Tag Archives: Coincidence

“Pomes 5¢”

The Dream

“Pomes 5¢” is the booth title I dreamed up for my version of Lucy’s version of a lemonade stand. In visualization, my stand is full-sized and the poet is swamped by purchasers.

Poet doll selling poems

Poet’s “lemonade stand”

The Dreamy Reality

Yesterday, I experienced a modified version of this idea at my hometown’s end-of-summer festival. Lucy was portrayed by a doll my niece gave me. The lemonade stand was made from an inverted patio footstool and some small cardboard boxes. “Pomes” (so-called because my everyday poetry is not very refined) became “Poems” (so as not to confuse customers). “Pomes” also relates to apples, an everyday wholesome nourishment.

The real was better than the imagined. Along with a half-dozen other Arkansas authors, and at the invitation of owners Myra and Pat Moran, I shared booth space at Trolley Line Bookstore in downtown Rogers. At other times during the day, I filled in at the Lions Club chili contest booth and handed out flyers for an upcoming car show.

I wore a pocketed apron under my Lions t-shirt so I could carry poems with me and offer them freely to people who looked like they might be interested. My approach evolved as the day went on: “Hi! Have you had your poem of the day yet? No? Well it’s here in this spread somewhere.” I would then fan out a brightly-colored assortment of slips of paper, just as a Las Vegas dealer would fan a deck of cards. “Pick one. The one you pick is the one that’s meant for you … or for somebody who means a lot to you. It’s like a fortune cookie and, when you read it, you’ll know why it came to you this way.”

One man was reluctant to participate. “No. No. I’d rather not.” So we talked awhile about his t-shirt. “Fly Fishing in America” it announced above a related graphic. “Fly Fishing in America” is the name of a band that had just participated in a music contest. We talked on, about family, and eventually the man allowed that his wife might want to try the fortune cookie thing because she likes to read. So we went to her and, as it turned out, her poem was about books.

“Sure you don’t want to try?” I asked. He took one, read it, and was shaken. “How did you know I like trees?” he wondered. “I didn’t,” I answered, “something else did.” The man even knew Joyce Kilmer’s poem by heart. Here is the poem he picked:


beneath bold blue—
October oaks,
we’ve pined for you.

Golden oaks and blue sky

October Oaks by Krosseel of MorgueFile

It kept happening again and again, that syncing. In one instance, the recipients were a couple. He drew first and got a disappointed look on his face. Same with her. Then they read the poems aloud—and each said, “You got mine!”

All this interacting happened during my wandering around. When I arrived at at the bookstore for the authors’ time-slot, I reviewed the small “lemonade” stand I’d set up earlier and its sign mentioning five cents. By then I knew enough to tell people, “Oh, the first poem is free. Just pick one. The one you pick is the one that’s meant for you…”

The story of the Lucy doll is a very special one, to be saved for a future time. I hope all your days are at least as delightful as mine was yesterday. ♥ ~Jo

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A Dream of a Mother



Kaleidoscope view by Andalusia of Morguefile

I used to think my life was charmed or enchanted, that it was especially wonderful, guided, and looked-after. Later my life became more challenging and I felt less special. In fact, specialness seemed a mistaken and arrogant idea.

Yesterday I began to appreciate specialness all over again. Not in the sense of “better” but as “different.” Two nights ago, on video, Ram Dass described how each person’s spiritual journey is unique although the result or destination is the same truth.

My Dog

Small white dog

White Dog by Jade of Morguefile

That night, I dreamed of a fluffy white dog, small and curly-haired, that bounded across a green-green grass yard to a cluster of people I recognized as relatives. Then it bounded—almost bounced—across that grass to meet me in joy and recognition, as if to say “Welcome home!”

Then last night, as I walked the neighborhood, I spotted just such a white dog at the top edge of a long, sloping green-grass yard. A man there was watering the hedge in front of his house. I stared at the dog and wanted it to see me and come bounding toward me like a long-lost friend. As I thought this, it turned its head, saw me, became electrified, and bounded toward me with a happy, bouncing gait.  He sniffed my hand hello, welcomed a quick petting, and followed me as I continued to walk. In the side yard of the house, an entire family came into view, surprised to see their dog following me. They called it back and gave it a talking to.

My Candy Man

Also on last night’s walk, I had an unusual encounter with a friendly older man. I heard a truck coming up beside me on the road, so moved well away from the pavement. But the truck advanced more and more slowly till it finally stopped beside me. The driver had white hair and wore glasses. On the seat beside him was a crumpled brown paper bag full of penny candy. “Have some,” he offered, lifting the bag toward the open passenger-side window. I took a small Dum-Dum, cotton-candy flavored, with a blue-and-white wrapper. I smiled at him and at the extraordinariness of his presence. “Take another,” he said. I did, and he headed off toward the boat ramp.

Candy assortment

Candy by JDurham of Morguefile

As I walked, memories floated up of times when I was in distress (or even appeared to be so) and people responded with help and encouragement. For example, one spring day in downtown Little Rock, I saw a mulberry tree next to the sidewalk that was full of ripe berries and I began to help myself. Judging partly by my casual blue-jean attire, I suppose, a downtown resident came over to me and told me where to find the local soup kitchen. (Amazingly, this very evening by the lake I’d been wishing for help and encouragement because financial difficulties were calling up visions of a soup-kitchen future.)

The candy man was due to return shortly, I knew, because the boat ramp route is a dead-end road. This time when he slowed, I went out to meet him. “Do you always carry a bag of candy with you?” I asked. He held it up and grinned in answer. One side of the paper bag was taped over with verses (poems!). One verse mentioned that happiness and health are the true kinds of wealth. Another stated that organ donation is a good part of preparing for death.

As our conversation went on, I learned the man had lost his wife a year ago (just as my dad had). He’d considered suicide, he said, just as most bereft spouses do. He advised me to say I love you to my husband every day at breakfast. Candy Man owns a home nearby that enjoys a beautiful view of the lake. He makes sure to keep the lower limbs of his trees trimmed so people can view the water as they drive by. By the time we parted, I was convinced that this man is special, I am special, every part of life is special, and each of us is solicitously watched over. If only we realized it.

My Mother

I can only call my dream-time last night special. I wandered what seemed to be a quaint downtown area. A vaguely remembered person asked if I’d come to find my mother and told me she was at a book club meeting in a certain old hotel. I easily located the hotel and went inside. Indeed, a circle of women had gathered there. I scanned for my mother and recognized her by voice, rather than by hair color, because she was young and her hair was dark.

My Mother

Mother (Mary Lee Musholt)

I didn’t speak to her or even catch her eye. She was offering suggestions about how to keep the discussion fair and inclusive, so that each person’s contribution would be honored.

My mother is alive, at least in my dreams … just as I am alive in what may also be a dream state. I don’t have to figure this out, but I can certainly enjoy it and take comfort in it. ~ ♥Jo

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My Nature is Natural

Treasure Hunter

IMG_3182a Cabela bagI took two plastic shopping bags with me on my walk this morning, just in case. I’d been carrying rocks home all week for edging a flowerbed … and carrying them by hand. Bags might be more “handy.”

Ever alert to treasures—in the child’s sense of the word—I noticed ferns, tree bark, caterpillars, a turtle and a hawk, clouds, flowers, large and small stones, and … a trash bag. New. It wasn’t there yesterday. That surprise started an internal dialogue:

– Pick it up.
– What for? I already have trash bags with me.
– It’s serendipity. Pick it up. You’ll find out later why.
– Oh, please. That’s silly … just magical thinking.
– Yes, exactly. Pick it up.

– But WHY?!

– You’ll SEE why.

IMG_3183a Cabela bag

I picked it up.

Picking up on serendipities is my nature—the WHY was now self-evident, like a Declaration of Independence truth. [By the way, the bag is from Cabela’s, the outdoors outfitter. Some other person is currently enjoying these woods. Good to know.]

I returned home with three shopping bags unfilled. But I did not return empty-handed, meaning empty-hearted:


is the treasure,
the storehouse,
the key.
All “open secrets”
it opens to me.

The fruits of my treasure-hunting expedition are that poem and another. The second is about magical coincidences and the relativity of reality:


Why should magic by day—
differ from magic by night?

Are they not both

IMG_3156a road curve

My partner just came home from a hard and hot day’s work.After supper, he relaxed in a chair and asked me to tell him a story, just a child might at bedtime. I related all the adventures of my treasure hunt, including visits with neighbors. I take it as a compliment that he drifted off to sleep.

I spared you many of the treasure-hunt episodes in today’s writing and will fill you in later. Or not … depending on serendipities and further wonders. May you have many. ~ ♥Jo


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