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Maz, was very special to me, when neither could sleep, for her, her cancer and for me my grief of loosing my husband. We use to chat away, discussing the pros and cons of life. How she lightened my burden of grief. Made me laugh and sent me funny little poems. We met this July 98 and we got to put faces with a name. We had plans for year 2,000 in Australia. Maz couldn't wait, but she lives on, as she lives in a little part of my heart.
One of the poems Maz sent me that I kept. Every time I see a candle flicker I think of Maz and the wonderful night that the Saluki people lit her way
to a better place:
When We're Alone, We Can Dance
The cruise ship was crowded with people off for three days of pleasure. Ahead of me in the passageway walked a tiny woman in brown slacks, her shoulders hunched, her white hair cut in a bob.
From the ship's intercom came a familiar tune - "Begin the Beguine." And suddenly a wonderful thing happened. The woman, unaware anyone was behind her, did a quick and graceful dance step - back, shuffle, slide.
As she reached the door to the dining salon, she
re-assembled her dignity and stepped soberly through.
Younger people often think folks my age are beyond romance, dancing or dreams. They see us as age has shaped us; camouflaged by wrinkles, thick waists and gray hair.
They don't see the people who live inside - we are the wise old codgers, the dignified matrons.
No one would ever know that I am still the skinny girl who grew up in a leafy suburb of Boston. Inside, I still think of myself as the youngest child in a vivacious family headed by a mother of great beauty and a father of unfailing good cheer. And I am still the romantic teenager who longed for love,
the young adult who aspired to social respectability - but whom shall I tell?
We are all like the woman in the ship's passageway, in whom the music still echoes. We are the sum of all the lives we once lived. We show the grown-up part, but inside we are still the laughing children, the shy teens, the dream-filled youths. There still exists, most real, the matrix of all we were or ever yearned to be.
In our hearts we still hear "Begin the Beguine" - and
when we are alone, we dance.
By Beth Ashley
from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen & Patty Hansen
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Lynne Underwood
Walnut Creek, CA
ludogs@pacbell.net
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