Cordelia Camilia

Papa Honey, my father is one hundred and four years old today. His physical body passed decades ago, yet the fullness of his legacy lives because I remember him. The storytelling gene was planted in me, and my brother, thanks to him. His sense of humor was legendary as were his demons fueled by alcohol. Wheww ... to be able and willing to keep at the deep work involved in making peace and accepting both my humanity as well as the dragons, demons and multiplicities ... through heART. What a blessing. I give thanks that I can say, "Daddy, I have found the fullness of you because I am alive today at seventy-two, against all odds." Took me long enough to discover the ways to understand, detach, reconnect, forgive and turn your rocky legacy of naming and nicknaming into an art -- with practice. Dad, I think you would have loved this character Cordelia Camilia. Hover over the flower for a few thoughts.

If someone was tending the door (if we even had a 'door') they'd be making apologies for the old gal. "She a bit pooped from the party-going, revel-rousing, and chats on the stoop. Please don't get it wrong now, Miz Bloom (that's her Family Name) loved, loved loved every minute. It's just that her Play Button wears out of battery power at her stage, on her stage. So do come another day. In a day, two or three Miz Cordelia Camilia Bloom will be re-charged and happy to join you once more." Seventy-two is a fit time to lay tracks for a new version of  criss-crossing the borders, and joining forces with the stories and story tellers who create tale bones on us human beasties. This is part of the plan simmering  .... connecting and solidifying stories. From Myth for my Tale Bone , there sprang a gal partial to purple, dead set against cold. Reading between the lines, dear reader, this story begins in winter and cold (damp and moldy) are a trio to reckon