If the shoe fits

In line at the grocery store I couldn’t help but check out the pretty, cool chick in front of me and her wooden clogs. They had heels. I thought maybe she’s from NYC, she’s not from here (most sensible people wear boots). And, she’s going to fall on her butt outside. The sidewalks are sheets of ice.

I had just fallen on my ass.

A disabled man one counter over was having trouble paying and checking out. The cool chick was there in two seconds, “I’ve got this. Let me pay for this.” Well, the man could not have been happier…she made his day, the cashier and mine.

Moral of the story…if the shoe fits.

Thank you, cool lady with the funky shoes.

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The Coolest Thing About Me

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The Coolest Thing About Me

I have arrived at the supposed highway, halfway mark. That’s a median guess based on statistics, there are no guarantees. I have learned a few lessons along the way. I am not more of any old thing, prettier, richer, kinder, or smarter.
Sure, I was granted a great big superficial life for a brief moment filled with stuff, lots and lots of stuff. All disposable.

It sits in a closet waiting for someone fabulous I suppose, gathering dust.
I prefer to dress down these days. Forced to live a smaller, more manageable existence where vacuuming the rafters, doing the heavy lifting and hard physical work occupies the days.
Choosing life, and the 180 degree paradigm shift to survive means to move slow, forced to move painstakingly slow. Snail slower than accustomed.
I am a work in progress, and pig-headed acceptance of small town life comes with time, tables and variants.
Old friends who never cared about my moody hues whether fluorescent red, shady purple, mellow yellow or tequila blue help stay the course. Kindred spirits up for the walk.
Have I been lucky? Damn straight. Have I been unlucky? That, too.
Fate can be a greedy, sarcastic bitch.

Some would say I’ve been only unlucky. Perhaps, yes at times that’s true. Others might say I have been only thrice blessed. Guilty, I have been that ‘luck be a lady’ as well.
I have been all of it to varying latitudes, climates and temperatures.
But perhaps, just maybe, is it possible that you have been all that too?
Others cannot see or feel the colors I’ve been, the places I travel without ever leaving home, or the familiar, unfamiliar surroundings. There is nothing special or redeeming about me or you. No we’re not really that different at all. Not really.
I welcome the day I am set free from this imperfect mind- body left with only purity and lightness of soul. And, the love.

The infinite, crystalized clear water wishing well of love abundant, shared, given freely and received gracefully. To know love intimately is to recognize and accept your whole self.

“One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I am special, after all.

The halfway point overflows. The unconditional love of a four-legged blind in one eye, loyal, sweet, funny, kind, compassionate creature teaches me patience; pure, reflective, bounce back safety net self-love. Everyday, and whatever come what may season. No, no matter what came yesterday or might be on the way, no matter rich or poor, no matter the path as long as we’re traveling together.
As long as we take the walk, her and me. As long as I make the effort even when I’m unable and unwilling, that makes all the difference.
Me seen through her eyes, well that is touch the stratosphere something beautiful.
She is by far the coolest, most special thing about me.

“An animal’s eyes have the power to speak a great language.” ― Martin Buber

The Coolest Thing About Me © 2015 Jacqueline Cioffa

Purple Felt Tip Pens and Mystic Winds #StolenMoments

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From time to time you’ll see Stolen Moments show up on the blog. Words forgotten and misplaced, poetry, anticipatory memories, prose, joy and sorrow, pensive emotion, random and not so random thoughts scribbled in tattered notebooks. To not forget but remember the precious, fleeting stolen moments in time. I’m a writer trying recapture on paper how it feels to be alive.

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Purple Felt Tip Pens and Mystic Winds

Jacqueline Cioffa 1998

It’s downtime in Miami

Purple felt tip pens

And winds whistling like a lover

Whispering magic

And calm

The smell of salt air

Filling the breeze almost licking my skin

Oh how I love the night here

To wake up to the sun

A new day

An almost always perfect cerulean sky

Ending with the darling starry filled night

November is the most beautiful time of year

Waiting on Oprah: Never Quit Your Dreams

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Waiting on Oprah

I close my eyes and can almost see the perfect fairytale life I envisioned in my wildest dreams.

Dear Fantasy (Oprah), “I feel that I am a very fortunate person …”

I was fifteen. Fifteen, gawky, wickedly uncomfortable in my so called ‘model frame.’ Somehow fifteen was the perfect age to concoct wild fantasy adventures and the fastest way out of a stifled, small town. There was a kaleidoscope world waiting for me, exclusively.

Strangers, intoxicating places and new faces I ached to see.

I guess Oprah never received the letter or maybe it got shoved to the bottom pile. There were one billion other worthy dreamers, perhaps more worthy than me. Maybe it got filed away, who’s to say?

I barreled ahead out on my own and concocted the fantastical dream anyway.

I had my picture taken, a lot, wearing expensive, sequined designer gowns. I lived in far away lands. Swam naked in cerulean silk seas with infinite sparkling black diamond sandy beaches. I stood atop glaciers touching the clouds where the landscape was breathtaking white, and the earthly humans invisible below. It was lonely and cold, and I felt nothing but numbness. Decades and decades past, I was stuck bone cold.

I could no longer picture my paralyzed, frozen feet on solid ground. Be mindful, careful, and specific before dreaming.

I woke up. No longer a child, no longer a pretty pawn, no longer me, no longer an identity, just a jumble of misfiring neurons.

I had freedom, for a time. Airplanes, buses, pre-packed duffle bags ready, lavender mister, passport, baby pillow became the two ton heavy, overweight baggage. I could not lighten the load no matter how much stuff I discarded. The heavy barred down on my brain, burrowing deep under my skin.

Change is so excruciatingly difficult when you’re living the dream.

Oprah never told me dreams can shift, that there can be more than just the one.

Or maybe, I wasn’t listening too busy running scared. Maybe I had to live through the dream to get to the here and now. Maybe I grew up, a little. Maybe the dream plain wore out.

Shivering, dizzy from submersing my head in the clouds surrounded by foreign tongues I did not understand, the physical me grew bored and misplaced. I dined on spicy and sweet, savoring cuisines that were taste bud delicious yet soured the stomach.

I was grinding, squirming, picking, pinching awkward, drowning inside the fifteen-year-old expired notion of bliss. I think when one is asking for a dream, one must be specific.

I’m sure being kicked to the curb no longer the prettiest, youngest, skinniest ‘photo op’ of the day did nothing for my already damaged low self-esteem and defunct, busted aspirations.

My life has been filled with love. Looking back and forward, my life has been filled with love.

That must be the first thing I cling to while reminiscing. My life has been filled with heart swelling, shattering, terrifying, emotional, easy breezy, destructive, goose-bump alive love.

The heart is a muscle it cannot possibly feel yet it does. Bizarre but so blazing sun, crescent moon, silly stars, perpetual movement sea elements comforting.

I am loved; even on the days I forget how to love myself.

It has not been easy, my middle, it’s been split open, fractured; please God let me end the crucifying. That, and all that mess that is my life are for a different tale. Perhaps when we have a little more time.

I’m back home now. I’m not fifteen anymore. My dreams are simpler, quieter, not half the screaming loud as before. Home, that’s what I’d been missing all along. Not the physical dwelling perhaps, although that helps joggle the mind.

Sensory memory.

The giddy anticipation of my mother’s White Shoulder’s perfume, her lips brushing against my forehead, the charms on her bracelet jingling and dancing on her wrist. Giddy elation alive.

“Go to sleep, sweet child of mine.”

I’d pretend sleep, twisting and squirming awaiting her return. Back from a well deserved evening out way past midnight to stroke my hair in the dark. I was sugary five not smart mouth saccharine EMO fifteen, not biting sarcastic know it all twenty, not disillusioned complacent crazed thirty, not even bitter shattered fragmented forty.

I was five.

I was living the dream.

Dear Oprah, “it’s okay.”

I think I’d like to give this living thing a shot, keep the next dream nestled close.

Readily accessible in my front not back pocket.

Dreams change.

And me, I am transitioning.

I’m not waiting on Oprah, not this time.

This dream is waiting on me.

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Oscar Wilde

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts. Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia. It is a paradisematic country, in which roasted parts of sentences fly into your mouth. Even the all-powerful Pointing has no control about the blind texts it is an almost unorthographic life One day however a small line of blind text by the name of Lorem Ipsum decided to leave for the far World of Grammar.[/vc_column_text][vc_separator type=”transparent” position=”center” up=”2″ down=”0″][blockquote text=”Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts.” show_quote_icon=”yes”][vc_separator type=”transparent” position=”center” up=”3″ down=”0″][vc_column_text]Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts. Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia. It is a paradisematic country, in which roasted parts of sentences fly into your mouth. Even the all-powerful Pointing has no control about the blind texts it is an almost unorthographic life One day however a small line of blind text by the name of Lorem Ipsum decided to leave for the far World of Grammar. The Big Oxmox advised her not to do so, because there were thousands of bad Commas, wild Question Marks and devious Semikoli, but the Little Blind Text didn’t listen.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]