How To Check If Two Languages Have A Non-Empty Intersect The Old Chunk Of Coal

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The Old Chunk Of Coal

Some days are diamonds. Some days are Stones… and the other one, I am just an old chunk of coal, but I will be a diamond someday.

I love songs. I love the lyrics and secondly the thumping vibrations of the lower note beats. I remember these lines from two country classic refrains. I remember them because I know the feeling of being considered a clump of coal. It’s a negative feeling. It’s not so much the color that is a downer, it’s the darkness that’s involved when one thinks of coal. It’s a fossil fuel. It’s good only for heaping onto an already intolerable ecological or metaphorical emotional trauma situation and making it worse. Let’s strike a match to the coal and burn it until it’s used up into ash. Then let’s hope the wind will scatter it, as we don’t even want to empty the ashes once it’s usefulness has been used up. We’re ungrateful sometimes for services rendered. Coal forms under the ground. Without light. I think it gets worse. I think coal is not even an original thing. I think it’s compressed gases or rotted wood or something discarded to begin with.

OK. So you get the picture that I like the words to songs that sing about hope for rotting ancient discarded elements.

I have a friend that’s a shamanistic healer. It started out that he was going to help me find my way and find my voice. Then I started cleaning his house for him. This made sense at some point for some reason. We also share songs. Baby-boomers are always flower children at heart. I think neither one of us really knows why I’m still spiffing up the palace. I know at some level we bartered house cleaning for transcended meditation sessions. Yet I came with a back agenda. I’m going to scrub my way through his toilets and into his heart. When I get there, I’m going to reflect my Light on his pathway and then turn him into the arms of the one true God to take care of. Silly presumptive arrogant me, assuming he needed me to save him. I bring up my Shaman because he told me in three separate healing sessions I was a diamond so amazing that soon many around me would recognize and notice me. I figured he was speaking in the spiritual realms and in symbolic language. Now I’m not so sure.

OK. So you get the picture that I’ve been on a spiritual quest to connect and solder myself right into the mainline connection with my Creator, God as I was taught. You know the one in the Christian box? However, something happened along the way I didn’t expect. My point of view regarding traditional Western Christianity flipped. I think now, that Jesus was indeed the entity that lead me into the Kingdom of God. Nevertheless, since I’ve actually questioned and did research from original source data, I think God is Spirit, the entire Spirit of the God and that God is complete pure Love; the originating, creating, intelligent Source which is the vibration of pure white energy light. The Light of all cosmology and creation.

Something has also happened to me since my special friend and the Shaman helped me find my voice and soul again. I began to write. I began to write prolifically. I write all the time. I can’t stop it. It’s been about six months now of nonstop writing. I write day and night. I write about anything and everything. I have lots to say and don’t know why. My “still small voice” is very talkative. Just about anybody that’s come in contact with my e-mail radar range, has suggested I write for a living. I’ve just been waiting for the go-ahead signal from someone. I’ve been at the intersection waiting for the light to turn green. Today it happened.

You now understand I live to write. I find the world around me amazing and wondrous and want to tell everybody all about it.

I belong to a churchwomen’s fellowship group. It’s 75-100 women who can find time on Thursday mornings to come together with intention of being God honoring, together. One of the instructors for one of this season’s classes, I am honored to say, has become a friend of mine. Judy is a raven-haired angel of a woman filled with grace, wisdom and dignity. She’s the pastor’s wife. She’s also very funny. I’m unshakably convinced God has a strong dry sense of humor. He must have. Look at us!

Today Judy surprised me. She asked my permission to read one of my written works. It was timely and related to the President of the United States. She felt it was a good thing for some women to hear. I didn’t want to seem unpatriotic in these perilous times, right after 9/11 so I agreed. I was very grateful she was not going to make me get up and read my essay. I contemplated just skipping class today, to avoid the embarrassment I’d no doubt feel and perhaps avoid the harsh sarcasm or negative criticism of my sisters in Christ. (Oops. It sounds a tad like my perceptions of my fellow man is askew, doesn’t it?) God will work on this problem.

I didn’t chicken out. I showed up. What I didn’t anticipate happened next.

Judy didn’t wait until small group time. She got up there and read my article to the entire bunch of well-bred, intelligent women at the monthly scheduled all-church women’s luncheon before our writing class. I was mortified! I started to look around me. The banquet room was filled with round tables seating 8 women a table. A little fire-orange rose budded out of the center of each table. These ladies began to look like a bouquet of freshly cut flowers to me. This sort of bouquet is such an extravagance for someone like me. These ladies are the cream of the crop on Mercer Island, WA. a.k.a. The Golden Ghetto. My sons and I only reside on the island due to a Section 8 HUD housing voucher for the poor.

I watched as women began to wipe water out of the corners of their eyes. I watched as eyeglasses started being removed and noses were blown. I watched women torn between staring at me ( trying to hide in a corner of the front of the room) and wanting to stay riveted on Judy reading My written words. I watched as the sounds of my story bounced against my brain. I was amazed to say the least. I ‘d never heard my words out loud before. I was fascinated by the article. It produced a silent sound down in my inner core connection to God. It struck fear (as in awe) in my heart as I realized something supernatural had happened to my fingers to write such sounds.

When the article was finished, the women applauded. They requested copies to possess in unison. I was proclaimed a gifted writer. I was humbled into silence, again. I saw something unrecognizable. I saw refracted light start to prism off these women back at me. Just like when a diamond is held up to the sunlight. I pondered this sight.

As if this was not enough, the main group disbanded into the smaller classroom groups to prepare for the inspirational teachings of the day. It would be an hour and a half of learning and sharing Life lessons, female Christian style. Judy had another surprise in store for me. She wasn’t through with me yet because she was the instructor of the writing group I belonged to for this smaller group.

The topic under discussion was Changing Times. Judy began giving examples of how classic authors had expressed themselves as she thumbed through Emerson, Lewis, and a couple contemporary luminary authors. About halfway through the class, Judy yanked out yet ANOTHER of my stories and read it to this class as her last example! I was petrified the women would grow resentful, bored and angry at this monopoly on their time. There were many gifted women in this group. All with impressive motivating stories to tell. Judy made no bones about how highly she regarded my ability to capture images and share my heart-thoughts to an audience. She read Homecoming Parade. She excerpted and compacted the long story into one that hit the mark. More tears flowed and mouths hung loose. You could’ve heard a pin drop in the place. More applause. I shrunk under the table and tried to clown around graciously to relieve the discomfort of appreciation and recognition.

What I saw as I looked around this group of 30 movers and shakers of all ages, stunned me. I saw it symbolically, as is my way. But nevertheless, it was there for the viewing. I saw a perfect flawless blue-white, brilliant-cut diamond being held up and placed into a platinum solitaire setting.

When the meeting ended, a woman I’d gotten to know recently approached me. Her name is Judy Boynton. She clipped off her credentials for the group. She was a professional published writer of fiction and non-fiction novels. She was an accomplished artist of sculptures. She was a trustee on the Board of Pacific Northwest Writers Conference affiliated with Pacific Lutheran University. She’d been a member of this group for over 25 years. I was impressed. Not so much by her credentials, as awesome as they were, but by the power and force behind her eyes. This woman had wisdom and intent. She was aiming at me.

She told me she knew what she was talking about. She told me and the group I WAS a gifted writer. She told us she’d seen enough to know the difference between one that would like to be a writer and one that IS a writer. I fell into the latter category. She handed me numbers and pamphlets and told me to be at the next conference meeting. She explained this is where publishers, agents, and authors meet each other with the intent on publishing written works of merit. Names like Ann Rule and J.A. Jance were bantered about during this same day by others as they requested my permission to have them perhaps contact these “friends of theirs.”

It isn’t often in a lifetime that one actually is AWARE of a life changing moment or day. I’ve been graced with one of those moments. Today it seems, the world around me is beginning to notice and recognize the old chunk of coal got the dust pressure-washed off of her so hard and severely by Life, that she’d evolved into a diamond solitaire of worth and notice.

I know where I belong right now, right at this space in time. I belong sticking mighty close to my special friends who know how to crimp those platinum prongs on the diamond setting firmly and securely. I have a feeling diamonds are forever, as they say. How could this have happened?

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