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    Our Chameleon Roses

    Thursday, December 17, 2009, 3:20 AM [General]

    A few people have asked me about the rose in my profile picture, so I thought I would post some more pictures and tell you the name of the roses. They're called Chameleon Roses, because they change color from when they bud, to when the mature flowers fall.

    Our Chameleon rose is deep yellow with pink edges when it initially buds, but as the blooms mature, they fade until they're white with pink edges.

    Chameleon Rose Bud

    Older Bloom

    Mature Chameleon (almost ready to fall)

    I love these roses and always look out for the blooms to appear.
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    About Me

    Thursday, December 10, 2009, 10:53 PM [General]

    My name is Meg. I am gay, Spiritualist, a mother, a lover, a wife and a friend. I am passionate about writing and about changing things with the words I write.

    I am in a committed relationship with my beautiful partner, Sandra and we live at the base of some of the most magnificent mountains in Australia.

    I have three offspring who live in the big smoke and have jobs and lives that keep them busy, but we see each other as often as their schedules allow.

    I am "seeking that common ground that is found in all Spiritual paths and beliefs and do not embrace any particular doctrine or dogma. I do not seek to be convinced, nor converted and neither do I seek to convince or convert others. I have a desire to connect in a way that fully respects our differences."*

    I am owned by a cat named Solitaire. (Solly for short)

    * Quoted from Dr. Joan Borysenko's (PhD) website on spirituality.

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    The struggle makes me strong

    Thursday, December 10, 2009, 10:44 PM [General]

    "The struggle makes me strong."

    I said those words last night at my ladies circle meeting. When I spoke them, I sensed a ring of Spiritual truth and light about them, so when I came home I went into my study and closed the door.

    I made those words the focus of my contemplation and prayer time, and as I sat in listening silence, I recalled an incident that happened when I was about eight years old.

    My father kept laying hens in our backyard and by way of restocking his flock once or twice a year, he would 'set' a hen on eggs to hatch out new poulets.

    I remember waiting impatiently one time for the hen's eggs to hatch and one morning when I went to feed and water the setting hen, I noticed that one of the eggs had a crack in it. I was excited to see the new chick emerge so I hunkered down to wait.

    And wait.

    And wait some more. It seemed to be taking forever for the little bird to peck its way out of the shell. Surely, something was wrong. Perhaps the chick was having trouble getting out of the egg. Of course, that led to me 'helping' by chipping away some of the shell but still, that chick just could not seem to break out of the egg.

    I decided that things would move along much faster if I just broke away the remaining eggshell and got the chick out into the world.

    Imagine my dismay when not too long after I 'helped' this tiny thing out into the world, it rolled over and died!

    I went to my dad and explained that one of the new hatchlings had died, even though I'd done everything I could to help it.

    Well, my dad gently explained to me that the chick hadn't needed any help to hatch out of the egg, but that the long struggle to break out of the shell was really necessary for the hatchling to emerge strong and ready to survive the perils of the big wide world.

    It was a hard lesson, but one I have never forgotten and I often remind myself when things are tough that it is "the struggle that makes me strong."

    When I adopt this attitude to struggle and suffering, it helps me to bear up, knowing that the things sent to try me are also sent to strengthen me.

    "The struggle makes me strong."

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    Light Within

    Thursday, December 10, 2009, 10:43 PM [General]

    Preacher James Montgomery was preaching in Liverpool in 1822 when there was a sudden black out. Panic was about to ensue amongst his listeners until the pastor of the church where he was speaking called out a reassurance: "There is still light within!" The people calmed and Montgomery finished preaching his sermon in the dark.

    "There is still light within!"

    Such true words and just the reminder I needed last night. Facing a call back to my doctor in relation to blood test results, I was letting myself be swamped by feelings of anxiety, to the point of panic. Last time I had blood taken there was a problem with my liver function and my mind went round and round on this point, fretting over the possible outcome.

    Then I read this story about James Montgomery and the words "There is still light within!" leaped out at me.

    When all around me seems dark and hopeless; when everything seems to be getting worse instead of better; when it seems as though there is no light: "There is still light within."

    I must try to remember that the source of my light and hope does not come from earthly knowledge, from medicine or from men. It is derived from that inner light which shines on despite the outer circumstances.

    Let me ever draw my solace, my consolation, strength and hope from that inner source before I turn to eathly knowledge or outer assistance. Those things have their place and are useful, but always--ALWAYS--"There is still light within!"

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    A Tough Year

    Friday, October 16, 2009, 10:20 AM [General]

    It's been such a long time since I posted here, and I apologize for my long absence, but it has been a tough year with the loss of Sandra's dad to cancer in February, and the death of a very dear friend of mine, also cancer related a few weeks prior to that.

    I'm sorry that I left you all hanging on my posts "The Broken Road" I don't know if I will find the energy yet, to finish those.

    After a time of mourning, I became ill myself for a while and am only now starting to regain some of my former vigor. I feel an imminent birthing in my spirit and am patiently awaiting that to see what it is about. Perhaps there is a book in the process of coming into being. Time will tell.

    I feel a stirring in my spirit--a disturbance in the force. *smile*

    I wait and watch and wonder...

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    The Best of Times - The Worst of Times

    Saturday, February 7, 2009, 11:46 PM [General]

    Charles Dickens began the novel A tale of two cities with the sentence: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

    That sentence kind of sums up how this year has begun for me. In some ways, it is the best of times. I have had several stories picked up for publication this year. One is coming out later this month, another in May, and still another in August.

    On the other hand, it has been some of the worst of times with Sandra's Dad taking a fall in January which saw him hospitalized in critical condition. He has had cancer for 8 years now, and had been doing remarkably well until now. At present, the outlook is uncertain. He is still in an isolation unit in intensive care, because he has an infection as well as heart and renal failure.

    So it has been the best and worst of times for us all, but as often happens, we're finding that we have the strength to go on, through it all.

    My writing will continue, Sandra's Dad will recover or not as the universe decrees, and life will go on. This not a pessimistic view, but perhaps just the view that comes with experience of life.

    Life does go on. Through good times and bad, through laughter and tears, through hope and through despair.

    Whether we're "all going to heaven, or all going the other way.
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    The Broken Road -2

    Monday, December 29, 2008, 10:13 PM [General]

    After the breakdown of my parents' relationship, and a short --six months -- sojourn with my mother and sisters in New Zealand. We returned to Australia to live in Queensland. Nothing much had happened for me on the spiritual front, except that my mother had met a Spiritualist woman in New Zealand who had begun teaching all of us--mother, sisters and myself included--about Extra Sensory Perception, Clairvoyance, and the art of Séance.371d36d75e05eda735858f8e467be99c

     I had, from my youngest days been considered by members of my mother's family to have 'the sight.' Although I didn't understand, then what that was, I did enjoy exercising some of those ESP muscles in New Zealand.

    Back to Australia and we settled, first in Brisbane, and then in Rockhampton. I was not involved in any church activities at that time, and even let my ESP games lapse quite a lot. I was in my early teens and more interested in boys, horses, and the tropical Queensland playground than in my spirit.

    All of that changed, though when one day whilst playing tag with my younger sister and some other kids in the park, I noticed a large, black car cruising slowly along our street. It was adorned on the hood with little Australian flags and a man sat in the back who looked very familiar to me. Something tugged at my insides and I started to run after the car. I knew that car had something to do with me, and the closer I got to it, the more convinced I was. That was my Dad in the back of that car!

    Sure enough, my father had come to our home. The car pulled up outside our place and two men in dark colored suits got out of it. They cautioned my Dad to stay in the car. I watched them go inside our home then turned my attention to my father.

    "Dad." I peered in through the window and tapped on the glass. He smiled at me, and waved his fingers at me, but he didn't roll the window down. (I found out later that the federal police who he was with, told him not to speak to us, or get out of the car).

    Getting no further response from Dad, I decided to go inside and see what was going on.

    My mother sat at the kitchen table looking very pale and scared. I could see she had been crying. One of the men had some papers in his hand that he handed to her. She took them from him, but only laid them on the table. She didn't say anything.

    "Mum?" I walked over by her side, and looked at the papers. I couldn't make much sense of them, but I heard my mother say the word Custody. I knew that word.

    "Go outside," Mum said. I did as I was told and after a while, the car with my Dad drove away.

    No one told kids anything in those days. I hated that, but I also had my ways of finding things out for myself. Mostly by sitting outside of windows, listening to adult conversations. I was still convinced that that big black car, and those papers meant change for me. Sure enough, that's exactly what they meant.

    I heard the word 'custody' used a lot in conversations between my mother and her friends. I heard 'Hearing,'  'court,' and 'childrens' services.' So my Dad wanted us back, it seemed and there was a court case scheduled. I heard my mother say she was too scared to go to the court hearing. I heard her say if she didn't, she would lose custody of us by default.

    My mother didn't attend the hearing.

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    The Broken Road - 1

    Saturday, December 27, 2008, 12:26 AM [General]


    Welcome to my very first post on this blog, which is to be a place where I write about Love and Light.

    I am a Christ follower, and I am gay and there is no conflict for me in saying that. I know that others will have another angle on Christianity and homosexuality to the one I have, and that's fine. We have no need to argue about it. I prefer to embrace the attitude of Romans Chapter 14, and there let the matter end.


    There is a song by Rascal Flatts, that speaks about a broken road. Some of the words are about God blessing the broken road, and it is one of my favorites. In fact my Partner, Sandra and I had this song as a part of our commitment ceremony in 2006.

    A broken road, a winding road, is what I would call the road I have walked in my search for God throughout my life. I can't remember a time in my life when I was not aware of God, and trying to learn more about God.

    This road commenced one Sunday morning when I was about five years old. This was back in the 1960s when it was a little more safe for a young child to walk around by herself. I remember getting up that morning, and getting dressed in my 'good' clothes; leaving a note on the kitchen table in my childish scribble for my mother, I set out to walk a block and a half from our suburban home to the Methodist Church where a friend of mine had told me there was a Sunday School class she attended.

    I found my way to the church without any problems, but once there, I didn't know what I should do. I could hear people singing inside the building, but I was too shy to go inside. Going home without seeing what Sunday School was like, was not an option I liked. So, unable to go forward or back, I sat down on the church steps to listen to the singing.

    I'd been sitting there for a little while, when an elderly lady came outside and saw me sitting there. She asked me what I was doing, and I told her I'd come for Sunday School. The lady took me by the hand and gently led me to the little hall behind the church where other children about my age were listening to a story told by another elderly lady, using figures on a felt board. I settled in to listen, and later took part in the lesson, and made a picture of my own from the bible story which I carried home with me.

    I attended that Sunday School alone for a few years, until my parents marriage broke down and I moved away from the area with my mother and sisters. 

    Although I could not attend Sunday School any more, my desire to know more about God was not diminished. 

    It was not until I was 15, though, and living with my father again in Victoria that I would renew my quest in church.

    That's for next time.


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