No matter What by Kerrie Roberts

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....did she read my journal?...

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Beauty and Value in Struggle

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Am I really on the other side?  The air is fresher, my legs ache less, my arms freer, and my mind more clear.  The gravel crunches under me as I trod along, my feet moving in their unique, steady stride, even the ground is less resistant.  My hands grip the straps which come over my shoulders holding my now lighter pack.  

My backdrop is painted with ominous clouds dancing in the sky.  Far-off drums the storm, the shouts therein fading.  Tossing a gaze behind, I gasp: the colors of deep purples, maroons, grays, oranges and pinks plum, mysterious with beauty and treasure.  Filled with wonder, I turn my gaze.  I'm thankful to see the bright sky ahead.  Remaining drops of rain wiggle and fall away with each new step. 

In my pocket a few small stones roll about, smooth and rough; my thumb and fore-fingers feel for them. Each from my not-so favorite places, albeit significant. 

Have I really come through, to this new place?  Do I really feel joy?  The struggle was so dark and deep, so unp…
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2017: Roller Coaster year

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It's 2018! A few weeks in now, and it's looking to be a good year already.  Before we focus on the brightening horizon ahead, I want to make some acknowledgements of some significant events of 2017.

2017 was a roller coaster of a ride for me.  It had some breathtaking climbs and unexpected falls with twists and turns.  It was not only this figuratively, I had several opportunities with friends and family to literally ride world-class roller coasters on a few occasions(Yes, I rode The Fury at Carowinds!!); something I had not done in many years.  Obviously the metaphoric parallels did not escape me.

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School Lunch

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I am part of a writing group.  My first challenge - is to write about school lunch.  What comes to mind when you think of school lunch?

My mind travels back to my elementary school cafeteria, with it's speckled, shiny floors and columns of tables filled with kids chattering away.  Glowing light flowed through the long windows which lined the clean, boring creme-colored cement block walls.  A stage was on one end, usually with a dark heavy curtain pulled to hide the empty area. The serving area was on the opposite end.  That was where I would see a lady who attended my church; she always had a warm smile for me, under her tight graying bun hair, covered with a spider-web like net and a small paper cap.  Her name was Mrs. Hogan; in typical southern fashion, I called her by her first name, Selma, always with the respectful southernly title of "Ms."

The cafeteria always seemed so very loud, so much so I would put my fingers in my ears.  A line of kids were pushed along the a…
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