01 Jan 2017
by Joyce
in family, freedom, history, new year, random thoughts
Tags: communication, family, friends, inspiration, life, women
Lately my words have failed me, not because I have nothing to say, but because when I sit down to write my thought, my mind wanders.
The concept of Auld Lang Syne for instance. Recently I reconnected with a friend from my distant past. Distant past! From two or three lifetimes ago. Sue was a woman that I spent countless hours with in my youth. We talked, we exercised, we had babies, we ate, we commiserated, we loved one another. Life and I think the need of both of us to remove our selves to new worlds interfered. We both moved, we both divorced, we both remarried, I divorced again, and had another daughter. We lost our connection.
When I finally found her on Facebook I was hesitant to reach out, would she remember me? It had been over thirty years, all four of our children were grown, we were now grandmothers, no longer those immortal children of our early twenties.
We both had continued to live, both to grow, both to love, and had new friends, new lives, far apart from one another, in years, life styles, and distance.
But I messaged her, and waited, for about a week. I was a tad anxious, would she still want to know me?
And then her message came. And then a phone call. and we laughed, we chatted. I cried a bit on my side, so happy to hear from that beautiful friend. I admit to stalking her Facebook page whilst I waited, and I was so relieved to know that her infectious smile was still the same. And now we are making plans to spend a weekend reconnecting.
So what is the point of this ramble? Although lifetimes pass, and we make new and beloved friends, create new families, new adventures, we can go home. And our home always lives in our hearts.
Happy new year to my friends, new and old. I love you all!
02 Jul 2016
by Joyce
in angels, Beginnings, breathing, daydreams, freedom, history, random thoughts, summer
Happy fourth everyone.
Our country, well, we are so diverse. We are a people made of the cultures, beliefs and history of many. We have a great deal of goodness to focus upon, so at this time I will.
Happy Fourth of July. Celebrate this honest holiday with pride and faith!
20 Oct 2015
by Joyce
in Beginnings, change, daydreams, freedom, gypsies, history, old west, palm reading
Tags: breathing, change, Coming to America, dreaming, freedom, gypsies
Time for a Gypsy Wagon
Please take some time to check out my new endeavor!
04 Jul 2014
by Joyce
in Beginnings, breathing, change, daydreams, family, freedom, gypsies, history, mother, old west, planning, random thoughts, stories, witness, world
Tags: breathing, change, clouds, Coming to America, dreaming, family, freedom, inspiration, people, sisters, world
children of the poor
Yesterday I watched a news story. Women and children are coming to our boarders, believing that they will find freedom. Believing in the American Dream; met at the border by rich US citizens, turned away, screamed at, disregarded as people. We furiously protect what we have, forgetting where we got it!
Trail of Tears
We forget that our ancestors came from other countries; pushing out the native people who lived here. In many cases with genocide.
We forget that our ancestors came, and lived in hovels, worked, scraped, struggled. So that they could have the American Dream. We forget that they were scorned and terrorized, yet kept coming. 
We forget where we came from.
This is not a treatise on immigration policy, I am not smart enough for that. This is a call for understanding and love, for a return to our basic values of liberty and justice for all. What are the words?
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
This is how most of us arrived here. My great grandparents from Prussia and England with little, working their way here to the Midwest, coming to dream.
Today, everyday, remember and honor.
03 Mar 2014
by Joyce
in Beginnings, breathing, change, daydreams, Fairy Tales, family, freedom, gypsies, history, little girl, mother, random thoughts, stars, summer, travel, witness, words
Tags: change, child, dreaming, family, freedom, inspiration, mother, people, spiritual, spring, summer, travel, winter
As a small child I spent time with my Grandmother Schumacher in the summer. Nights I slept on the couch, next to her dining room window, and listened to the train whistle blowing as the train headed through Marengo. I dreamed of where the train could take me, the mystery of adventures I would enjoy.
Now what seems like a century later, near our house, across the road and past the swamp is a railroad track. The sound comes through our open windows in the summer evening,; drifts across on the cold air, like wisps of ghostly sighs, in the winter. The glory of it’s song wakes me in the evening, and I lay awake wondering where it is heading, who else is hearing its music.
During the day, I can see the train passing, cars heaped with coal, tankers with oil, corn syrup, flat cars holding massive equipment, and trailer cars with names like Evergreen, Pacific, Burlington,Hanji. The train for all of it’s fundamental use is a magical mystery for me. Graffiti adorns the sides of it’s cars, art from place and people unknown.
At times, the train stops on the tracks across the road, across that swamp, and its brakes chime a large sweet chime. The first time I heard this, I thought perhaps fairy had broken through the veil, bringing song.
I am happy trains exist, transporting life.
28 Feb 2014
by Joyce
in angels, Beginnings, breathing, change, daydreams, family, freedom, gypsies, history, mosaic, planning, Second Saturday, spring, words
Tags: 225 water street, breathing, change, dreaming, events, family, freedom, friends, inspiration, jordan, mosaic, palm reading, sisters, special events, spiritual, spring, women
An occasional store…a communal setting of joy…a great time is had by all…Cookies…palm reading…great gifts to browse and buy…time with Ms. Mara!
Call this what you want, I am so happy Second Saturday exists. 225 water Street is a store filled with beautiful stuff, magical mosaics, kindred spirits, and just plain good conversation! Not to mention a few ghosties that may float by and send a happy chill up your spine.
I met Mara years ago, during the days I still lived above 225 Water Street, the days that the store was an empty shell; dusty and waiting for positive nuturing. I loved the building there, loved my time spent living there and dreamed that someday, someone, would come and brighten the space below me. Little did I know the lady would also kick me out of my lofty tower. Oh well, Life moves on, and I happily continue to be a part of the place, dusting the area with my own brand of human haunting!
225 Water Street, the home of the Tile Gypsies; those women who spend time quietly decorating the streets of Jordan with tiny little baubles and beauty. 225 Water Street, the home of happy friends!
Come o
ut one and all, come out for the fun, come out for the joy. Brush up against the spirit of old, and engage the spirit of new.
Have your palm read, eat a cookie, buy a gift. Just come out for the fun!!! Celebrate that Spring is near!
21 Nov 2012
by Joyce
in breathing, change, family, freedom, history, random thoughts, Uncategorized, witness, world
Tags: breathing, change, child, family, freedom, gardens, inspiration, mother, world
I am thankful. I have more than I need. I have more than enough. My home is filled with stuff, my cupboards with food, my car with gas. I have love, I have family, warmth, friends, joy.
I have employment, enough to live, not enough to immerse myself in conspicuous consumption.
During my youth I embraced minimal living, reveled in it. As I grew, I forgot the beauty of less, fell more and more into the trap of gain for the sake of having.
At this stage of my life, I am returning to the basics of life. And I delight in this. I am remembering gardening, canning, raising chickens, and glory in the prospects of the fantastic freedom of recreating my life in a simple, less hectic fashion.
For Thanksgiving, redefine your necessity. Give thanks.
19 Jul 2011
by Joyce
in daydreams, family, history, little girl, random thoughts, words
Tags: child, family, grandparents, women
In the summers I stayed at my Grandma’s and Grampa’s home (my father’s parents) for a week with my female cousins. Honestly, for the most part I hated it, except for a few things. I was homesick, and more than likely a little snot, and Grandma responded in kind with impatience. My hair snarled and she cranked at my tears when she combed it. Did not know my cousins well, never did get to know them.
Here is what I did like…
She had a wonderful wrap around screened in porch on her house and a spiked wrought iron fence around her yard.
My grandpa’s lap
the lonely yet exotic sound of the trains going past at night, while I sat by the window.
My dreams of flying high in the air, and looking at the world below.
And one time, one time only, Grandma unbending, sitting in her rocker, singing.
My best memories are the ones I keep.
17 Jul 2011
by Joyce
in breathing, daydreams, family, freedom, gypsies, history, words, world
Tags: breathing, dreaming, freedom, inspiration, special events, spiritual, world
We have history, us humans. We have our own personal story and the heritage of the people before us. We have the bones of the past that we can spend moments honoring and clothing in our own skin. We have the bones of ourselves to cover, protect, and move into life.
There is an old story from many cultures about The Bone Woman. This woman lives in the forlorn places of our world, deserts, ocean islands, mountains, and inner city ruins. She collects bones. Look closely and you can see her. Perhaps shuffling down a cracked city sidewalk, carrying a bag or pushing a shopping cart. Watch her and you notice her every now and again bend over, and pick up an object, maybe something shiny, or even cracked. She carefully wipes it clean on her shirt, or coat, or skirt, and places it gently in her bag or cart. You may be a little afraid of this woman, she seems like someone you should not know, someone who does not live the way you are comfortable with. Perhaps she mutters to herself, or smiles at you with no teeth, or smells not the way you would want someone to smell. She does not care that you disdain her. Her thoughts and plans are on the one job she has, collecting the bones of the world.
At the end of the day she goes to her home, maybe a desert cave, or a tree house. And in her home she takes those items she has spent the day collecting, and places them with reverence on the shelves that line her home. Sometimes, when she has enough of the right kind of items, the right amount of items, she sits on her floor, and gathering these correct pieces around her, she arranges them, fastening them together, a colorful stone here, where a heart would be, a bird’s nest fit right where it should go, bones fit together to form a marvelous skeleton of a living creature. Humming softly and quietly a tuneless yet melodious tune she watches this creation stand, usually on four paws, but at times on two feet. She watches and hums as a soft energy forms over this skeleton, and it begins to move, muscles and ligaments begin to grow, holding it strong, and skin or fur shimmer over it all, and eyes blink, and ears twitch, until finally the creature is living and ready to have a life of its own.
Opening her door, or the thin rags covering the entrance to her cave, the Bone Woman beckons to her newly born child, and watches as it bounds outside running free and alive. Running over rooftops, through desert brush, rocky outcrops, wet ocean floors. A story reborn.
We are like that. We rebuild our lives, regain our own stories, hopefully daily. Our lives are a process of fulfillment and growth.
Blessings on your stories my friends!
Tilly Evan Jones 