The Beads Are Tight

   

   Today finds me a little unstrung.
       My beads(Mala) are wrapped tight around my wrist, and will be used repeatedly through this day.
       Much like Rosary Beads used for prayer, these are used by Buddhists, and anyone who wants to use them. They help me pray all day. There is no Jesus hanging from them, or rote prayer, just many beads for all prayer requests! My list is huge!!
       This weekend, I have been weepy, and that is not my usual self.
       Beautiful weather makes me so thankful, and I wish my Ward could see it, then I think he does.
       Pat Conroy died, and my heart just sank, so grateful and yet a tad angry he had to leave.
       Saw the play, Sound of Music, and it was so touching, all the familiar songs and fantastic stage design.( Yes I may have mouthed the words to every song, and yes I missed Christopher Plummer!) My eyes were full, and my heart on my sleeve.
      Bill and I drove home, the same route we always take, going by Ward's college SCAD, and we remembered all the dorm moving, and art projects and love. We wished that he had more time with us, to figure out things and discover his his worth. He was so creative, and loved college. Bill reminded me that Ward never missed a day of classes in college, I smiled. The tears gently fell.
   
     I blame the South!! We are a very different breed. You can love us or hate us, but you pine to be near us. We love with a fault, and carry hate around like it is your best friend. We sit our crazy on the front porch, with a glass of tea, and show it off! We have a story to tell, and hopefully you get a chance to hear it.
 
    Southern writers, sip from the fountain of humidity, and fill my soul.
   Pat Conroy's death, reminded me of how much I love the south, and loathe it, at the same time.
   AND my weepy weekend began with missing him, and turning pages.
        For me, the South was carry on baggage I could not shed no matter how many borders you crossed-PC
         The South's got a lot wrong with it, but its permanent press and it doesn't wash out-PC
         The camellias were always in bloom, it was the South that existed without sting or thorns, or heartache-PC
          Every conversation with him had the possibility of turning wrong in an instant-PC
         " English Leather," I said. " The smell of pain." -PC ( my grandfather wore English Leather, no more needs to be said-BB)
          Columns are often the metaphorical bars of the Southern prison from which there is no parole or escape-PC

These are snippets from ,Beach Music. My favorite book of Pat's is Prince of Tides. I think I will download to my kindle all of his books, and have a love fest.
       To be from the deep South is exhausting, overstimulating and maddening. It is also fills up a room, the entire room, with the best.
       I want to fix the south, and not destroy it, I think it can be done. I will not be flying a Confederate flag, but it can certainly hang in a museum to remind us of how not to be. We cannot forget the past, but we can change the future. Oh how the moss hangs, and reminds us of the sorrow and pain, that which has built our character of hope and kindness.
       Read some Southern writers, they will tell you of our faults and our promises. They will let you weep for awhile and cause you to pick yourself up, and continue to cherish our roots.

       ( Did I tell you that it was the end of Downton Abbey also, I was a hot mess by nightfall!)
  I will clutch my beads, and end this little epistle, and carry my southern self out into this great big world.
      Its a beautiful day, even when you weep.