it to my students, and telling them about Koopa. I haven't decided where to hang this one of a kind abstract, but believe me, it will have a home in one of my rooms.

Please go by and visit Kira. All you have to do is click on one of the links in this entry. You might even want to bid on one of Koopa's paintings at eBay.

Thank you, Kira and Koopa, for the painting... I love it!

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I sat down and sketched my Max today. The way I want to remember him. After I forget all the details of his passing. This is the Max who livened up our home.

I had him for 9 1/2 years, and the only time I drew him from life was long ago, when both dogs were sitting outside in the yard or on the chair in the living room. I don't even know where those sketches are, but I'm going to find it. Most of the sketches I did of them were when they were sleeping... had to get them when they were still. Sometimes they would sit and stare out a window long enough for me to capture them in pencil or pen and ink. Yeah, I have some of them around somewhere. Just got to find the sketch book they're in.

I have drawn pictures of all our dogs after they passed on. Just a few months ago I was thinking I should draw Max and Misty from life, in natural everyday poses. My sketches from life are more lively and spontaneous than the ones I copy from photographs. But I kept putting it off. Never put off until tomorrow... yeah, I know.

I sketched this one from a photograph... except the top of his head was cropped off, so I had to make up what the ears looked like. But I remember my baby's ears. They were my second favorite part to touch, after his head. His ears were the softest, silkiest ears to touch.

This is only the first of many sketches I will do as I work on a larger pencil drawing, or perhaps a watercolor. Something to hang alongside our other pet portraits.

We miss him so much. Today was probably the hardest day because I was home all day, alone. My husband had gone to work, and I was home with plenty to do, but couldn't get up the motivation to do more than write, read, putter about the house, and take Misty out for a walk. It's so quiet without Max's barks and the way he would 'talk' when I petted his belly ... low, soft growling sounds that sounded like speech. Misty doesn't do it like Max did.

                                    

While I was looking for a file to save the image of the pencil sketch, I found this picture in the same folder. Max and his soft football. We buried him with that football. Steve laid it beneath his head like a pillow. Sometimes Max slept on it like a pillow. He loved for me to throw that football. He'd leap into the air like a basketball player trying to catch it before it hit the ground. If Misty took it and ran, Max would chase her down, snatch the ball from her, and run back to me with it.

I like to think that he and our other dogs are running around together, perhaps hanging out with my dad, his dog, my sister, my niece, and their dog. I'd like to think he's running across Rainbow Bridge, playing with the other dogs who went before him, wagging his tail, waiting for Misty, waiting for Steve and me.

I'd like to think of Max anywhere other than where he is right now.

I'm still sad... sorry for making such sad entry. I think it helps to write about my feelings just now. I will have happy things to write about again.

 

bgilmore725 at 10:14:23 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 32 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

                                     

It seems that in recent years, I have used the week of Easter, known as Spring Break in our school system, to drive to wherever my mother is living and visit her. For the past two years, my mother has lived in or near Foley, Alabama. Last month, she moved back to Warner Robins, Georgia.

My sister, who lives in Georgia, and I (NC) were so excited about the move, trying to understand why she left in the first place, but mostly looking forward to having her closer to either of us. I won't go into the details that do not matter to anyone but my family, but I will say this... my mother seems happy, and that's all anyone could want for their mama.

My mother can find happiness in any moment of her life, no matter how tragic the times were, nor how desperate she might have been, nor the pain she might have experienced. She has told us only a few stories of her childhood, and many stories of what it was like to be the wife of an Air Force man. The rest we know from our own points of view.

We are learning (my sister and I) that our perspectives are very different from hers. We may never know what it was like to walk her path, to live during the times she lived, in the places she lived, raising the seven kids she and my dad raised. We can't possibly know what it was like to be newly wed in 1952, her young husband about to join the military, and soon after her first child was born, he was stationed in far away French Morroco.

We two girls were the first two children born to Toni and Joe Owens, and life must have been pretty good for us. My mom was living below or above her oldest sister during part of that time, whom she was very close to, and still is though they are thousands of miles apart. I can only imagine the great care mom gave to us, her baby girls, her little toddlers... well by the time my sister was a toddler, my brother Joe was born, followed by brother John, a couple years later in England Robert came forth, then Michael in New Hampshire, and lastly our baby sister, Vickie.

We moved about like a small colony of ants every couple of years. That's the life of an Air Force family.

                                                           

Back to our visit last week... Mom is a generous hostess. While we were guests in her house, she cooked our meals. Mom would have made a great Bed and Breakfast caretaker. She'd be the one to cook and serve the meals, and keep the place clean. My mother sings when she is cooking and cleaning... nothing in particular, with or without the radio on. It's her signature mark... when Toni is singing, her world is good.

Actually, I've heard my mother singing even when her world was not good, like the week after the accident in Texas. For a few days, my parents were laying in two different hospitals. My dad was in the military hospital, mom in the civilian hospital in the city of El Paso. It took three days and some paperwork to get my mom transferred to the hospital on the mountain where my dad was. But finally, the military staff came and got her and took her to my dad so they could recover together. That sure made visiting easier on her family who had flown thousands of miles to be with them.

She was miserable until she could be with her husband. She had to know that he was alive, and he had to know that she was as well. He did not believe us until she was there in his room.

One morning I was approaching their hospital room (the military hospital).  I heard singing as I passed the nurses station. I paused to listen to it, and marvelled that even after this tragedy, mom could still sing. Not that she had the ability to sing, but that she had the will and the heart. What was there possibly to sing about? 

I walked up to their doorslowly, knowing they could not hear me. The TV was on. In one bed lay mom, missing much of her scalp, and in the other bed was my dad, his broken neck and head surrounded by the metal halo. Despite my sadness and exhaustion from the experience of staying by them until I could find a way to get them home, over a thousand miles away, the sound of my mother's child-like voice singing lightened me. I knew she would be well, that she would get through this. It was more than being on good drugs... my mother communicates to the world that she trusts God in all things when she sings.

"Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth... worship Him with gladness. Come before Him with songs of joy! Know that the Lord is God. It is He who made us, we are His. We are His people, the sheep in His pasture."    (from Psalm 100)

                                                          

Also, mom likes to embroider. Or knit, or crochet. She likes to keep her hands busy. In fact, my mom just likes to do things and make things. I seldom see her just sitting still. If she is still, she falls asleep. I think I get that from her. Although, I can sit through very long movies without a single yawn... I got that from my dad... he always loved movies. Big Screen, Drive-in movies, rental videos. He never had the pleasure of watching DVD movies, but he would have loved them. (BTW, Russ, my dad loved horror/scary movies, comedies, westerns, and military stories. Oh yeah, and Sci-Fi. Animal stories he would cry during. I think he would have been able to identify your movie quotes!)    

So the reason I'm telling you all this is this:

I felt great joy* while watching my mother go through boxes of her things that were recently returned to her, things that had been packed up and sitting at my sister's home, or in her storage building. Things my mother had nearly forgotten about because she had just left them behind when she moved to Alabama over two years ago.

If my sister had not picked up those things and brought them to her home for safe-keeping, it is very likely they would all have been taken to the dump. There were clothes, some small furniture pieces, knick knacks, and lots and lots of photos and albums. Framed pictures, drawings I had done years ago... lots of pictures. Lots of things someone else would call junk. Things my mother treasured.

                                     

I know my sister experienced a great deal of turmoil over the experience of trying to help my mother get a new home, and how she wrestled with my mother's decision to move to Alabama. But last week or so, she returned the boxes of personal things to my mother in her new place of residence. My mother was very happy to get those boxes.

I just wanted to share this one thing with her, with everyone who reads this... this one piece of treasure that my mother found in all that 'junk'... was a card. 

                                         

I watched my mother read it. It was from my dad who had passed away in 2002. I don't know when he gave it to her, but she had kept it...(I got that trait from my mother also. I've saved all the cards my loved ones give me).

                                    

He had written at the bottom of the card "You're the best thing that ever happened to me, honest!" and on the other side, "Your loving husband, Joe".

I'd say that was one of mom's treasures. And I say, thank you, Joy, for keeping those boxes. Yes, it was worth it. You had to deal with it, I didn't. You did all the dirty work, I didn't. You and your husband made her happiness possible. It doesn't matter for how long the happiness lasts, but that it is experienced. You made it happen for our mother this week.

 

*If you go back seven paragraphs, to the bold asterisk, you will find the pun. It will make more sense now that you know my sister's name.

 

 

bgilmore725 at 5:34:47 PM EDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 14 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

Lurkers.

According to Wikipedia, "a lurker is a person who reads discussions on a message board, newsgroup, chatroom, file sharing or other interactive system, but rarely participates."

I think aol journals falls under the category "other interactive system."

These people seem to be invisible. It's easy to find out if you have lurkers, but a little more complicated to find out who they are and where they are from. I have a Sitemeter in my sidebar to the left, which clearly shows many people are visiting my journal each day, but when I look at the comments, I generally get a few, 10, 15, or sometimes more.

So there are lots of people who stop and read, maybe just take a glance. They read and move on, never leaving a comment. Maybe they get here by accident, maybe while searching for a topic that I might have written about or referred to. Maybe they're journal hopping. Perhaps they don't know what to say, or are afraid that their words will be stuck on the internet forever, and will come back to haunt them at some later time.

I was a lurker when I first came to aol journals three years ago. I lurked for a month or so until I had a feel for the community, found it to be trustworthy, a place that felt comfortable. It was a relatively safe place to blog about anything. I found it to be a teaching community. Everyone I have met here has taught me some aspect about writing here, about taking pictures, or posting them, about creating a more interesting journal graphically, about tags, how to save them, how to post them. Even folks who will design a tag just for you are here! How cool is that!! This community feels stable and dependable, despite all the technical issues that have occurred over the years.

Yes, I was a lurker until I created my own journal, and started posting my own entries. Now I'm afull participant, and I have no regrets about being here. I don't always have time to post, and I don't post every day, but I do when I can. I notice that's the way it is for most of us out here.

In the past I have read many negative things about lurkers regarding our journals here in J-land. Or blogs anywhere, I suppose. Some call one type of lurker trolls because of the awful comments they leave behind. (see Donna's comment below.) The analogy to the creepy creature that lives in the dirty dark beneath a bridge, terrorizing innocent billy goat/kids is enough to keep me from walking over that bridge!

But I think the evil lurker may be in the minority of people who read but do not post entries themselves. I think, judging from the response I received from that one post, that most people who read but do not post their own entries probably have various reasons for not participating fully in the aol journal community.

They seem to be kind, thoughtful, helpful people.

When I wrote the entry about my beloved Max, I never expected to hear from so many people. I expected to hear from my J-land friends and neighbors, and BTW, you people not only rock, you are a rock of support in times of need. Any need. You all are there!

Then there were people I had never heard from before, people whose screen names and journal links I did not recognize. Some visitors came through links in other journals. (thank you for your support Chris, Sugar, and JoAnn, and anyone else who mentioned it in their journal)

The following words are for those of you who came here for the first time, who I only recently met.

I tried to thank everyone by email, but alas, someof the screen names would not accept my thank-you email, so to those unknown people who stepped out from the shadows for a time, and left a thoughtful word, a prayer, and touched me with their kindess, I say thank you. That was sweet of you to be so kind to me, a stranger.

I hope you will come again when the topic isn't so painful and sad.

And if you ever decide to start a journal, I'll be glad to help you get started with lots of encouragement.

                                      

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