Dreams and Thorns

 Dreams and Thorns by Cindy Downes (July 24, 2026)

“Your dreams will come true in August.” Thus proclaimed the fortune cookie I opened today at my FLAMS group luncheon. The problem is that I don’t have dreams.

Perhaps life has robbed me of dreams or life challenges has taught me that dreams are fairy tales. I tend to take a more realistic view of life. 

I’m an avid practitioner of the Stoic philosophy which goes along with our other writing prompt, “Accept that you can’t control everything; let go.”

I find that life is easier to manage when I discard ideas of dreams coming true and instead focused on accepting what life brings me and then making the best of it. To help me remember this, I hung four wall plaques in my apartment that contain the following words which I read almost daily:

1.     Accept what is.

2.     Let go of what was.

3.     Have faith in what will be.

4.     Believe in yourself.

These reminders keep me grounded when dreams crash and life exposes the thorns of daily living. Then I say to myself, 

·      “I can only control myself.”

·      “I am not responsible for how others act or think.”

·      “I am only responsible for how I respond to them.”

So, August . . .

No, I don’t have dreams for August. Instead, I choose to live each day as if it were my last. I’m going to enjoy the air I breathe, the people with whom I interact, and the activities which I pursue. 

As the inevitable thorns reach out to prick me, I will continue to push through, carefully; and, come what may, exit on the other side, hopefully, mostly unscathed. 

Do I have goals? Yes, of course I do. But goals to me aren’t dreams. Goals are based on what I believe about myself – what I can accomplish. Not some fantastical dream that is unrealistic.

So, the bottom line is this: I am looking forward to August and to every month after that, fortune cookie or not. 

The Morning Sky and My Porch

Finally, I have five minutes to write. I'm sitting outside on my porch, rocking in my lovely turquoise-blue glider, surrounded by twinkling red, blue, green, and yellow lights, and sipping a cup of hot Starbucks coffee. In the distant sky, I see one lonely star. At first, I thought it was a plane, but no, it doesn’t move. It's sitting there bold and shiny, as if saying to me, "You might be all alone, but you're bold and mighty."

A dark, ominous cloud rises up like a ferocious grizzly bear trying to grab the star from the sky, but no luck. The wind shoves the ugly cloud further and further away, as if to say "Stay away from my star." 

The star blinks back at me, "See, you can do it. Be brave. Keep pushing on. I haven't given up on you. You have a job to do."  

A cool breeze gives my skin a gentle hug. Sea birds soar across the sky as the sun begins to peek over my apartment building. The dark clouds are gone, but the star is still there, growing fainter as the sun brightens the sky. 

"Whether you can see me or not, I'm still here," it whispers as it fades into the pink and blue morning sky.

I'm stronger today, simply because I sat on my porch. . . 

Prompt: What is Life Teaching you Right Now?

My prompt for the day was: What is life teaching you right now? How are you handling this test?

Without thinking about it too much, this is what I wrote. I think it sums it up pretty well even if it's not that well written!

Life is teaching me to take one day at a time. Plan, but be flexible. Resilience is the key. Keep my goals high, but "roll with the punches." Life throws a lot of curve balls.

Make each day the best it can be. If my circumstances warrant, I'll enjoy an extra treat or spend my money on myself. If not, I can go out and enjoy the free things in life: nature, friends, and libraries. I can also use up all the "stuff" I've already accumulated.

Finally, life teaches me that winning the battle does not win the war. Let it go, is my motto. The Universe is going to work it out the way it wants. I will adapt and find ways to make my new world better. 

Writing Practice - Poetry

One of my goals in life is to improve my writing. As a journalist, I tend to write concise and to the point. I'm trying to add some "life" to my writing. 

With that goal in mind, I recently purchased a journal called, "Write the Poem." Each day, it provides a theme and eight, word associations. Today's theme was, The Ocean. The word associations were: billows, deep, brine, offing, wave, flux, tide, and current. So here goes my attempt at poetry:

The Ocean - image created by Ai

The Ocean

The ocean is deep, 

With waves that billow

And rage across the miles.

Brine floats in the air

Filling my nostrils with the perfume of the sea.

Wave after wave crashes against my raft

As I float…

Drift…

Bob…

Weave to and fro.

The tide moving me onward

To an unknown destination

Like the currents of life.

I try to control them

But I can't.

The Remnants of Hurricane Beryl - Making it Disappear (a writing prompt piece)

My crimson, turquoise, lavender, yellow, and green twinkle lights died a tumultuous death during Hurricane Beryl, having been wrenched, yanked and twisted in 100 mph winds. My comfy, brown-tweed glider, in which I spent many hours rocking, watching the pelicans fly overhead, and thinking peaceful thoughts had acquired a dank, green mold, covering it like slime on a pond. The plants that showered me with glorious blooms of pinks, purples, and whites drowned, like rats in the sewer. Everything on my once-beautiful, peaceful patio was dead. So, today is the day I make it all disappear.

What a ceremony! I pull my little pink wagon around to the patio and place it strategically under the railing. Next, I use my piano stool to climb up high enough to reach all the hooks that are grasping desperately to the lights as if to say, "No, no, we don't want them to go." Then, I begin yanking and tossing everything down to the waiting pink mouth, eager to swallow the rusted, water-logged, and mildewed detritus. 

Plunk! Plunk! Crash! The crunch of the wooden rocker slamming into the ground make sounds like bones breaking on a ski slope. 

Oh no! Even my hummingbird feeder is moldy! I decide to bring it in the house and try washing it first! That one stays. 

The bright, beautiful, blue and white pelican standing as tall as a soldier on duty, now has rusted metal feet. "Maybe I can rescue him, too," I say. "He stays. The wind chimes stay as well." 

Two of my plants thrust out long green arms as if to say, "Hey, look. We're still growing and will soon bring you new blooms!" They stay.

I continue to pull off the rest of the diseased plants, pots, hanging baubles, and rusted beach-themed ornaments and drop them one by one into the waiting, pink wagon. Next, I sweep the broken palm tree limbs, pieces of black roof tiles, dirt, and mud off the porch.

Finally, I lug the wagon, loaded with the rocker smashed on top cementing everything down, to the trash bin and send them all to their final resting place. "You gave me joy, " I say as I sadly walk away. "Thank you for that."

As I near my apartment, I hear the melodious tinkling of my wind chime as if to say, "All is well," 

"It's only stuff," I say. "Stuff can be replaced. My loved ones are safe, that's what's important." 

So goodbye Hurricane Beryl and hello to a fresh, new patio to come! 

Travels with Oreo - A Book Review

I read the book, Travels with Oreo, in one sitting. The author, Lucinda Brief, insists it’s the only way to appreciate the book’s short, quirky plot.

The story begins in Galveston, Texas, where our hero, Jocelyn Starback, decides to go on a cruise through the beautiful northwest and into Canada. Her ticket purchased, her luggage packed, and her passport in hand, Jocelyn arrives at the airport only to discover she left Oreo home alone. That will not do.

Insisting the TSA Clerk hold her plane while she travels home to alleviate the situation, Jocelyn ends up in handcuffs. 

The plot moves forward, a bit slow in my opinion, until the FBI is called in. At that point, we are introduced to Jocelyn's father, Harry Hoopert, the head of the FBI. He releases her from airport security and admonishes her for causing such a ruckus at the airport. 

Meanwhile, her plane has left and Oreo is still home alone. The author now strays from the plot and moves back to Galveston where Oreo is guarding Jocelyn's house.

Two drug-induced neighborhood teens have decided to break into Jocelyn's home. They enter through the patio door, which Jocelyn never keeps locked. 

Oreo, a resourceful dog, grabs one teen by ankle and tosses him into the enormous, decorative cactus growing in Jocelyn’s living room. The second teen manages to get past Oreo and is now rummaging through stamps, dies, and other card-making supplies that fill Jocelyn’s ebony black desk. As the teen mutters about not finding money or jewels, Oreo devises a new plan of attack. Knowing that teens are always hungry and love sweets, Oreo grabs a wrapped, chocolate CBD gummy from the candy dish and drops it at the teen’s feet. 

The teen snatches up the treat, unwraps it and stuffs it in her mouth. 

At this point, Jocelyn walks in with her FBI dad and discovers one teen speared by cactus thorns and the other teen passed out in a drugged delirium.

The story ends with Jocelyn and Oreo taking off in a motorhome to travel the USA. “Screw the airplanes and TSA agents,” she shouts as dust kicks up behind her spinning wheels. “We’re off to see the USA.” 

I recommend reading this book with a steaming hot cup of cocoa. I guarantee you will finish the book before your delightful beverage gets cold. 

I give this book 2-1/2 stars. It was inventive; however a bit farfetched, too short, the language coarse, and the vocabulary too elementary. 

The author hints at a second book coming out soon. My recommendation to her is to spend money on the cover or no one will buy it.

Author's NOTE: The chocolate gummies are a figment of the author's imagination. No such things exist in the hero's home.

Adventures

Adventures, to me, are experiences, not necessarily destinations. My favorite adventures are the ones I took with my kids when they were growing up. After our school day, I would gather up snacks, pack the kids in the car, pick up a couple of their friends, and head off for a walk at one of the many outdoor parks nearby.

In Virginia Beach, the adventure of choice was often a swampy walk on the Bald Cypress Trail. We’d scurry across the wooden bridges that spanned the murky, black water, smelling of sulphur mixed with honeysuckle and pine. We’d climb over fallen, lichen-covered tree limbs that attempted to block our way. The kids were delighted when they discovered “secret” chambers in rotted tree trunks; a perfect stage for playing hide and seek.

(Image created in Adobe Firefly) 

No matter which path we took, skinny Loblolly pines stretched up high in the sky as if touching heaven itself. Spanish moss swept down from the branches like hair on a troll from one of our fairy tale books. 

If we were quiet enough, we’d meet a salamander, frogs of all shapes and sizes, and even an occasional Nerodia erythrogaster or water snake. The air was alive with the quiet noises of nature: birds twittering, insects buzzing, and squirrels scampering; only interrupted by children's' happy laughter. 

 

(Image created in Adobe Firefly) 

 In Pennsylvania, we were a mere ten-minute drive from the Appalachian Trail. After school, we'd grab our German Shepherd, Peppercorn, along with a few friends, and drive out for a day of hiking on the enormous boulders that lined the rugged pathways. The scenery was breath taking: mountains, forests, and overhanging cliffs that sink the pit of your stomach when you look down to the bottom hundreds of feet below. 

If we were lucky, we’d see deer, foxes, and rabbits. Occasionally, we'd meet someone hiking up the trail from Georgia. These folks always enjoyed stopping to talk about their adventures like we were old acquaintances.

I loved watching my kids experience the outdoors, enjoy their friends, and learn about nature. These are my favorite adventures and ones I will never forget.

 

 

Writing Practice

Soon after moving to Galveston Island, I began attending OLLI, otherwise known as Osher Lifelong Learning Center. It's a place for folks age 55+ to meet friends and exercise both the mind and body. I've taken many classes here; some successfully, some not. But one class that sticks in my mind is the day I attended a writing practice class and met Debbie and Lori. We hit it off like the three musketeers; and, after the class ended, we continue to meet once a week to share our writing successes and failures. At the end of each writing session, Debbie creates a list of prompts to jumpstart our writing for the following week. This has led us to create stories, poems, and memoirs. Stories that reveal the innermost secrets of our lives, stories set in fictional times and places, and stories that are, frankly, not worth reading.

Sadly, I've used all my writing prompts for this week and now I'm stumped. What do I want to write about? My activities? My friends? My struggles? Dreams? Goals? Failures? Somewhere in this messy list is something that needs expounding upon or even alluded to. 

What? Nothing? 

I'm a blank.

I need to find my own prompt for today, so I spend five minutes searching. Zilch. Zero. Zip. Nothing excites me. Not one prompt makes me want to bare my soul or chastise society. Maybe today isn't a good day for writing. I mean, really, how long can one ramble on and expect her friends to listen! 

Last chance - first word that comes into my mind - headache. 

I DO have an allergy headache. It resides over my left eye and nostril, beating and throbbing like a bass drummer out of sync. Can't anyone shut him up? Usually my Vicks Vapo-inhaler makes it disappear, but not today. In fact, last night it kept me up several hours, pounding away like a blacksmith on his anvil. I finally smeared Vicks Vapo-Rub over my nose and top lip until the throbbing waned. Slowly, I drifted back to sleep, and now...it's back like a concert I do not want to attend. Banging away like a 3-year old with a Christmas present from an uncle who hates me. "Shut up," I scream. "BANG," is its reply. No wonder I can't write.

Streetcats

I'm currently drinking my morning, home-brewed Starbucks and watching one of the neighborhood street cats woof down some chicken I put out on my patio. I can't see details, like whiskers, but she is a pretty cat, white with beach sand-colored splotches - the perfect look for a Galveston street cat.

Oreo is sitting next to me, watching curiously, probably wondering why this cat gets fresh chicken while she only get Rx dog food with only a smidgen of chicken for flavoring. She doesn't understand that eating that plate of chicken would end with her going to the dog hospital. She's had stomach and bladder stone issues since a baby and only gets Rx food.

The cat finishes and moves on. My experience with neighborhood street cats has led me to discover something quite amusing - they are quite persnickety in their dining habits. For the past two weeks, I've been putting down bits of leftover rice and boiled chicken. Each night around 5:30, my sandy colored street cat friend comes visiting and gobbles up the offering. 
Yesterday, I got the idea that I could feed more cats and provide more nutrients if I put down cat food instead of chicken. I bought a bag of Purina Cat Chow, placed a mound of these healthy brown pebbles on a blue plastic plate, and waited.

First, a big black tom cat jumped up, strutted over to the dish, and sniffed. He quickly turned away and left. "Nope, not going to eat that stuff!" 

Next, my sandy beach cat arrived to see what was on the menu. She sniffed at the crunchy brown substance, glared at me through the sliding glass door, and almost appeared to roll her eyes. She turned, stormed off, and flicked her tail at the "flies" in the dish. I guess I got told!

When I woke this morning, there was the cursed cat food, still sitting forlornly on the blue plastic plate. Not even a rat came to dine!

Like an obedient wife for an overbearing husband, I replaced the scorned manna from heaven with chicken. Lesson learned. The neighborhood street cats have formally decreed, "We street cats have class. Do NOT feed us rat food." 

In truth, I'm a spoiled street cat as well. Give me breakfast at Blake's or lunch at Truluck's, but do not feed me "rat food" from a fast food restaurant. Maybe that's why I love my street cats so much. We are soul mates at heart.

Excerpt - The Landlord (A Chapter from a Mystery I'm Writing)

This is an excerpt from a mystery I’m working on – very slowly! As background, the story is about a woman who moves to Galveston to be near her daughter as she takes care of her husband with dementia. Hmm, does that sound familiar! After placing him in a nursing home, she needs more income; so, she starts a Professional Organizer business. A murder occurs in town, she ends up accused, and then she has to solve the murder before she gets arrested and put in jail. It’s just a fun thing I work on when the muse hits me. I love mysteries so this is my favorite kind of writing. Here goes. . . 

As I put the last of the groceries away, I hear heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. 

“Oh crap,” I say as I spot my landlord, Alec. Oreo barks, jumps up and down and runs around in circles, while I quickly pick up dog toys, newspapers, and coffee mugs before opening the door. “Alec, what do you want,” I ask?

“I need to discuss your lease,” he says, pushing his way through the door. I roll my eyes. Typical for him; he pushes his way through life.

Alec picks up Oreo and tosses him off the lounge chair, thumps his butt down, and reclines his feet up.    

“How about some coffee,” he demands. 

You might think I’m his housecleaner, I say to myself as I pop a Starbucks pod in the Kuerig.

“Cream and sugar,” I ask?

“Nope, black,” he says. “Got anything sweet to go with it?”

After he’s comfortably settled with coffee and a chocolate chip cookie, he pulls out a lease and tosses it at me.

I scan the five-page, size-8-font document and jerk my head back with a loud “What is this?”
Alec swallows his cookie practically whole and drinks off the top of his coffee with a loud slurp. “What is what?” he asks, wiping his hand across his mouth.

I notice a chocolate chip fall on his designer jeans, but I’m not concerned about that. I’m too distraught at what I see in the lease. My hands are shaking as I say, “You raised my rent $200 a month!”

 “Inflation,” he says. “Everybody is dealing with inflation these days and landlords are no different.

“But you haven’t fixed the rotten door jamb or my dishwasher or the holes in the bathroom ceiling.”

“I fixed your door jamb, just last week,” he says with a snarl.

“You nailed the broken pieces back into place! That’s not fixed. All you did was prevent the rotten pieces from falling down.

“It worked, didn’t it? Besides, I’m going to remodel this place eventually.”“What about the dishwasher?” I ask.

“Your dishwasher works. I ran it through two cycles and every cycle performed exactly as required.”

“Sure, it works, but it doesn’t clean my dishes! I have to scrub them clean first or they come out as dirty as they go in. That’s not fixed.”

Alec grabs his mug, lifts it towards me, and says, “I’ll have another cup.”

I grab the cup and head back towards the kitchen as he yells after me, “And don’t forget the cookie. It was a bit stale, but it’s better than nothing.”

By this time, I’m fuming, but I get his damn coffee and cookie and sit back down. I return my attention to the lease and notice he also increased the lease to two years. “What the hell is this,” I say, pointing to the lease. “Two years! You expect me to sign a two-year lease for this hell hole?”

Alec takes a big slurp and sits back in his chair with a smug grin. “This is beach property, lady. I could be making thousands a month if this was an AirB&B. I’m doing you a favor.

“AirB&B! That’s a joke, right? No one would rent this place as a vacation home. The walls have holes in them, the floor is warped, carpet is stained, stairs are breaking, the outside hasn’t been painted in God-knows when. You can’t be serious!”

“I’m serious. Now are you going to sign the lease or what,” he finishes his coffee and begins to get up. Oreo sits back on her haunches and growls up at him. 

I begin to analyze the options in my mind. Not many, I admit. I’m paying an enormous amount to keep Richard in Assisted Living. I couldn’t keep him home any longer. He was falling down and wandering. 

At 250 pounds, there was no way I could lift him, so I was calling the ambulance on a regular basis to help me get him up. He began to wander out of the house and then forget where he was. Luckily, I say this tongue in cheek, he’s visually impaired so he doesn’t have a driver’s license, or he probably would have had silver alerts as well. 

My children, Crystal and Cameron, insisted it was time to place him in a care home. The only one on the island I could afford was close by, but not the best place for him. It has no memory care. I really need to get him into a place with memory care but that costs even more money.

All this is going through my mind as I ponder the lease in front of me.

There is nothing on the island that is this cheap, even with a $200/month increase. I just can’t afford to move right now. I’ll have to cut back more on groceries and whatever else I can think of, but at least I can still be here on the island with Richard and the kids. I’ll have a roof over my head, even if it does leak now and then. Better than being on the street. I don’t want to have to compete with Ron on 61^st and Broadway! 

“Fine,” I say, grabbing a pen from my desk. “I’ll sign your lease, but at least fix the hole in my bathroom ceiling.” I scribble my signature across the lease and hand it back to him.

“Sure,” he says as he pushes off of the recliner and waddles his 300 lb frame out the door. “Next week. I’ll take care of it next week.”

I shut the door after him and blow out a big breath. Exasperated is mild for what I’m really feeling. How am I going to pay for this and assisted living, too?

Prompt of the day: Frost and Irascible

This is my birthday month - I'll be one year closer to that "three-quarters of a century" mark which happens next year. Like frost on the ground, my hair is much whiter than it was a year ago. Is that because I'm older, wiser, or more stressed? 

Age mellows people. I'm definitely less irascible than I was in my 20s or 30s. I wonder why that is? Could it be, because as I age, I realize I don't know it all; and therefore, there is less to argue about? Or could it be because I realize my time is short, so why waste it arguing? Or, maybe it's because I don't have the energy to spare! Arguing raises the blood pressure and wears out this feeble machine I live in.

I believe it's all of the above. Being irascible takes too much energy, takes too much time, and only proves I don't know it all. Instead, I will simply settle myself down, gently, like frost floating down on a beautiful lily, and live one year longer!