How Bella got her groove back


It’s so easy.

To stray off the path,
Get lost in your thoughts,
Fall into a funk.

The kind that grabs you by the neck, shakes you like a doll, and leaves you gasping for breath.

It’s so easy.

To procrastinate,
Pretend you’ll do things tomorrow,
Take care of it soon.

Yet before you know it, days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, months turn into years.

And you’re standing in the same place,
In the same room,
In the same spot.

You notice the neighbors have put up their Christmas trees, strung their lights, hung wreaths on their doors.

Seasons have changed,
The wind’s gotten stronger,
The cold has set in.

Everything has changed.
Everything seems different.
Everything but you.

The desire to write,
To create,
To inspire,
Has long since expired.

It’s easier to sit.
Look at the walls
Twiddle your thumbs.
Do nothing at all.

No dreaming, no imagining, no mentally visiting far away places.

Just you.
Your dog.
And the wish you could turn back the clock.

Then one day you realize, nothing’s going to change.

This is as good as it gets.
So you take what you get
And you don’t get upset

You struggle and grunt, run a hand through your hair, and pick yourself up.

You breathe.


It’s a brand new day.

Time to move on.
Time to create.
Time to get back in the groove.

And with hearty resolve, you hear yourself whisper,

You can do it.
You’ve got this.
It’s a brand new day.

And now for some Roxy love.


What motivates you to keep going?

Where, oh where is the one that got away?

beach 2

We all have one.

Thoughts of what if allow our minds to wander.

We play house, picture ourselves living in different lands, different continents.

Closing our eyes, we see ourselves carrying out the role of wife, mother, lover.

We drift.
We dream.
We yearn.

And for a couple of brief moments, we think how different our lives would be.

The one that got away.

The one we thought we were destined to be with, grow old with.

We question why it didn’t work out.
Why we’re not in his life.
Why we let him go.

We curse destiny.
Scream profanities at fate.
Demand the universe give us answers.

Where is he?
Why did he go?
Why did we let him get away?

We think of a time when we were inseparable.

A time when his voice gave us goose bumps, when his laughter left us breathless, when his touch turned us into liquid butter.

A time when we were happy.

Staring out into the sea this morning, I experienced the shifting of worlds.

Slowly walking into the water, my mind waved goodbye to my body and effortlessly traveled to another place in time.

A whimsical place, bathed in sunlight, and bright colors.

The place where my heart told me I was destined to be.

One where he and I equaled two.

Two people in love.

No leaving.
No chasing.
No getting away.

A trio of children splash water nearby.

I open my eyes and realize I’ve left the alternate reality where he lives; where we live.

A deep sigh fills my lungs with air.

I breathe in the present.

A salty tear falls softly, intermingling with the salty water below.

The one that got away.
The one who left me breathless.
The one who made my heart sing.

He drifts further away.

Hands outstretched, I reach out.

And once again, he gets away.

The Mediterranean Sea.

Powerful inducer of dreams.
Formidable fantasy spinner.
Brilliant creator of what should have been.

Taking one last look at this lovely lady, I swim back to shore.

beach 1

beach 3

What prompts you to think of the one that got away?

Dreaming in sunny Spain,

Who’s ready to take the first step?

cafe con leche

My father used to say that intent wasn’t the same as getting things done.

Intentions are actions placed on pause; projections of what’s to come. They are not the same as those actions that are actually executed.

My lack of execution is all I could think about this morning.

You see friends, before I left home, I had every intention of publishing a post where I would inform you that I was on my way to Spain.

I had every intention of taking pictures of Roxy at the airport.

I had every intention of donning a disguise and setting off in search of Javier Bardem the minute I landed.

I had every intention of writing a whimsical post that would describe the hot Spanish sun and the blue-green hue of the Mediterranean Sea.

I had every intention.

But alas, such has not been the case.

On the day Roxy and I were supposed to fly, after waiting for more than five hours, we were informed that our flight had been canceled.

It appeared that the good French air traffic controllers had chosen that very day to go on strike.

Two days later, we again made the journey to the airport, and this time , while we were successful, we were surrounded by grumpy and irritated people who could only talk about the inconveniences they had sustained.

Perhaps it was the absorption of the negative energy that surrounded us or the cramped seat that did not allow for any leg room, what was responsible for putting me in a funk.

Yet the truth is that in a funk I have been for the past four days.

This morning, as I sat drinking my third cup of cafe con leche, patiently listening to my mother’s banter, I saw a man on the street below.

He must have been around 90 years of age.

He walked slowly but with purpose.
Carefully, he pushed his walker and dragged his left foot which desperately tried to keep pace with the one on the right. After taking only five steps, he stopped to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. He then paused for ten seconds before continuing on his way.

I watched him until he reached the end of the street.

Looking at the clock, I realized it had taken him twenty minutes to walk less than 200 yards.

A countless number of steps, 12 pauses, and three brow wipes later, he had made it to the end of the street.

As he turned the corner, I hung my head in shame.

Not merely intent, but execution, was what the elderly gent had accomplished on this warm Wednesday morning.

I was humbled.

Here I was, just four days into my vacation, sitting on the terrace complaining about my inability to walk the same way I had walked last summer.

Yes, I had every intention of attempting to regain my gait, of going from point A to B, yet here I sat, hosting my own pity party with only my mother in attendance.

Every great journey begins with the first step.

The old adage seemed to perfectly describe what the old man had started and I had yet to begin.

Feeling inspired, I donned a pair of old sneakers, my sunglasses, and a sun hat.

“Mamma,”I said, “grab your hat. Our search for Javier Bardem begins today!”

Pain be damned.

One way or another, one step at a time, I am determined to be reacquainted with my old self, to mimic the actions of the old man and reach the finish line.

I am determined to not allow excuses and self pity stand in the way of reaching my goal.

I smile to myself as I take the first step.

Do your actions stay at intent or do you get things done?

Reporting from sunny Spain,