The Unexpected New Season: Joy

 

This weekend, the unexpected happened.  My husband, who has never been seriously ill in all of our thirty-four years together, who never needed to see a doctor for anything but routine labs, died.  

In the midst of the month when I've had big emotions, when I've written and have upcoming posts already written about big emotions, this comes into my life.  Nothing you've read prior to this and nothing you read after this for the month of March is about the most mysterious thing of all, and that is Joy.

Yesterday I was a married woman.  Today I am a widow.

John gave us so much joy the last day of his life. In 24 hours, he had been diagnosed, he knew he was dying and likely that day.  He made every one of us who were privileged to share his last day on earth the most joyous day we could have had.   We laughed. We cried.  We were given instructions and wisdom, comfort and encouragement.

And to a person, all seven of us in that room, some family, some friends, all people who loved him dearly, remarked on what this man we loved was doing for us on his final day on earth.  

In the last 25 hours, I have laughed more than I've cried.  Not because I don't miss him and won't miss him.  He was my very best friend in the world and there will be none who can replace him.  He was my love.  He was my greatest encourager and the source of the best solace on this earth.  But his last gift to me, to us, was his natural loving JOY of living, JOY at being ready to transition to the other side, JOY that people he loved dearly had come to be with him and see him off.

My husband had marked ideas of how things should be in my future.  He gave me rules to live by when he was gone.

1.  Don't grieve like your life has ended.  It hasn't.  And you know I'm in heaven.  I'll see you there.

2.  Don't be like those widowed church ladies.

3.  Don't let anyone run you over.  You're strong.  

4.  If you can, go on a trip. 

5.  For God's sake, do not move your mother into the house.

I have been a most privileged woman.  My husband looked like an ordinary man in a rather ordinary body, but he was so much more.  Hundreds of messages have come my way, phone calls, texts...That very ordinary and modest man was the most extraordinary person I have ever met.  And HE LOVED ME.  

And I can only feel joy over that fact.

Big Emotions Pt. 1: Anger

As a child growing up in what at best could be described as an angry household, anger was the most punishable offense we children could commit. Looking back now, I find that ironic to say the least.  Why should it be so?

It was how anger was handled in our home that seemed rather messed up.  No slamming of a bedroom door, no raging at the adult who was calling us out on our actions.  That part was reasonable.  What was less reasonable was the expectation that we'd show no emotion at all, never admit or own to any anger at any time.  Injustices were to be suffered in silence, without speaking up.  If we did, then we were punished physically as well as with verbal and emotional abuse.  We were meant to simply accept the situation and immediately correct our actions to suit the controlling adult.  All anger you see, was seen as disrespect.  And disrespect was always followed by punishment.

What we learned was that all anger was bad.  As a result, one of us grew up believing that the only acceptable way was to show no anger whatsoever, no matter what occurred.  Another of us made anger a way of life.  To this day he is chronically angry at every one over everything.  And the middle child fell somewhere between my method of showing no anger and the other's method of blowing up by using self-abuse, often pulling stupid stunts that could result in loss of life.  We all three were damaged by the denial of our right to feel anger.

As an adult, I have struggled to deal with anger, my own and anyone else's.  When my children were upset and angry about a punishment, I allowed them to express it freely.  I lay ground rules for them to follow.  They were allowed to express their rage (i.e. screams and name calling and general fussing which usually followed a reprimand they disliked) by going to their room or outdoors and venting that first flush of rage through a pillow or going outdoors.  No throwing of items was allowed.  No destruction of inanimate objects was allowed.    I asked only that if they were going to call me names, they do so where I could not possibly hear it. Otherwise, it would be grounds for punishment.  When they were more calm and less volatile, they could come talk to me about why they were upset.  But the first flush of anger, when one is most likely to strike out with the intent of hurting another, that was to be worked out alone.   

Now, I'm not by any means saying this was the best method, but to me it seemed the most reasonable means of getting through that first expression of anger and upset where disrespect was most likely to occur.  I did and do believe that first and foremost a child is to treat an adult with respect.  I also happen to believe that as an adult it is my duty to treat a child with respect.  And that means honoring what they are feeling as real.  And apologizing sincerely when I'm in the wrong.   

But to return to my own anger issues, burying my anger led to severe depression.  Anger turned inward usually does express itself in deep depression.  Anger can be a scary emotion to deal with, especially when one has never been allowed to express it in any manner. 

It's unhealthy to suppress anger constantly.  For both the one suppressing it and those who are in relationship with you, it proves to be terribly unhealthy.   By withholding the expression of real anger from a partner or friend, you're essentially lying to them.  Seldom do friendships survive the volcanic flow of anger when it is finally released from a seemingly unruffled friend.  Sometimes, intimate relationships can't handle it either.  And the result is that we, who don't understand how to handle our own emotional rage, retreat back into the shell of depression with the feeling that we were wrong to ever express ourselves.

Years ago, depressed and chronically ill, my first husband was called to return to duty during the Gulf War.  He blithely went off to camp and left me at home with two children, three months of past due bills and a seriously overdrawn bank account.  He never once sent me any money.  Resources for help were unknown to me. Now I understand that I might have gone to the base and gotten information and help but at that time I didn't know that I could.   He mentioned how much money he was getting, of course, and wrote happy letters home telling me how he was spending it, too.  

Admittedly my marriage was already on its deathbed and death rales were about all that indicated it had any life at all.  I knuckled down and did all I could to manage on my lone salary.  My 'have to, must do' instincts kicked in hard and by the time he returned I'd paid off the very large overdraft at the bank, caught up all the bills save two that he had to provide active military information for refigured interest rates.  I kept the electricity and water and phone on, admittedly a state in which we were never accustomed to having all at once.  We had propane gas to heat with, too... Again, not a state of affairs we were accustomed to live in.   I kept the car fueled and fed us and I did all this on my small salary.

But anger burned deep inside and when he returned home unexpectedly, the War being declared over and done in 8 weeks' time, I knew that whatever we'd had was done and over.  And when he accused me of not caring enough to pay all the bills while he was away, I quietly and firmly told him the marriage was over and I packed up the kids and left.   I took refuge at Granny's, sleeping on her couch.  Less than a week later, on my way to work, I was hit by a drunk driver. From January until August, I survived biting back all the upsets and simply did what I had to do in order to get physically healed and find a place to live and try to make a life for myself and my children.

Things were not easy.  There were many people determined to cow me and shame me. There were many people who freely expressed their anger at me, for what I supposedly put them through, though heaven help me, why I was responsible for all their emotions is far beyond me. I kept my gaze forward and my lips, and feelings, compressed and simply got on with it.

Until the day I broke.  

My car broke down.  It was a recently purchased car and I'd called the dealership to ask for help explaining that I'd already made two rather large costly repairs on the car within a week or so of purchasing.  I asked that they tow the car and make the next set of repairs, at least in part so that I'd have a running car in order to get to work.  The person I spoke with was less than nice to begin with.  He became insulting as I continued to persist in asking for some sort of help.  When he expressed his personal opinion of me, though I had never met him even once, it was the moment I finally broke open and the anger spewed.  I let him have it with all I had in me.  And when I was done, I grabbed a broom and swept my parent's home from front to back and side to side.  When my mother dared say something snarky, I let her have it as well.    

I'd had ENOUGH and too much already, you see.  There were no more places left to stuff my anger and frustrations, much less all that worry in the six months of hell I'd just been through and was still going through.  Anger had finally shown me that I had boundaries, and they'd all been crossed too many times.

Anger also fueled me to make some hard changes.  I refused to accept some of the previously accepted (although unacceptable) behaviors directed toward me.  I began to fight back and to rale at the outrages that assailed me from every side.  I planted my feet and took a stand and didn't back down.  

I dropped t friends that told me I was wrong to leave my husband and relationships that I'd held dear for years were let go as well as I realized that nearly all of them were toxic.  Anger had stripped the blinders from my eyes.

That first dramatic fissure of anger was not the cure, however.  

Afterwards I felt ill, physically ill.  To be honest, I'd said some shameful things.  I'd reduced myself to the level of some of those individuals I'd been tolerating in my life.  And that made me angry, too.

I had to find a better way of coping with my anger than shoving it all behind a hidden door.  I had to learn to express anger in a way that allowed me to hold my dignity, honor my personal boundaries and use the anger to fuel the changes I needed to make.  Instincts are always to resort to the old behaviors, the ones I'd relied upon for too many years, the ones that hadn't worked but with which I'd been comfortable because it was familiar.  

Fast forward twenty or so years.  Menopause, a health scare that had nearly ended in death three times, and I found myself starting all over learning to deal with my anger.  Again, it looked like cutting relationships with people who, painfully, were family members.    It looked like taking time to dig deep and assess all the reasons I felt angry.  It meant having hard and scary conversations with my husband about behaviors that made me feel decreased in our relationship.  To his credit, he was horrified to realize that I had those feelings at all, and he quietly went about correcting his behavior.  I learned to speak frankly to my children when it was important that I be honest.   I learned that peace at any cost often exacts a far higher cost than venting rightly the anger that needed to be expressed.

I learned to be honest first and foremost with myself and to sort out my anger.  Were my feelings based on current events, or past ones that echoed through my head?  Were the people who triggered those feelings acting in the same ways that past figures had?    Sometimes it wasn't actually anger but grief disguised as anger.  Grief over life changes and circumstances, over my sense of helplessness or frustration in helping myself or another to cope with life issues and losses.  

To be honest, right now I'm going through some things, memories that seem to be intent on rising to the surface and making me focus on my past.  What I want at this stage of life is to never have to review painful past moments again, not even one more time.  And yet, many of those things have come up repeatedly until I realized I had to stop and look and examine why I was still angry, still grieving.  I'm angry over the intrusion of those things once again.  I'm angry that they still hurt.  I'm angry that they still cause grief.  I'm angry that I feel anger.  And that's the truth of it all.

I cannot tell you even now that I'm on top of anger when it occurs in my life.  I cannot tell you that it doesn't frighten me, though I've tried hard to understand and accept that it can and will occur.  I have tried to see it in a new light, and I've been learning how to best express it.  Often, I turn to writing first which has almost always been my greatest sorting out tool.  Once expressed on paper, then I can be surer that what I will express to another is free of vitriol and is a clearer expression of the root cause of my anger.

But the biggest lesson of all has been that anger is not so much a stop sign as a caution sign telling me to slow down in this place and discover why I should proceed with caution.  I have learned that anger is never meant to deter me from a course as much as to ensure that I remain on the right course for my life and healthy relationship with others.

later notes:  As I was looking for an illustration for this post, I stumbled upon a lot of memes advocating the repression of anger, the warning of anger being a destroying emotion.  It is my experience that repressed anger was the real destroyer.   We all have to discover our own truths.  For me, repressed anger was silently killing me.    It was an indicator gauge that I ignored and to my own detriment.  

You will not be punished for your anger.  You will be punished by your anger. ~ Buddha

 

Going In Circles

 

The other day I was listening to a sermon, a very good sermon I might add, but also a difficult one.  It was difficult because it opened up within me a world of painful memories.  The pastor spoke about his childhood, a disappointing childhood, a hard childhood and how even at school he found himself compared too often to another boy, one whose family life was stable, who hadn't the things against him that the pastor was experiencing in his childhood life.  The pastor spoke of his hurt, his loss of hope, the sense of never being enough.  Indeed, not just feeling he would never be enough but being told by grown-ups in his life that he wasn't enough.  Not smart enough.  Not responsible enough. Not good enough.  Not stable enough.  

Inside, I had so much turmoil.  Pain and hurt mingled with a bit of anger at myself that I wasn't done with all the hurt in my own life.  Just when I thought I'd come to a place of peace, I found I'd merely circled the mountain again instead of moving on to the promised land filled with the balm of healing from all my hurts.  I resented that these emotions felt so strong even now at this late age.  I wondered if I would ever cease to feel the agony of not being enough... I felt betrayed by all of my emotions.  

I had some hard dreams over the next few nights.  Dreams in which I was always behind, always struggling to do what others expected me to do and failing repeatedly at those tasks.  I had dreams in which I was late, woefully late, and yet I was struggling so hard to catch up and get going that I woke tensed with the effort I'd expended in the dreams.  

During the daylight, I tamped it all back down neatly into place and went about my day, but night revealed how far I had to go to reach the state of healed.

And then I stumbled upon a quote on Pinterest that was revelatory.

Healing happens in circles, not lines.   You'll return to old places with new eyes.

The moment I read those words I understood why I kept coming back around that mountain.  I wasn't returning to the exact time of hurt.  That was past. But I was seeing it from a higher place.  From a higher intellectual, emotional and spiritual level.  

I'd forgiven myself and others.  I'd experienced the grief as a child while it was fresh and as an adult when it was beginning to feel stale, who understood even more than the child how painful it was to be there in that place.  I'd learned more about how to protect myself, and at the same time, how to be vulnerable to the right people so that healing could continue.  I'd learned to grieve the losses and celebrate the gains.  I'd let go of bitterness and regret.  I'd come to accept that it had shaped me in as many positive ways as it had negatively.   And I'd learned how to soothe that child that wanted to cry and weep now, shedding all the tears she'd swallowed.  That unhappy child has a fierce protector in the woman I've grown into over the years.  I've become who I am because of her woundedness and her willingness to heal.  

I was a little more healed than the last trip around the mountain. 

Growth is circular, too. 

Promises to Myself, Part 2

As I write, it is the first week of March.  I restarted The Artist's Way about two weeks ago.  It is my second time through the book.   To date, I have yet to go on a single artist date. I'll wager by the time this post is published I'll still not have gone on one. The dates are meant to be a mere two or three hours carved out of a week, and it's supposed to benefit the Inner Child, the one who is the true Artist Within.  What's more, I made a promise to myself for March that I'd go on one Artist Date each week, as the author requested.  I don't want to break a promise to myself but by the same token, I don't want to go on an Artist Date either.

What is the issue?

I've been trying to sort it out in my mind for three weeks now.  There is more than mere stubborn resistance on my part, though I'll own there is some of that in it as well.  

The grown-up me has issued all the routine excuses.  "Too far.  No money to spend.  Haven't got the time."  

I live in a rural area.  Very rural.  To visit a bookshop or coffeeshop or to purchase art supplies, etc., I would need to drive nearly 45 miles one way.    If I wanted to visit a museum, etc., or art gallery, it would be even further.  These are the sorts of 'dates' suggested in the book for Artist's Dates.  And they do sound lovely!  But reality is that it would take a substantial time commitment each week if I were to embark on doing any of these, far more than 2 hours. 

 As for money, that is a habitual excuse.  I do have the funds to do any of those things should I want to.  I recognize that excuse as a statement I make out of habit rather than it being a valid reason.

Time is a consideration.  I'm already committed to keeping house, preparing meals, doing outdoor work, and setting aside time daily to write.  Something's going to have to slide off that plate if I start taking a half day to leave home and 'play'.  I have a husband who has been pretty darned good about my going off into my workroom for a few hours each day to write.  But honestly, he's not too keen on having me gone once a week for hours on end, too, while he sits home alone.  And just as honestly, I'm none too keen on it either!  We spent far too much of our first 28 years together balancing his odd work schedules and missed out on a lot of time together that many couples might take for granted.  

So, here's what I've worked out I'd like to do.  

Once a week, I'll take half day off from all but the very routine things (make the bed, rinse the dishes, make easy meals) and then I have the rest of the day to do whatever I please: craft, decorate a room for the new season, paint a picture or furniture, do a jigsaw, read, work on genealogy, sew, whatever pleases me.  Occasionally I will do one of the suggested activities in the book, but mostly I will be home doing what pleases me.  

Today, I have freshened the living room decor.  I did not clean the room, though I did dust a few surfaces.  I rearranged the piles of books on the shelves, moved a few pieces about, changed out a few things and now the room looks lovely and ready for Spring.   

I set up the lamp I decoupaged yesterday.  It's a rough finish but it's pretty.  I could seal it with one of the water-based urethanes but just now I think I'll leave it as it is, simply because at present, if I suddenly change my mind, I could easily soak off the decoupaged paper.

I've read about eight chapters of A Court of Thorn and Roses, played with styling my new haircut.  When I'm done here, I'm going to flip through one of those new magazines and clip a few images to use in future collages, then I'm going to print out some images to use on my March journal pages.   I'm going to sit down and do some genealogy research.  In between activities, I'll read further chapters of my book.  I might work on a Sudoku puzzle.  

What's more, I've felt absolutely no reluctance or resistance to allot myself this time to do these activities.  

Will I give myself a whole day again next week?  Probably not.  It's Spring and there's much to do outdoors before the pollen gets too heavy, but I can certainly foresee allowing myself a free afternoon of play one weekday each week without fail.  And that's how I'm going to keep this particular promise to me.  

P.S.  I have found a desk chair for my room and currently have it in my cart.  I just want to look around a little more and be sure I've chosen wisely for myself but by the time this post is published, I'll likely have had the chair for a couple of weeks.  And that's one more promise to myself Done!

Spring Fever

 

The birds started it.  I went outdoors yesterday morning, and they were fairly screeching in their excitement to start their housekeeping.  

I have been a dynamo this morning and though I've only been up about 3 hours at this point in the day, I have accomplished a great deal.  I've only just sat down to have a late breakfast and to sit here and brainstorm my way into this new season ahead...I am ready for a fresh wind to fill my sails for Spring.

We are on the cusp of a new season.  I am ready for the changes ahead.

Today I've not only tackled my Morning Pages (first thing in the morning yet!) wherein I admitted I was bored, so bored!  Then I brainstormed ways to not be bored and got busy. I've already made good on three of my promises to myself for March.  And I've tackled housework and have all the basics of a Monday house blessing done.

What am I bored with?  I'm bored with my play time.  I'm bored with our meals.  I'm bored with my wardrobe.  I'm bored with the way the house looks.  I'm bored with some of my creative pursuits.  I'm ready to make things fresh for this new season, in all the everyday things.

Meals:  Just as I begin to long for the hearty slow simmering dishes in fall and winter long before it's even started cooling, here I am at the end of late winter starting to long for a bit of Spring on my plate.  Asparagus and strawberries are coming into season just now which is a help.  

But it's not just the seasonal produce I want.  I cook differently in different seasons.  I make different soups and different entrees than I do in the cooler part of the year.  I want salads more often.  I'm less inclined to heavy hearty meals and to meals that are a comfort food but also light.

I'm going to flip through my recipe notebook and my cookbooks and look for recipes to make once more or to try.

I want to streamline meals a little more, especially breakfast.  I find that to be the most difficult meal of the day.  I like breakfast and so does my husband.  But darn this business of cooking a big meal first thing in the day and then cleaning up behind it and then having to start the next!  It's too much.  Nor am I inclined to rely on cold cereal and toast.  I want something more.  It's finding the balance that stumps me and I can't be expected to have a balanced frame of mind first off in the morning while I'm still nursing my first cup of coffee.

I'm going to make some things ahead to streamline that process and allow me to have the sort of things I crave but don't want to take time to make from scratch at the very beginning of the day.   I think that will help.  If I have things made and frozen and I can easily thaw overnight and heat the next morning.  That will allow me the peaceful easy start to the morning I most want and the sort of breakfast I enjoy best. 

Creative/Play Time:  I've enjoyed junk journaling my way through each month.  My other idea of just making a junk journal with little or no purpose...I'm going to back off that for a bit.  I'm going to set my coloring aside, as well.  

I think this month I'm going to buy myself a jigsaw puzzle to put together.  I've been threatening to do it for two months now.  It's time.  It will give me a fresh interest for my downtime.  And because I find jigsaw puzzles to be a meditative sort of task, one I'm forced to slow down to do, it will pay off in terms of slowing my mind and allowing me time to be more contemplative.  And just possibly more inspired.

I'm going to try my hand at collages, too.  I've been just longing to work with collages once more and kept saying, "But I haven't any magazines to work with..."  And then three arrived in the mail!  Somehow, I've been signed up to receive two different subscriptions.  Companies do that now and then, to swell their subscriber lists in the hopes that you'll subscribe.  They also sometimes bundle one magazine subscription with another.  

However, I came to have them, I'm happy to say, that I now have magazines I might work with.  I can combine images with some of my papers and such I've collected for junk journaling and make collages.

I haven't mentioned, but I've also got a small sketchbook in which I do various paintings, doodling, and drawings each month. Sometimes utterly random, sometimes following prompts, sometimes with themes.  I don't share it because my efforts are all very amateur, but it is a fun bit of playtime for me and because I know I'm not good, I can relax and not worry about being perfect.  And sometimes I find myself surprised at good I can be at something random.

I'm going to designate my weekends as genealogy days.  I tend to try to avoid writing on those two days unless I am unusually inspired because I can easily make writing hard work rather than enjoy it.  But I'll also push off genealogy research because I don't have time to get lost.  Well, I've plenty of time to lose myself on a weekend!  So, I'll return to making the weekend my family history time.

Wardrobe:  I think just I can now swap out the heavier sweaters and blouses with some of the lighter things that are suited to layering for cooler days or wearing singly for really warm ones.  

It's time to admit that the things I didn't wear this winter just might not be needed in my wardrobe at all.  I find that it's not always what we add to our wardrobe, but what we subtract from it that changes our opinion of it.  Suddenly I'm not faced with all the things it's too warm too wear, or that I obviously don't like to wear but the things that I do.   I feel less like I need something new and can better see the possibilities in using what I have instead.

One of my promises to myself this month is to set up new outfits.  I'll go ahead and play with the things in my closet to create new to me outfits.  I'll try new color combinations, pairing accessories with pieces I've not worn them with before, altering how I wear some pieces, etc.  

And I'll be better able to access what it is I do need in order to make my wardrobe work doubly hard this season and next.

House:  It's not the routine cleaning that has me bored.  It's the decor.  

It's time to freshen things up a little in the rooms we live in. In autumn and winter, I tend to accessorize heavily and use warmer, richer colors.  In Spring, I want to have a little less, go a little lighter

I've already started thinking about what I want to change.  Just as with my wardrobe, it's the subtraction that makes it easier to see what I have.  Fortunately, I seldom buy anything.  I've a choice of items I rotate in and out again and they always seem fresh to me because I've not been looking at them for years upon years.  

One other thing I can do to bring a bit of freshness to my home is to repaint the main entry doors.  I've had a color chosen for a couple of years. I purchased one of those sticky backed samples to try it out.   I think I can safely say that I really like the color.  I need only a buy a quart of paint.  That seems affordable.  The job will take less than an afternoon to do both doors.    I think it's time to get it done.

My mind is running away with possibilities already.  I've just seen how I want to begin.

Now I'm ready to get started on my little life glow up for spring... 

Unreasonable, Impractical Me

 

As a daydreamy sort of child, I often made the mistake of sharing the fantasies in my head.  "Oh, Terri," someone would say, "be reasonable!"   I didn't stop daydreaming.  I did stop sharing my dreams.

As a young adult, living an all too ordinary life and still daydreaming of many things, I once voiced my thoughts out loud to a friend.  "Oh, Terri," she said, "You're always such a romantic.  You're not at all practical."

And another time, when a series of tough things happened, I'd spoken out loud all the blessing I saw.  When I was finished with my recitation, I looked at the person I was with and saw a look of utter disgust on that face.  "That's just like you altogether!  The world falls apart and you have to be the optimist telling me why it's not so bad!  You have no concept of reality at all, do you?"

Reasonable. Practical. Realist. Those qualities were considered the wise ones to own.  Not a daydreamer or a romantic.  

So, I became reasonable.  I lay aside the daydreams, and the idealism.  I worked hard at being all the right things: responsible, cautious, practical, logical, strong, stoic, able. I was all those things.  

While others had the luxury of laying down in their troubles, crying into their pillow and raging at what life had dealt them, I packed up my troubles and got on with it.  When others shirked responsibility, I picked it up and carried it with my own lot.  When others wanted nothing more than to be petted and cared for, I did the petting and caring.  When others dreamed, I encouraged them, but in the back of my throat was a lump made up of all the dry dusty bits leftover from my own dreams, the scratchy bits of lost romance and the brittle bracken of optimism.  

I worked hard at doing the right thing, at being the better person, picking up the pieces I didn't break.  I tried to please everyone and pleased no one.

And when bad things happened, I kept my head down and didn't look for the silver linings on those heavy clouds.  I knew better. I had to be the realist, not the optimist.

Inside I was a quivering jelly of anxiety mixed with anger and deep depression.  I nearly killed myself being what I wasn't.  Hanging too many dreams up in the 'never, not even someday' closet hurt.  If others had the right to dream, why oh, why hadn't I?

One day I woke up and realized that not one of those old dreams fit.  Like so many ball dresses packed away for too long, moths, rust and time had done a world of damage.  And once that closet of dreams was emptied out, I found that there was nothing to put into it.  I had no more dreams.  I was too tired, too worn, too weary and sorrow of sorrows, too old.  

I'm here to declare that I've had enough of being what I am not.  

I want to be unreasonable.  I want to be the romantic daydreamer.  I want to consider the impractical things.  I want to walk barefoot in the rain.  I want to stop in the midst of doing dishes and go write down the poem budding in my brain.  I want to pick up a book and read until my eyes need a rest.  I want to lie down responsibilities and take off one day or two (in a row!) and just do the things I most want to do even if meals don't get made or dishes done or if someone else has an expectation that my time is theirs to spend at will.   

I want to soar and fly, to swim and dance and walk about as though I were made of the breath of the God who made me, instead of mere dirt and mud that somehow struggled to life.

I want to live the romantic life, the pretty life, the lovely life.  The practical life is useful, like stained dishcloths, but don't the pretty, new, impractical, snowy white ones make doing dishes more of a pleasure?  Morning coffee in a pretty mug, or a China cup, not the old mug with scratched paint and stained interior that's 'good enough' tastes better to me.   A vase of flowers on the edge of the kitchen sink makes things brighter...I know this is true because I've begun making it a habit to keep a bouquet there.

I want to walk outdoors at night and gaze at the miracle of the stars.  I want to wake in the morning and listen to the singing of the birds instead of starting chores right away.  And to stop at any time and simply stand in the sun and absorb its glorious warmth.  

I want to play the lead in my own life and not the lesser supporting roles.

And most of all, I want to dream again.  Dream of what I still might do.  It's not too late.  I'm not too old.  I know, because I keep getting these glimpses of things I might do.  Like jumping in the car and driving all across the state or the States.  Or spending a month at the beach and never leaving the condo area.  Or putting in a pool and swimming every day.  Or running away to that little house I used to dream of, the one tucked in the hills, where there's room for only me, and books and has a bathtub that sits under the stars...

I may never live those dreams, but at least I have them to call my own.  And just claiming them as mine means that they might come true...I'm optimistic you see!

I've got just this one life, and the damned thing is dwindling away rather quickly.  I want to live it.  I've wasted enough of it being all I was told to be by everyone else.  I want to be me.  Independent, romantic, impractical, lovely me.

The Value of Mistakes

 

I've been working with my grandson Isaac over the last few weeks.  He's just turned nine.  He has a computer-based series of lessons he must do each day after school.  Each week is geared towards something they are currently learning at school in both Math and English language arts.

This week, we both got stumped by a lesson on prepositional objects.  The computer program he uses is designed to tell you when you get an incorrect answer and explain in detail why your reasoning was at fault as well as showing the correct answer and the reason why its correct.

Promises Made for March

 

Promises...Oh, how I struggle to keep those I make to myself!  So instead of making goals or focusing on only how I might work hard this month I am going to focus on keeping the promises I'll make for myself in March.  I am not going to lock myself into keeping every single one, but I'm going to focus on keeping as many as I can or at least making an attempt to start these things. That's my one goal for the month: make good on my own promises!

The "Real" Authentic Life

 

Recently, a friend who has been encouraging me triggered a load of emotion: angst, anger, and shame.  Did he set out to do any of those things?  Not at all.  He merely asked a simple question, meant to be an encouragement, a gentle shove to what he perceives is the next natural step with my writing.  And it IS the next step, but I've been hesitating for too long on the brink. 

I resented the question mightily.  And that forced me to stop and examine a whole load of stuff I've been shoving into the dark closets to be dealt with later...sort of like that pile of mending and ironing I haven't attended to that is growing into a ridiculous sized pile.

The Mean Girl

 

I wrote last month about the Inner Critic, whom I called I.C.  Karla commented on the post and stopped me in my tracks.  "The Mean Girl" she called I.C.  And I knew from the chills that ran up my arm she had absolutely named exactly who that critic was.

Me.  I'm the Mean Girl.

Random Thoughts: Taking Care of Myself

 

I'm tired.  We're just coming off a long weekend and a busy start to this week.  Today was our first 'down' day.  And so of course, I've spent the entirety of the day trying to catch up on household things, and do a bit of writing, and make sure I get supper well started because I have kids to keep this afternoon and I've fretted over a half dozen jobs that need to be seen to seemingly right away but I'm not getting to at all.

I've been rushing myself all afternoon long, and I'd been sitting here writing and I thought, "Oh golly, this is too much.... Oh gosh, this doesn't sound good at all...Oh goodness why can't I make sense of anything?"   And when I paused for a moment, I realized, I am tired.  I could happily close my eyes and take a nap sort of weary.  I've done too many 'should' tasks today, this week thus far and I'd not considered that I was too weary when the day started.  I'd fallen into bed last night and gone right to sleep and had to push myself to get out of bed at all this morning.