LINDA ELLIS

The Dash's Dash

 Please visit Linda Ellis' Web Site at: www.lindaellis.net

Home of "The Dash" Poem!

 

 "It matters not, how much we own,
the cars...the house...the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash."

 

The Dash's Dash

(1996 - XXXX)

After we sent out a mailing last week, it became evident to me that many people on our mailing list weren't aware of my poem, The Dash, which is the basis upon which that mailing was written.  I considered that an accomplishment, because it meant my other works had brought folks to my web site to join my list.  I've written hundreds of poems and stories and frankly, did not want to be known as a "one-hit wonder."  However, I cannot deny that writing The Dash poem is the single most pivotal point in my life regarding the direction of my career.

I've used the term "The Dash's Dash" because this creation, this unique combination of 241 words, has literally created a life,  and therefore a dash, of its own.  Its "birth" occurred in 1996 when I wrote the poem, and yet the date of its demise will never be a reality.  Its own life is infinite, its legacy carved in stone, and it will live on long after the footprints its creator has left on earth have faded.  I've come to humbly realize that somewhere inside its simple stanzas lies the mystery and complexity of life.  Its rhythmic message subconsciously forces the reader to be suddenly, keenly aware the brevity of it all.   It has touched more lives than anyone could ever imagine or calculate, and will continue to do so for generations to come.  
 
I've also recently realized, that although I own the copyright to The Dash, it's as though I no longer own the poem...in a way, the world does.  I compare it to a seed I'd planted many years ago, which quickly sprouted and continues to grow exponentially being constantly cultivated by the millions of souls inspired by its message.  It's unfathomable to me the number of loving legacies, rerouted journeys, smiles worn and tears shed as a result of my writing this work.  
 
Timing is everything, they say.  The Dash entered the world in a time of a technological explosion and has since become an entity unto itself.  Full time, around the clock, it continues to work each day touching lives and touching hearts.  As a rational person who requires tangible evidence to sway my opinion, I must admit I've come to believe in, and accept, the concept that this poem has a unique purpose and a reason for its creation and existence.  Maybe propelled by a higher power or force of nature, or maybe just sheer coincidence, but how else can one explain its enormous effect on the world having been originated by one woman without the wherewithal or resources at the time to launch such an explosive inspiration into the world?  I was busy living my own dash, while the poem was out working its magic.  It took me many years, and countless stories of this inspiration reaching the lives of those who need it, when they need it, to truly believe in its power.  Though still bewildered, I no longer doubt its abilities.
 
I was complimented in an interview recently, where the gentleman said in reference to the more than 300,000 "The Dash" products sold, "it's very impressive where you've taken The Dash poem."  I replied, "it's more impressive where The Dash poem has taken me..."
 
Linda Ellis

 

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Every Single Day by Linda Ellis

 

My poem, Every Single Day was inspired by one of my father’s favorite sayings. In a joking manner, he’d often say that it would be better if we were all born with expiration dates stamped on our forehead, like a carton of milk. In that way, we could better plan the route we choose to take during our journey on earth, as we would then know definitively the date of our ultimate departure. He always had a unique way of getting his point across.

My father was born into a family of very modest means. He was a severe asthmatic as a child. I remember his stories about sitting on the porch in the South Florida heat gasping for breath while watching through the screen door, the other boys in the neighborhood play football. His parents had to save food money to afford the medication he needed just to breathe. I guess growing up with this and other adversities helped to make him into the man I’d always considered invincible.

As far back as I can remember, he had always been a strong man, both physically and mentally. He was to me, what is often described as, “a man’s man.” He was as tough as nails. An airplane mechanic by trade, a fisherman by choice, he had seen his share of pain.

In 2003 while driving to my friend Nancy’s house, I was talking to my father on my cell phone as he shared with me the words I will never forget hearing. He informed me that the doctors had given him only a few months to live. Shattered, I entered my friend’s house with feelings of both despair and disbelief.

Months later, I went to stay with him in Florida to help care for him during the latter stages of his cancer. The lessons I learned during this chapter of my life have since changed my attitude, my views on life and death and the way I accept, change, struggle and adversity.

After chemotherapy had left him feeling ill and weak, I remember asking him why he'd refused to consider some of the out-of-town specialists who practiced more unique and modern medical procedures, some of which I’d recently read about. His answer to me again exemplified the attitude he had chosen to adopt to face this devastating change of events. Relating it to the mechanic in his soul, he replied with a hint of sarcasm, “Why overhaul the engine when the transmission is shot?”

My father’s strength during this time was nothing short of amazing. I remember when he told me that getting cancer had proven to be one of the best things that had ever happened to him. When I questioned what seemed to me to be a very odd statement, he shared with me a box filled with letters and cards. Each had been received from a family member or friend, some he’d not heard from in several years. Each expressed the love, respect and gratitude the individual felt for him because of the positive part he’d played in their life at one time or another.

These gifts, tokens of love and gratitude, meant so much to my father.  They justified his existence in some way. They were written proof that his time here on earth had made a difference in so many lives. I knew then what he’d meant by his statement. Knowing that he was terminally ill, and being given the extra time to have the opportunity for his loved ones to express to him their true feelings and for him to do the same, helped him accept and cope with the inevitable. I've often thought that it is a sad statement of our times when it takes a life altering event to get us to put down our defenses long enough to express to another what we feel deep in our heart.

Another example of his positive outlook and disposition during this time was the way he referenced the gravesite he had chosen for himself to save my brothers and I this difficult and painful task. He informed me with a sly grin one day, “Well, I finally got to purchase some waterfront property…”

 

I really didn’t comprehend this statement until I sat motionless beside his open grave on the day of his funeral. With silent and continuous tears rolling down my face and the preacher’s comments fading into a dull, monotonous tone in the back of my mind, I glanced to my left. My eyes fell upon the reflection of the sunlight from the dark water of the small lake adjoining the grounds near his final resting place. I managed a smile of acknowledgment as I nodded my head in understanding and silently uttered the words to myself…“Yeah pop, you finally did get your waterfront property…”

 

In essence, my father taught me invaluable lessons about truly living my life while he was in the midst of losing his own. He taught me that we are not guaranteed a tomorrow and that many of us will not have the opportunity that he was given to know our approximate “expiration date.” We need to tell our loved ones often how we feel and not wait until tomorrow. These days are so hectic and busy and minutes dissipate into hours and days before our very eyes. That is why we need to learn to slow down enough to fully experience this life and appreciate the blessings with which we are granted. Then, and only then, will we be able to truly live…Every Single Day.

Every Single Day

Copyright 2006 Linda Ellis

 

Though we may battle our opponent — time,

someday we must admit defeat.

As the days run into weeks…and years,

too soon, a lifetime is complete.

But if the span of every lifetime

were cut into pieces with a knife,

then every single day would be

…a single slice of life.

And we’d be certain of the days we have

to laugh, to love…to live,

knowing just how much to take from life

...and just how much to give.

We’d divide our time accordingly,

say and do the things we’d need

because every single day to us

would then be, guaranteed.

But life is not indefinite;

time continues its forward stride…

and it may end before the laughter’s done

and all the tears are cried.

So do what you feel you have to do

and say what you need to say.

Seize all the life contained within

every single day.

Say “I Love You” more often,

than just every now and then…

For you may not have the chance tomorrow

to say it once again.

Don’t put off true happiness.

Don’t put your hopes and dreams on a shelf.

Live every single day
as if it were a lifetime, in itself.

 

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Excerpt from upcoming gift book: 

Every Single Day

 

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Tomorrow's Eve

I’d like to share the story of a lesson that I was taught by my 2nd grader many years ago shortly after the holidays.  I had finished work one day in January and went to ASP (which stands for After School Program, although the children often refer to it as “After School Prison”) to pick her up, go home and begin the wondrous task of selecting something that I hadn’t defrosted earlier to make for dinner.  I routinely signed my name on the roster and sat in the nearby designated chair, which was still warm from my ASP parent predecessors who had, exhausted from a day’s work, mundanely selected one of the hyper children from the pack to take home that evening hoping they had chosen the right one.  Like robots we took our turn claiming the little humans that belonged to us, attempting to hide our tired minds with a perky greeting and a genuinely interested, “So, how was school today?” attitude.

 

My daughter came out of the library doors with a smile upon her face, as usual.  She gave me a high-five, a hug and her 20-lb book bag to lug to the car.  We buckled up our seat belts and while I began to absorb my daughter’s interpretation of all the important events of elementary school in the form of “Megan said that...” and “Bradley did this," I began to back out of the parking space.  Out of the blue, I heard my daughter say, “Hey mom, let’s not go home.”  To which I replied, “Silly girl, we have to go home.  Mommy has to finish last night’s dishes, make dinner and finish the laundry and I’m sure you have lots of homework to do.”  She contemplated the assignments that Mrs. Carlin had given them that afternoon and repeated with renewed conviction, “Let’s not go home...let’s go to the park and then go for ice cream…let’s celebrate!!”  I said, “Sweetheart, the holidays are over.  There is no reason to celebrate now.  We will have to wait until next year to celebrate again.”  The honesty and innocence of her reply will forever remain in my mind, “Mommy, we don’t need a reason to celebrate.  Let’s be happy we’re together today.  Let’s make it our own holiday and we’ll call it, “Tomorrow’s Eve.” 

Immediately, my suspicious mind started questioning her intent.  Had she really had this wonderful epiphany or was it just a clever disguise to get what she wanted?  After all, she was an expert on how to manipulate me using the Working Mommy Guilt technique. And wasn’t it just last year she used her highly-polished WMG skills to make us the proud parents of “Cookie,” the perpetually excavating guinea pig?  Either way, I was thoroughly impressed with her thought process.  We were stopped at the intersection by then ready to make our routine left turn to drive home.  The park, of course, would mean a right turn.  (Possibly indicating some subliminal message that turning right was the right thing to do?  Now, how did she do that?  She is GOOD!)  My mind searched for an answer to give her, reasons why we could not possibly celebrate “Tomorrow’s Eve” today.  I knew every reason I thought of however, would be skillfully debated and overruled.  It was like dealing with an over-zealous defense attorney.  I looked into her big blue eyes.  I thought of the dishes, the laundry and the “busyness” that awaited me at home.  The moment didn’t require words.  I switched the turn signal from left to right and we went on to celebrate our first “Tomorrow’s Eve.”  We played tag.  I went down the slide in my business suit and heels.  Then we ate ice cream.

My advice?  I highly suggest setting aside some “Tomorrow’s Eve” holidays on your busy calendar.

"We could celebrate the joy of living
by choosing to believe
that any day can be a holiday
if we observe, Tomorrow’s Eve...”
-Linda Ellis

Copyright 2007

Excerpt from upcoming gift book: 

Every Single Day

 

www.lindaellis.net

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