Archive for the Just Beachie Column Category

Are Christmas Memories Important?


A magical Christmas memory of Disneyland’s enchanted castle

The Memory of Christmas Past
By Beach T. Weston
“The Just Beachie Column”
December 2016
(2-minute Read)


I was ten years old and with great anticipation, unwrapped Christmas ornaments from boxes that littered the living room floor. The room’s brick hearth safely held calming flames—its glow danced off the assorted festive decor awaiting, once again, to be returned to their yearly place of pride.

Our Christmas tree was tall, and fury, and beautifully covered in white lights. I gave the tree a gentle touch and a light sniff so as not to disturb its perfection. The aroma was delightful—it made me happy and reminded me of holding my Mother’s hand—walking along the trails around Lake Tahoe, where the smell of fresh Pine Needles and Pine Cones rhythmically beguiled a sense of pleasure…of peace.

As I playfully examined the ornaments, Mom continued our Christmas tradition and handed me a child’s Santa Claus mug full of hot chocolate. Mini marshmallows bobbed atop the warm cocoa just waiting to give my palette a giggle.

With great care, I gripped the Santa Claus mug and contemplated which box to open next. And as if by telepathy, the next box I opened was the magical box. Inside the box, carefully wrapped were the dearest of ornaments: Twelve Orange Peacocks the size of small snowballs—each adorned by tiny pearls and fancy feathers. Skillfully wrapped aside the Peacocks were twelve diamond shaped mirror—a bit smaller than the Peacocks—each attached to gold thread. It was a joyous moment…we had found our favorite ornaments.

Bing sang White Christmas, giving us inspiration to strategically hang the orange birds and mirrors. Their reflection sparkled from the Christmas lights and made a dazzling show for the eye. The Christmas tree was complete. Our living room was transformed into a land of Christmas enchantment.

Mom stood behind me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders as we admired our magnificent creation. It was a Silent Night moment, and all was calm. And then Mom repeated the words she said every Christmas after the final ornament was placed—

“This is the prettiest Christmas tree we’ve ever had.”

I was blessed to have eight more merry Christmases before Mom passed. The ornaments once held in reverence are gone, yet safely kept in memory. The love I have for Christmas will forever be, like the orange Peacocks, precious ornaments hung carefully in my heart.

Are Christmas memories important? I say, yes!

If you have great Christmas memories, cherish them. If you don’t…create them. And keep on creating them.

Let us treasure the excitement of exploring Christmas boxes, decorating trees, drinking hot chocolate, ice skating, Christmas caroling, building a snowman with a top hat and carrot nose—and most of all, love shared. May it be forever part of your Christmas.

In Peace, Love, and a very Merry Christmas
P.S. Whatever holiday you celebrate, may your special holiday be filled with wonderful memories. Happy Holidays to all!

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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“Just give it a try…I promise it will feel fabulous!”


Glorious Trees
by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
November 2016

At first glance, a tree might seem uncomplicated and unimportant—the reality is trees are an invaluable gift to the world. We can’t live without them…literally.

The Arbor Day Foundation ( have gathered several studies from major universities, and the U.S. Forest Service. The studies found that a single tree can give up to four people their daily supply of oxygen. The studies also discovered that wherever there are canopies of trees, there are healthier people, and a decrease in crime (including graffiti).

I contribute this phenomena to a tree emanating positive, one might say, magical energy. Have you ever felt melancholy or distraught, but when you gazed upon, or touched a tree your angst disappeared? If even for a moment, a feeling of peace was restored.

I’m a tree-hugger so I can vouch for the peace and happiness a tree gives to those open to its energy. I have no doubt trees want you to relax in their shade. Trees want you to “cop-a-squat” as Julia Roberts (Vivian) said to an uptight Richard Gere (Edward) in Pretty Woman. Trees want you to be amazed by their stature. Trees want you to appreciate the creatures that depend on them for their existence.

One of my great tree memories happened while hiking in Washington’s, Mount Rainier National Park:

On a perfect Fall afternoon, my friend, Sam and I were relishing a day hike on the Twin Fir Trail. The hiking path was home to a variety of Pine and Fir. Surrounding their trunks and aside the path were thick ferns, thimbleberries, and huckleberries. Decaying logs, fallen branches, and velvet green moss made for a luscious environment. It was Shangri-La. A happy-land. A harmonious world where nature’s crisp aroma mesmerized the senses. I remember thinking, this must be a glimpse of Heaven.

Half-way into our hike, a massive Douglas Fir came insight—I couldn’t resist—the five hundred (plus) year-old tree received one of my best hugs. I suggested to Sam to do the same. I believe her words were, “are you nuts!? Someone will see me and think I’m weird!”

“Just give it a try…I promise it will feel fabulous!”

Sam, (with great reluctance) closed her eyes and hugged. She released her grip for a moment, and hugged again.

“Hey! This feels good…I feel stupid, but it feels good!”

Watching Sam hug the tree remains one of my treasured memories. It was an amazing experience to see a person, who would normally never think of hugging a tree, receive such great satisfaction from a simple embrace.

I love telling Sam’s story, but I have to say (and Sam agrees), that once connected to trees…there is no going back. Each time you admire a tree, the spiritual moment will return. A moment of tranquility. A lovely oneness with nature.

A suggestion my friends:
Find a tree that calls to you and give it a great-big-bear-hug. Find a tree that inspires you to cop-a-squat, read a book, have a picnic, and smooch with a lover. Whatever your delight, just relax and let the tree’s enchantment fill you with gratitude.

In Peace, Love, and a BIG-Tree-Hug,
p.s. To this day, my reluctant friend, Sam, still hugs trees, and still says it feels fabulous!

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Happy Halloweenie!

The Lady and The Sugar Ghost - Just Beachie Column Halloween

The idea of phantoms, and paranormal activity peaks during the month of October as we begin to plan our Halloween parties, costumes, and the trip to a Superstore—where the shelves are lined with enough candy to fuel Dracula’s winged flight back to his Bran Castle in Transylvania.

In the spirit of ghosts and ghoulish delights, I refer back to my (March 2016) column when I wrote a story told to me by a friend entitled: Don’t Ya Just Love a Good Ghost Story? To this day I have no idea if he was telling a tall tale or a true story—either way, I know my friend had devoured a pillow case full of Halloween treats—sending his imagination on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. His brain was hi-jacked by the “feel good hormones”, making his spooky adventure quite entertaining.

I remember well that October 31st, the eve of All Saints’ Day. A group of fellow actors gathered for a Halloween party. There was more candy and haunting stories than guests. The Sugar Ghost was dancing in our heads that night—he was a pin-ball wizard, pinging sugar balls to light up our cerebral area—and sugar-coated not only my friend’s haunted house story, but everyone’s reminiscence of paranormal meetings, (fiction and nonfiction).

In between the spooky stories, the hot topic was the question of whether or not paranormal activity (ghosts) really exist? The more treats we ate, the more the Sugar Ghost fueled our imagination. And when the imagination is illuminated, the mind can go to some pretty scary places (except for under the bed where the monsters live).

Is it unreasonable to believe in the paranormal? Do apparitions float amongst the living? Or are these stories made up to scare the chocolate-covered-raisins out of us…especially on Halloween night.

I will admit, I believe ghosts exist due to my close encounter of the spirit-world-kind—fortunately it was a good experience. I shiver at the thought of it being otherwise.

I told my ghost story that night and while it wasn’t spine-chilling—it was true:

In my twenties, I lived in Beverly Hills, California in an aging house, built in the 1940’s. The backyard was remarkably large for a home that sat smack in the heart of a busy city. The yard’s enchantment would often welcome me to pick fruit from the mature lemon and orange trees that had found sanctuary on the property.

In my bedroom there was a charming, French window that viewed the shaded backyard. I often kept the old window open—allowing the citrus scented air and the bird songs to give me serenity. It was on one such charmed afternoon my peripheral vision caught what looked like a translucent figure (resembling a woman) at my bedroom door. The figure vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

The transparent form returned every few days—always materializing at my bedroom door. It was as if The Lady (which she came to be called) wanted to visit the room. The Lady was a calming presence and never gave me cause to fear or worry. I began to actually look forward to her visits.

Not too long after the sightings began, I asked the Landlord if he knew the history of the house. I shall never forget his astonished expression when he said, “why do you ask!?”

I took a moment before I fearlessly spoke of The Lady.

“My Mother use to tell me the same story! She swore there was a woman that appeared at her bedroom door, but only for a few moments and then quickly disappear.”

The Landlord went on to say that his Mother had bought the house from a widower whose wife had died in the bedroom that his Mother had occupied, and was now my bedroom.

This story may sound far-fetched, but as Shakespeare wrote, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies.”

If I hadn’t personally experienced a ghost, I’m not so sure I would be a believer. But whether you believe or not, Halloween is a great time to dress up and play. To be a child again.To carve Pumpkins, and eat Pumpkin (Vegan) Pie. To stuff your belly full of treats!

In Peace, Love, and a Happy Halloweenie!
P.S. On October 31, beware of the Sugar Ghost and those monsters under the bed!

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Just a Little Pink!


by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
September 2016


A few weeks ago, I rallied a group of friends and embarked on a half-day snorkel trip aboard the Queen’s Treasure—a charming and unsinkable Catamaran. We set sail off Ka’anapali Beach, a magnificent beach lined with busy restaurants, shops selling Hawaiian trinkets, and luxurious condos and hotels.

My friends were tan from paddling and swimming, and I was white as a sugar cube from not paddling and swimming. I love to Snorkel, but Skin Diving had eluded me for months. But, today was different—it was my Birthday! Time to celebrate. Time to enjoy the sunshine. Time to swim with Hawai’i’s State Fish, a Humuhumunukunukuapua’a (yes, it’s a mouthful). Time to see one of the greatest creatures on earth, a Honu (Green Sea Turtle).

Fins, mask and snorkel in hand, the Birthday Girl (me) and her entourage boarded the Catamaran, ready to ride the waves and experience under-water-paradise.

My first question once on board was…where is the Champagne!?

“I’m sorry”, said the Captain, “we will serve you alcohol after you are finished snorkeling.”

Words a Birthday Girl doesn’t like to hear. I’m guessing they didn’t want their passengers pie-eyed. No telling what kind of trouble a skunked-face Snorkeler could encounter. Maybe mistaking a Moray Eel for a harmless Sea Cucumber, or drifting from the protected Bay, catching a rip current, and a one way ticket to Australia. Either scenario would not have a happy ending.

I positioned myself on the Bow, and leisurely extended my legs, gripping the Bow’s netting in one hand, and holding fast to my turquoise baseball cap as the Catamaran skillfully sailed the choppy waters. My tootsies wiggled with delight as whitecaps of all sizes christened the boat, and me. It was more fun than Disneyland’s Space Mountain.

By the time we sailed into Honolua Bay, I considered myself to be an Ole Salty Dog. I was older than I was yesterday. I had just been baptized by salt water. And I am a Dog according to the Chinese Zodiac.

The crew released the steps, and enthusiastically helped each passenger jump or slide into the water. I was in heaven, looking down on Redlip Parrots, Trumpets, and Butterfly fish as they leisurely swan between the Cauliflower Coral. The entertainment went on for a lengthy time before the Captain requested Snorkelers aboard.

The Queen’s Treasure remained anchored in the Bay as guests were encouraged to enjoy countless jumps off the side of the Catamaran. It was a blast being ten-years-old again.

I parked myself on the same spot for the return trip; a glass of Champagne in hand. One of the crew members asked if I would like water? “No thank you”, I replied. I didn’t need water, my cup runneth over with the Ocean’s beauty.

You look pink!” Said a friend. “Yes, you do look pink!” Said another. I was oblivious to their concerns as I continued to sip my bubbly—I was bewitched and beguiled by nature’s magnificence.

By the time we landed on Kaanapali Beach, the gang was relaxed, joyful, and ready for more merriment. We continued our celebration at a popular restaurant on the beach—there was no shortage of laughter, and wine (not a lot of water) at our table.

The “you look pink” observations were periodically injected into the conversation—I ignored them and continued on with the gaiety. But every good party has to come to an end before you fall off your chair—it was time to go home knowing another memorial moment had been created, and would be talked about for years to come.

As I glided through the front door of my home, I passed a large mirror hanging on the hallway wall. I took a double take…who was that person in the mirror? And then I realized it was me! My face looked like it had been graffitied several shades of red.


Then the tears arrived, there was no going back to the beginning of the day when I should have drenched my body in suntan lotion. I had cooked my own goose, and I’m a Vegan!

I was a dehydrated, Sun-Poisoned-Ole-Salty-Dog. I stayed in bed for two days. Every exposed part of my body was red and crispy—a feeling a lobster would understand or a piece of fried bacon.

It took over two weeks for my skin to recover as layer after layer peeled. Good thing I didn’t have to travel; the airlines would not have allowed me to get on board for fear I had some rare, tropical, creeping crud disease. My vanity required I stay at home until I was presentable.

Moral of the story:
Be fearless! But don’t be stupid, which I have proven is easier said than done.

In Peace, Love, and Adventure (and a lot of Environmentally Friendly Suntan Lotion!)

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Like What You Read? You May Like… 

Heart Spirit





Screen Shot 2016-08-28 at 6.14.19 PM

“Heart Spirit” (is a watercolor and ink conversation between Mary Jane Casey and Beach T. Weston)


By Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
August 2016

The heart is an amazing organ. A biological wonder! It’s purpose is to pump the blood through the body; providing tissue with oxygen and nutrients, and eliminate wastes. To have a healthy body we need a healthy heart.

We also need to have another kind of healthy heart. The heart I’m speaking of is not an organ, it is an intangible presence. You’ve heard expressions such as, heart and soul, get to the heart of the matter, and my fav, follow your heart.

These expressions refer to what I call, the Heart Spirit, or as Mom use to say, “Listen to your little voice.” The Heart Spirit is more like an inner-guidance system. A quiet, secret message you receive from the Universe, God or whatever your personal beliefs. The Universe privately contacts you; giving instruction, advice, and enlightenment.

The Heart Spirit keeps us on a smoother path—less rocks and annoying pot-holes. Listening to the Heart Spirit attracts tranquility and fulfillment—it’s brilliance is constantly feeding us direction:

I recently attended an event that was a challenge for me. I spent months prior contemplating my attendance. Should I? Shouldn’t I? These questions swarmed through my mind daily for months. The Universe subtly kept trying to get my attention, but I was too busy letting negative scenarios take over my thoughts.

Thank goodness for Divine persistence. I finally relaxed, and let my Heart Spirit direct me to the right path. It was not easy. A bit painful at times. However, I’m glad I attended. Everything turned out well minus a few (bumps and hiccups). In the end, I was rewarded with much happiness and enlightenment. The results from choosing to attend is why I sincerely believe that every message, every feeling from the Heart Spirit is designed to help us stay on track. To help us live a happy, healthy life.

Let’s compare the Heart Spirit to the internet:

When your internet is connected properly, and working at high speed it’s easy and fun to move around cyber space. Watch videos, chat and send messages to friends and family. And you are free to share your unique, one-of-a-kind, Selfie.

Anger, frustration, a sense of isolation, and a lot of naughty words consume our energy when we loose connection to the internet—that’s when chaos becomes our counsel.

The same thing happens when the connection to the Heart Spirit fails. All-mayhem-breaks-loose. Our individual compass goes South…we often become confused and make bad decisions.

While writing this column, I tapped into my Heart Spirit and asked how should I complete this piece? How should I finish in a way that would inspire my readers to pleasantly connect to their Heart Spirit.

A whisper said the following:

Have your readers close their eyes, and listen to their body, and not the voices and situations of the world. Every time an unwanted thought appears—tell it to go away! Skedaddle! Hasta la bye-bye!

Let this connection be a time to concentrate only on the body. Ask a question or just be still and let the secret message arrive.

How was your experience?

How did it feel?

Did you receive a message?

No worries if you didn’t, the important thing is you found it to be gratifying, and experienced great moments of peace, for peace is invaluable.

The next time you think of the word heart, please remember you have two hearts, and each should be nurtured and kept strong. Think of them as Soul Mates—one helps complete the other.

In the words of Grandmother Willow, (Pocahontas).
“Listen with your heart, you will understand.”

In Peace, Love and Heart (the little voice within),

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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compassion art copy WM “If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.”   His Holiness The Dalai Lama

by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”  
July 2016

My Mother always said, the three most essential qualities a person can possess is kindness, thoughtfulness, and compassion.

Mom believed, if you follow your heart, a heart full of the three essentials, your life will be happier—your inner-being will be happier. And whether you are on Earth or passed on to the Great-Spirit-In-The-Sky, an earned peace will be a part of your soul…forever.

I have always tried to follow my Mother’s philosophy, and use the three essentials, even during dark moments when I just wanted to jump into the baby-pool-of-anger, and frustration.

Having said that, I believe what saved me during challenging times was one of Mom’s favorite questions:

Do you have compassion for yourself?

I was very young and not quite sure what she meant. Mom would follow by saying, “don’t worry, some day you will.” And she was right.

To quote Oprah’s beloved phrase, “What I know for sure”, is every day, every moment, it’s vitally important to give ourselves compassion.

How many times have you dismissed your own personal needs?

How many times have you denied yourself a little TLC (tender loving care)?

How many times have you conceded to your cry for self-compassion—disregarding it as selfish.

Selfish it is NOT.

Self-compassion truly is crucial for a joyful life. A life of feeling good in your own skin. Gifting yourself compassion gives you confidence and a sense of freedom from emotional chains.

The Dalai Lama teaches, If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion. A trait His Holiness believes can conquer almost anything.

Mom has passed, but I’m guessing she was a student of The Dalai Lama…wouldn’t you agree? And like the Dalai Lama, she practiced self-compassion, and planted innumerable Compassion Seeds, sprinkling them amongst people and situations thought only to be barren.

In honor of the beautiful people that practice Compassion, I think you will like these great questions to ask yourself, friends and co-workers:

What does compassion mean to you? To them?

Do you sprinkle Compassionate Seeds (even when you’d rather give the finger)?

And the best question of all:

Do you have compassion for yourself?

The answers might surprise you, and there is always the chance the answers reveal an extremely unattractive side, but ignorance is not bliss. Whatever the thoughts, I’m sure it will make for an enlightening discussion.

In Kindness, Thoughtfulness, and Compassion
P.S. Mahalo (Thanks) Mom.

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Get Out and Boogie!

disco ball shoes with watermark

Put On Your Dancin’ Shoes
by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
June 2016


I recently attended a Disco Gala. Everyone dressed in Vintage Disco and seriously danced the night away.

What a blast!

A blast from the past!

During the dance, memories of Disco came flooding back to me.

In the late Seventies, my friends and I, whimsically slipped into discothèques. Before every night of dancing, we’d spent at least three hours primping our makeup and hair, trying to imitate our beloved Farrah Fawcett.

Secure we reflected Farrah’s beauty. Fake ID in hand. Off the Angels went to shake-our-booties.

Confident and ready to dance the night away, we peacocked into the discothèque. I flashed my fake ID to the Bouncer, accompanied by a big Farrah smile. The Bouncer returned the smile as I secretly passed the fakie to my friend behind me—each repeated the fakie exchange until the Bouncer gave us his head-nod of approval. It was hilarious! Naive and silly enough to believe the Bouncer had no idea. In our minds we were the Dancing Queens, being fanned by admiring eyes. (I’m chuckling as I write these words).

It truly was a scene from the Iconic film, Stayin’ Alive, starring John Travolta:

In the movie, Travolta’s character and his entourage (dressed in tight-fitting, shiny shirts, bell-bottom, polyester pants, and white boots stylin’ nothing less than a five inch heal), strut though the doors of the discothèque as the mirrored light effects from the Diso Ball boogied across their physiques.

And just like the Stayin’ Alive gang, my friends and I lived for the opportunity to dance the weekends away. The only thing that matter was how good you looked and how well you danced. Completely narcissistic I know, but that was the era—dance all night—sleep the day away—and continue dancing the next night (Saturday night). Then do it all over again the next weekend. Damn we had fun!!!

The Disco era was a time when many of us thought we owned the world (life was our pearl and nothing bad could ever happen). And Disco would forever be the Monarch of dancing.

The Disco Gala allowed me to wear what I refer to as my Disco Ball shoes, and travel back to a time of light hearted entertainment. The Village People were hip and there wasn’t room on the dance floor when Donna Summers sang, Last Dance. And even though discothèques were full of self-admiring prima donnas—it was a time when there was still a bit of innocence left in world—not as much as I remember—but perhaps a bit more than exist today. Of course I’m bias—I was one of those fun-seekers and my sentiment is one of complete love for Disco. Perhaps that is all that matters with nostalgia; happy associations from the past, long gone.

My recommendation is go-nuts-for-nostalgia. Get your groove on. Slip into your dancin’ shoes, and have fun!

In Peace, Love, and in the words of Sly and the Family Stone, “Everybody is a Star”

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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knight kissing princess

by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
May 2016

Tis the lusty month of May.

When everyone should be gay!


Full of joy!

It’s a time when trees are in bloom and flowers have awakened from their winter beds. When lust (not love) hides and waits for the unsuspecting.

One of my favorite Musicals is Camelot where King Arthur and Queen Guenevere host a Castle Gala to welcome Spring. During the celebration, Guenevere sings The Lusty Month of May to entice her Kingdom to go astray. To take a whiff of lust as if it were a potent perfume.

I smell trouble.

As it turned out, Guenevere and Lancelot had plenty of trouble when they decide to have a ding-dong and break King Arthur’s heart.

Merlyn should have used his magic to explain that lust is highly overrated, and is often an ego driven libido on speed—igniting drama and upset just as it did for Lancelot and Guenevere. There was no happy ending, no riding off into the Sunset (more like riding away from being burned at the stake). Their lust simply became, “a fleeting wisp of glory”.

Personally, I prefer the word passion, for when used as enthusiasm for something you do, it makes life exciting! People, the colors of the world become more vibrant. Waking up in the morning is a pleasure. Whereas lust, consumes.

Imagine a box of delicious chocolates or the best damn Margarita (B.D.M.) you ever tasted. You want more…right!? You keep eating the chocolates until you feel sick and drink the B.D.M. until your bottom slides off the barstool.

Lust is short-term, but passion, or love for something is a lifetime joy. An adventure, where the rewards are limitless. Passion enables you to inspire others, to explore new wonders, to enhance your character. Passion keeps your mind youthful. Playful.

I encourage everyone to find their passion(s). Art and classic films are two of my great loves. Art allows me to express myself freely and without judgement. Classic films take me away to magical places. Places I can revisit again and again—to eras long before my time.

The question is…will you be a bit naughty or be set free by the brilliance of passion?

I’m opting for freedom during The Lusty Month of May, for I know the splendor of passion will never let me down. Devotion to something I love will always fill my glass to the brim.

In Peace, love, and delightful passion (and possibly a whiff of Guenevere’s potent perfume)

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Below is a 2:17, cheeky version of “The Lusty Month of May”. If you can make it through the first minute of Guenevere portraying a tart, you might as well go for the entire fun! I warn you, it is kind of a contagious song. You might find yourself strolling in nature, humming with every step.



by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
April 2016

When you have done-yourself-wrong or have been done-wrong-to (forgiving, “letting go”) can be a challenge. Sometimes no matter how hard you try to “let go”—regret, and anger inevitably creep into the mix of emotions. And let’s face it, regret is a word with a doggie-downer tone. It’s also a word that is probably unavoidable during some point in our life.

They” say we must release regret…let it fly like a peaceful dove being set free from its cage. We must be strong and move past disappointment, and sad remorse.

Easy said, but not easily done.

Over ninety-five percent of us have at some time fallen into this tragic state—where frustration consumes you, and condemning self-examination leads to a mass of one-on-one, soul bearing conversations. When the why question plagues your day: Why didn’t I make better choices? Why wasn’t I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?

The why questions are usually accompanied by the if only. If only I’d been wiser. If only I was more confidence. If only I hadn’t let ridiculous people hurt me or use me. And then we return to the why. Why didn’t I stand up for myself? Why…if only…why…if only…why…if only…

Our regrets turn into lava streams, flowing fast and hot, fresh from the volcanic eruptions in our minds. An Island’s lava flows eventually find a path to the Sea where they fizzle and expand the size and strength of the Island. In a perfect world our disappointments would be like lava, and fizzle—leaving behind a stronger mind and body. In a perfect world.

While most regrets are not funny, thank goodness once in a while a regret can be humorous…after the fact of course:

  • Why didn’t I drink Shirley Temples instead of five Cosmopolitans. I might not have gotten married at the drive-thru Elvis Chapel window singing Viva Las Vegas!

  • Why did I have to eat the entire pie!? Not two or three pieces, but the entire pie!

  • Why did I go swimming when there was a beach sign posted: swim at your own risk, gray water. The picture of the fish with a large fin should have been the give-a-way. If I had taken heed, I might not have a nibble scar on my big toe!

Personally, I’m a stew-pot, and “letting go” of regret is not easy for me. I’m not one to turn the other cheek, but I do believe in loving yourself and seeking a healthy release for anger.

In the spirit of finding peace, I’ve decided to invite a few good friends over for a “letting go” party. I will ask my friends to write on a piece of paper their regret(s)—they can choose to share or not share. This will be followed by ceremonially burning the piece of paper (fire extinguisher in hand)—releasing the burden to the Great Spirit in the sky.

If my friends need additional therapy, I will suggest joining a kick boxing class. It’s good exercise and almost way better than kicking yourself or the fool who done-ya-wrong. I said almost.

In Peace and Love (and a good kick in the patootie)

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Don’t Ya Just Love a Good Ghost Story?

BOO! gost pic6

Don’t Ya Just Love a Good Ghost Story?
by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”
March 2016

While this particular column may have no profound meaning—it will be a source of spooky entertainment. For who doesn’t love a good ghost story? It’s an imaginative story told to me many moons ago, and has remained forever in my index of EErie and hair-raising tales. Completely untrue I’m sure, but then again, maybe not.

“It’s time for a chilling tale”, announced my thespian friend.

Actors can exaggerate at times. Being one, I can appreciate the necessity of hammy-embellishment. However, this particular Ham-spian was over the top when he began to tell a ghostly story complete with unsettling sounds, and unexplainable sightings.

“It was late summer,” he began. “I was hiking alone, deep in the woods—being one with nature. Birds trilled from tree tops, and pine needles crunched under my boots. I was charmed by the rustling leaves (announcing an early fall) when I noticed about five-hundred feet from the hiking trail, flickers of gold light streamed through a grove of Pine trees. I was enticed by curiosity and proceeded to follow the source of strange illumination. As I entered the grove, the trees seemed prudently planted—as if arranged to skillfully lead me to a dilapidated, two-story house. Faded green shutters dangled from corroded hinges, and blocks of wood shingles shifted in the breeze. The old house telepathically invited me to enter. I stepped onto the rickety porch and the front door opened as if I was being welcomed, but by whom!? There was no one there…”

At this point in the tale, everyone who had gathered around Ham-spian was completely engaged. We knew he was full of it, but the story was damn intriguing and sucked us into the moment of story-telling-reality. A place where part of you knows it couldn’t possibly be true, and the other part, I want to believe in fairy tales, believes it to be fact.

“…I entered the living room…the couch was covered in a stained yellow sheet, and tables looked as if they had never been dusted. There were no footprints or fingerprints, only decaying books and a broken lantern. As I continued to investigate, the upstairs floorboards began to creak. The sound near to a moan. I shouted, “IS THERE SOMEONE THERE?” No answer. The creaking traveled above my head and onto the stairwell landing. And as it did…a whoosh of cold air needled my skin. And then…an unearthly growl reverberated off the walls.”

“What the hell did you do!?”

“I ran! Of course. As fast as I could! Out the front door and back through the tree lined path. My heart has never beat so fast. It was damn weird. But, for some reason…I’m not sure why…I came to a dead halt…as if my feet were stuck in quicksand. I turned to the house, and what I saw in the second-story window you won’t believe…” 

There was utter silence. You could have heard a strand of hay hit the floor.

Red eyes! Two…glowing…redeyes. Ahhh Woooooo!!!” Ham-spian howled—his fingers making exaggerated clawing jesters.

Chances are Ham-spian’s story was a wheelbarrow of horse manure, although he swears to this day that he saw the red eyes, and that they often haunt his dreams.

Yeah right.

But then again, many say ghost and hauntings really exist.

I shall explore more of this phenomenon in columns to come. But for now—next time you sit around a campfire, roasting your vegetarian hot dogs, listen to the sounds of the night as you tell stories of ghosts and spirits past.

In Peace, Love and a few EEECHS! and BOOS!

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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