Random Thoughts of Amy Potts

I love the dandelion. It's one of my favorite flowers. Yes, I refer to the dandelion as a flower. It's soft, vibrant yellow bloom tells me when spring has officially arrived in the mid-west. I love dandelions!  I also love roses. Roses are delicate and beautiful and from what I understand, quite a task to grow successfully. I've not had the patience to try. Still, I love roses! Dandelions are soft to touch. Roses have thorns that can prick your fingers. Dandelions grow plentiful with little effort. Roses are expensive and take a lot of effort.  I do love green manicured lawns. I have to admit the appearance of a well manicured lawn surrounding the house in the suburbs is attractive. But, would someone tell me who decided that this would be the standard by which we all should live?  Who decided that something as colorful as a dandelion is a weed?  When I was a little girl, I was very proud of the dandelion and violet bouquets that I made for my mom...

… it’s unfamiliar until you’ve experienced it. No two people react the same. In fact with each loss a person’s reaction is as different as the relationship they are grieving. I was a little girl when my Aunt Lillie died, a teenager when my dad died and a 34 year old woman when my first husband, Bob, died. And all the pets in between that died all required a time to grieve. Believe it or not, I’ve quite a sensitive soul. I think at the core, we all are. When someone close to you loses a loved one, it’s hard to know what to say or if you should say anything at all.  For me, the people who have listened to me tell the same story for the hundredth time and smile just the same, are my life savers. I mean that quite literally, actually. Over time I’ve tried to condition my mind to loss. I think if I can find a way to redirect my thoughts I’ll be ok. Reality, though, forces me to be open and feel what I feel in the private presence of a trusted friend. However grief hits you, I pray you’v...

 “Wiz-z-z-z-z ploop”, was the sound I heard as I neared the water’s edge. A man stood several feet from where I was walking with my dog, casting his fishing line into the water. The water was gently splashing against the rocks moments after a group of rowers passed by in their kayaks and I could hear their faint voices bouncing on the wake as it came rolling in. I wondered, as I watched them, if I will ever get over the fear of deep water. Since I was a little girl, I have had a fear of being in water that is over my head. Because I am only five feet and a couple of inches tall, most water (aside from the bathtub) is over my head. I need to know for certain that at any point, I can put my feet down and feel the ground beneath.   Floating on the water would be relaxing if I could get over the fear that I would simply tip over and drown. I have faith, I really do. But the very human part of me often wrestles with fear. (Adobe Stock Image) T here are many fears that I have o...

“I’m going inside now”.  These are the words, as a child, that I said when my parents called me in for dinner or the end of the day bedtime routine.  Sometimes I said these words simply because I was mad at my playmate.  I was tired of being called dumb, ugly or any of the harsh words that are often spoken in child’s play.  I thought that if I went inside, I would not be bothered and would maybe find some reassurance in the shelter of my home.  What I didn’t often plan on was the disturbance of any one of my six brothers.  So if I wanted to go inside and not be bothered, I would go a little farther and head upstairs to “my room”.  I was the only girl and my room was all my own.  It was there that I could think about anything, I could play with dolls and draw pictures.  I think my first drawing was of an egg plant.  I fell in love with this vegetable/fruit because of it’s brilliant color.  The picture I drew was magnificent bu...

Kauffman Center view from Broadway Street A typical Sunday morning for me these days is usually spent on the rocky trails in my favorite park. I love to hike and pray and think and dream. Because we can't attend church in person these days, I have been attending "worship service" in nature. I like to stop and stand still to listen to the birds singing and the distant conversations of other hikers carrying on the wind. Is God speaking to me through it all? Sometimes I think so. Other times I think he stands still over it all just to listen. The harmony of the birds with the sound of the wind through the trees must be quite pleasing to the one Kauffman Center view from Wyandotte Street who created it all. This week I decided to do something different. I wanted a different view of life. I packed up my camera and headed into the city; Kansas City. I admire architecture and there is plenty of beautiful pieces of art in our City. I spent the majority of my time ...

A family of four once lived there.  Mother, father and two children both boys.  Every day for several years the father went to work in the fields by summer, and at the local grain elevator by winter.  He was hard working.  Steel hands, they called him because his hands were so hard and calloused from his work.  When he came home at night he made sure there was always plenty; plenty of wood for the fireplace, plenty of food on the table to eat, plenty of love for his wife and children.  He did his best.  Mom stayed home and cared for the basic needs of the family.  She cooked, mended the torn knees in active little boys trousers, and made sure there was enough time to read stories and always did everything with love. As time went on the boys grew to be men and moved away from the family farm.  They came home often, bringing laughter and laundry for their mom because she had the magic touch.  Eventually their visits became few...