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My thoughts about things. |
| A place to put my thoughts about various stuff. |
| Why is it that sometimes we have to get to the 'bottom of the barrel', the 'end of our rope', or 'lost in the forest', (insert whatever saying you use/know here), before we finally discover inspiration? I truthfully get tired of what my family and I term the 'Rocky moment' in books and/or movies. The scene where our protagonist gets knocked down, kicked in the teeth, beaten half to death, run over by a bus, dropped off a cliff, and thrown into a volcano... then somehow miraculously makes a comeback and wins the fight/battle/competition, etc. It may seem that I exaggerated just a bit up there  , but there are some stories that feel like that is how they are told.  Then, it seems nearly impossible that they should be making the comeback. It stretches the boundaries of our belief that they could have actually have been triumphant.At worst, it makes us doubt the character. What were they just being a baby? That broken leg and busted collarbone didn't hurt them so bad if they got back up and kicked the other guy's butt, right? In fact, if you had just gotten your stuff together and kicked their butt sooner, you wouldn't have that busted collarbone! or Look, we understand that you lost your job, dog, car, and your home, but wouldn't that make you realize that you should make up with your wife/girlfriend (or husband/boyfriend) faster after that stupid fight you had? In the midst of all that upset, did you really need to punish her (or him) and yourself for so long... or could you have thought - damn, I should appreciate the good I have and go make up with them faster? When we lose faith in a character, it pulls us out of the story. It makes them two-dimensional again. As Tony Stark said - he IS Iron Man. And he was for me... right up until the third movie. Then, I wanted to pause the movie and maybe have a talk with him... or the screenwriter. Or maybe both. There is such a thing as taking it a step too far, when the reader or watcher wishes they could reverse time and not pick up the sequel. (Transformers 3, I'm looking at you, too. I didn't even watch anymore after that one. And I firmly prefer to pretend anything after 2 never happened.) At best, it makes us doubt the author. Why in the world would THAT be the best outcome, right? Well, in my estimation, I can give the author another chance. They are one individual writing many stories about many characters. One book/movie may be fantastic. Another one might suck. Sometimes, it feels more like a crapshoot on any given day. (Hey, that's a feeling I get myself when trying to write, too.) I can forgive doubting the author because they have every chance of redeeming themselves in another story with another character. Maybe the last cruddy one was because they ticked off their muse towards the ending. Or they were tired of writing the story and just wanted it to be done. Or they needed it done fast, so they could get the paycheck. Regardless, I'm willing to give the author another chance. Most of the time, at least. But the character? Nope. Once the man behind the screen is revealed, it's darned near impossible to convince me otherwise. So, inspiration... yep, that's what I made the topic of this post. And the title. Why does it take us nearly giving up (or giving up) to find our inspiration finally? I don't know to be honest, but I have a few theories. It's magic. Like two magnets of the polarity, the harder you search for inspiration, the further it runs away from you. Stop beating your head against that writer's block and go do something else. Then, when you come back, seemingly miraculously - there it is!! Sitting right on the page where you had been looking for it all along. Sheesh.  What a silly goose you were, right?It's compounding frustration skewing your perspective. Can't see the forest for the trees, can you? Well, that's because this tree isn't the right one. And that tree sounds stupid. That other tree couldn't possibility exist in this universe. You've already looked at the tree behind you. The tree in front of you is too far away. The tree to your left should be on your right and vice versa. Why are you even looking at trees? You should be looking for lamp posts. Or zebras. Or a turkey sandwich. How did you get in the desert? It's self-doubt that is making it impossible to see what is actually very real and possible. This is never going to happen. Why did I even start this in the first place? There are a million other things I should be doing right now that would be more productive. Why can't I do this faster/better/longer/shorter, etc? I've never finished one, why should I think I ever can? All the stories about all the things have already been told. Even if I get it done, no one will like it. No one will like me. It will never sell. Why am I wasting my - and more importantly - everyone else's time on this? So, finally we give up. We walk away. Put it away. Forget (or try at least) about it. Tell ourselves, we - are - done. And life goes on. We eat, sleep, go to work, take care of our homes, talk to friends, spend time with family... we live. Then, one day... BAM! Inspiration strikes. Bolt of lightning to the head. Or heart. Or feet or maybe the earlobe. To each their own. And you are overjoyed! And dismayed! Because it hit at a time where you are not able to do the thing you have been wanting to do! Writing while driving is frowned upon. Belting out those awesome lyrics in the middle of the office could get you fired. Stepping out of surgery to finally run that marathon likely isn't the best reasoning. Painting your masterpiece on the side of the house you are trying to sell isn't a very good marketing tactic. But! It happened, so you hold on to that feeling and covet it, nurture it - bookmark the elusive thing because, oh my gosh, is it hard to find. You bide your time and then... write, sing, play the instrument, run the marathon, paint the masterpiece... you do what you were meant to do. Because you've been knocked down, kicked around, thrown off a cliff, and lost your way in the forest... only to find that every tree is the right tree, depending upon how you look at it, and there are so many of them. All there for your choosing. Anytime you want. And if you choose the wrong one, then pick another. If you get lost again, don't fear it because you will find your way. You find a way to believe in yourself because - you should. You are worth believing in. You can do this. And if you stumble, it's ok. Just keep getting back up. You realize that somewhere, sometime, for someone - you are that person's inspiration. You. Have your Rocky moment... or moments. They are frustrating and sometimes, yes, they feel ridiculous. They are undoubtedly not the favorite part of your life story, but they are a very real part of your story. A very integral part of your growth and progress. Finding your inspiration, sharing your journey... that inspires others to not give up, to continue searching for their own. |
| I'm sitting here trying to come up with a great blog post when the truth is that I don't have one. It's not that I don't feel inspired. I still have lots of ideas floating around in my head. It's just that right now, I feel really tired. Everyone in the family is sick, except me. The house feels off, quiet and subdued. It's a necessary setting for everyone to get well and that's ok. Maybe, it's that I feel like we are hibernating and waiting to come back out again. So, that's what I'll do for now, I think. Just hibernate. Let those ideas percolate. Let our bodies rest and rejuvenate. All of the hustle and bustle can wait. |
| Normally, this time of year I am so cheerful that I even irritate myself a little. I love this holiday season and that hasn't changed, but the circumstances in life have in the past year and half. This time last year, I was struggling with coming to terms with my dad's death. He had drifted away due to Alzheimer's, so for years it had already felt like he was leaving us. So, his passing left one crack in my heart, but healed another. He isn't suffering from that disease any longer and for that I am eternally grateful. It's still hard to actually acknowledge inside that he's gone. It's far easier to say the words. To put on the mask and give and get hugs of sympathy. But deep inside, where the little kid part of me still lives, she's still wandering around, looking around corners and listening intently to see if he's still here somewhere. Those extra senses that I believe we all have, knows that he is here and there sometimes. He's watching over us and enjoying his respite and also moving on in his own way now. All of that at once. I also see him in our kids. The stubborn tilt of a chin. The corny joke that is told. I see a shadow of him leaning over the car my husband is working on, helping him focus and figure out the problem when he gets so frustrated. I hear him whispering to me to slow down, don't get so upset over the small stuff, and live each day as if it might be my last. This time last year, my mom was still here. She was trying to put on the best face she could to still be here with us all, but nothing was the same without her best friend and husband of 56 years. She spoke of missing things she had stopped doing since dad had gotten bad: driving, cooking, visiting people, just shopping at the store. It was the little kid in me that refused to see that she wasn't going to be here long. The signs were there. She had decided for herself a year before dad passed. She stopped taking her medicines and just let life take its course, without telling any of us. Stayed around long enough to put things in order. Their anniversary was two days before Christmas. She spent one anniversary and one Christmas without him and that was more than enough. The call that I thought would come months later came the day after Christmas. It was devastating and relieving all at the same time. Mom had been a shell of the woman she once was. Not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally. If all of us had a wound in our hearts from dad's passing, mom was missing half of hers. Ugh! I write all of this and it helps, but I also have the cynical part of me that is saying stop sounding like a broken record. I've had to mentally smack that part of myself a lot in the past year and a half. The title of this post is Optimism. That is where I want to end my entry. Life does indeed go on. No matter how painful or dreadful it may seem at the time. It marches right along and takes you with it. And the pain doesn't go away, but it does morph into something that you can live with, most of the time. The times that you can't, you take it off the shelf and lay it all out and let it wash over you again. Like the receding tide, it lessens but still ebbs over your heart. Salt water over a wound that will never completely heal. Where does the optimism come from then? From still being here. To hurt and heal and experience joy and pain over and over again. To live life. The day after Christmas is coming. Like it does every year. But very different from all of the others this year. I'll get to it - time will see to that. I'll get through it - family will see to that. And that spark of the old me, the one who had both parents still living on this Earth, she's still there. She's quieter and more humble, more serious, but still loving this season and the (hopefully) many more I have to come. 'Tis the season. Indeed, it is. |
It's Thanksgiving Eve (yes, that is how I think of it  ) and we are getting ready to start baking. We do all of our sweet items (pies, cookies, brownies, etc.) the day before, so they aren't competing for space in the oven the next day.For me, today is the beginning of the year ahead, not New Year's Eve. It sort of surprises me to realize, but Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, even as a kid. As a kid, I would have said it was Christmas, but that would have been because of the presents, of course. Not that we got that many. But the ones we did get were special and things that we had hoped for all year. What's also odd is that when I look back, the family get togethers on holidays were always fraught with dissent between siblings, cousins and the adults, too. There was the upset that we only went to my dad's side of the family on Thanksgiving and not my mom's. Dad's family was literally right around the corner and it was much smaller, so that's just how it was. We didn't have Thanksgiving at mom and dad's house until us kids were older and mom finally put her foot down and said she was having it there. My grandparents refused to come to our house on that day until years and years later and it was only one time. As a kid, I always looked forward to the day and dreaded it at the same time. I loved the food. It was stuff that we didn't have except for on that holiday. Though there was a good amount of it, we all loved it, so you had to be pretty quick to grab at least a bite of something because it would be gone pretty quick. Mom and my brother liked ham and disliked turkey, so it was a tradition to have both in our household. Dad and my brother-in-law loved oyster dressing, so we had a regular one and an oyster one. Definitely be sure to check before getting a scoop of it!  My parents inevitably would have an argument over something. Dad would end up out in the garage and mom would keep cooking, but the pots and spoons made a little more noise than was necessary. But then - always - they would come back together and make up. Things would be right in our part of the world before we all sat down to eat together. Mom played Christmas music while we cooked. Dad would grumble about it, but I think a part of him loved hearing it, too. I loved helping mom cook. It was a sleepy, sort of lazy time through part of the morning until all of sudden mom would declare it was time to start cooking. After that it was a bustling room of activity as she would guide me (and in earlier times) and my sister through prepping things. I remember it never made sense to me the order that we put things together. It sort of seemed like magic that mom knew when to get things ready and have everything together at just the right time. I do remember it was exhausting, but that good kind of fatigue that you feel for a job well done and get to reap the rewards as you sit down with your plate full of stuff that you helped make. Oh, we also had the parade on in the background! There would be moments we would stop to see certain balloons and the marching bands. That's what lasts in my memory, I guess. The magic of all of it. It was like a sort of spell went over the households and even though there were arguments, they got resolved and in the latter part of the day, everyone was smiles and good cheer. Sort of like an unspoken agreement to suspend dislikes among some of us and come together in a truce for a while to enjoy the fruits of our labors. We knew that tomorrow would bring the same old cruddy stuff back, but for those few hours, we were all happy together. I miss cooking with my mom... but I love cooking with our kids. I love telling stories and passing along tips about how to get things done just right in the kitchen. I love that they look forward to the parade that's playing in the background (on a laptop in the kitchen now) and they find new versions of the same old Christmas songs to play. We nibble on snacks, not wanting to fill up until the big meal is ready. And tell each other to stop opening the oven to check on the turkey so often, it needs time to cook. Somehow, just like mom did, I get everything to be ready at the same time. We enjoy that meal and the time spent together. We watch movies and play games as a family, go back for seconds, or get a piece of something for dessert. We put away leftovers and tuck the house in for bed like its a little kid that has had a busy day playing and needs the quiet time to recharge. Our Thanksgiving is not the holiday of my childhood. In many ways, it is better. And those older ones will live forever in my memories. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone that celebrates it! May you all have wonderful days filled with whatever it is that makes you smile.    |
| Recently, I have been reminded of how difficult it can be to strive for excellence in fields where your success is based in objectivity. 2+2=4 The War of 1812 occurred in the year 1812. The basketball goes through the hoop. The runner crosses the finish line. There are so many things in life that can be definitively called a success. It doesn't mean doing those things are easy, but it does tend to be easier to define success for them. The creative arts are not always as easily defined. Though there can be definitive categories applied to them, the judgement still comes from a place inside us that is entirely personal and therefore automatically biased. Is it a beautiful watercolor or a smudgy mismatch of random paint splatters? Did the dancer's moves touch a place inside your soul or were they just getting from one place to another on stage? Were those instruments creating a symphony that incited your emotions, or did it take all you had to suffer through the cacophony of sound? Did the book capture your attention and transport you to a time and place, or did you want to put it down two paragraphs in? For those of us that continue to share pieces of our hearts and souls with an outside audience, I applaud our efforts and admire our resolve. Remember that if you love what you are creating, then there are those out there who will also love it. And for those that don't, it's ok. Others' opinions of you and/or your work do not define you or your work. The work defines itself, as does the time and effort you put in to making it happen. Absorb the constructive criticism that is offered, let the pointless naysayers pass you by, and keep on creating! We believe in you. You believe in you. Happy writing, everyone! (And/or any other creative activity that you enjoy!) |
Here we are again at presidential election day!  There can be so much emotion that goes into these elections. For some, it can be hard not to let their feelings guide their behaviors and actions because the issues at hand touch on topics that are felt at a personal level. However, I firmly believe that - in the vast majority of situations - we control our emotions, our emotions do not control us. Certainly, there can be circumstances that warrant being overwhelmed, but in most cases, it is a choice of how to behave. In politics, sadly we have more individuals setting a bad example of behavior than good. The best advice that can be given, I believe, is to research the candidates from a reliable source. Examine their record of previous voting (if one exists), then consider all of that alongside your own beliefs. What matches? What doesn't? In the end, we just have to make the best informed decision that we can. Some have said that there is little point to voting for various reasons. I understand their ambivalence. For me, the act of voting is an important personal choice and represents more than just handing in a completed ballot. Not everyone in this world gets the opportunity to participate in a such a system. Many in the past gave their lives for our freedom to vote and many put their lives on the line today to make sure we still can. Taking the responsibility in hand to inform yourself of the issues and candidates and then following through by casting your ballot (regardless of what choices you make) illustrates that you care about your country and what happens to all of us here. This morning going to vote was a nice experience. It was a long wait, which I was thankful for - it means so many of us came out to vote! Though it made my back ache and my feet sore, it was still a pleasant morning spent chatting with family and community members. All of us eager to make our contribution. It was so good to see older folks out and about right alongside younger ones voting for the first time! I voted! I hope many of you out there did, too!  |
| Trick or treat Smell my feet Give me something Good to eat! If you don't I don't care I'll pull down Your underwear! I remember hearing that for the first time as a little kid and how scandalized I felt at the thought of someone messing with someone else's underwear! You just didn't DO that kinds of stuff. I always felt like a grown-up in a little kid's body. These days I sometimes feel like a little kid in my grown-up body.We decorated for Halloween on September 1st this year, just like last year. Before these two years though, we had always waited until October 1st. I have to admit that the Halloween stuff doesn't give me the same feeling as decorating early for Christmas, but it was nice to have it up a little longer. It will feel good to take it down and put up Thanksgiving things. I've always loved the beginning of what I consider the 'big' holidays at the end of the year. Fall is my favorite season mostly because of the impending holidays and more time with spent with family. This year, especially, that is hitting hard. It will be the first set of them without mom and dad. There are no calls to make or presents to get in the mail to them. No sending them the kids' school pictures in their Christmas card. No calling mom to ask advice (that's really not necessary) on how to cook some of the foods from my childhood. Just calling to hear her voice. Hear her tell me that she wished I was close enough to come get a hug. It's ok, all of this processing their passing. I keep telling myself that anyway. It's something that has to be done and not ignored. Trying to ignore it got me nowhere except snapping at people and then closeting myself away to cry a tissue box full of tears. Definitely not healthy and no way to honor their memories. So, here I am writing responses to Lilli's QOTD, doing reviews, and creating another blog entry. Go me. No, seriously, go me - keep putting one foot in front of the other and remember to enjoy each day to its fullest. I'm a part of their legacy and I'm not going to spend it immersed in sorrow and fear while the days pass me by. I've got loved ones to love and life to live. Hence, the silly sing-song poem that I remember hearing as a kid that started out this entry. Even as a little kid, I had this inherent knowledge of right and wrong and absolutely did not want to do the wrong thing. What would everyone think?  So, while other kids were belting out that little diddy and laughing until their bellies hurt, I kept my lips sealed. No sir, no way I was going to sing that and get in trouble.I waited until it was night and I was in my bed and then I whispered it to myself.  It was the tiniest delicious little morsel of safe rebellion that still made me blush even though no one could hear me. And there is the best example of how I mostly am, folks. Which is why I surprise the hell out of myself with some of the things I write.  Maybe that's why I can get it out on the page instead of in front of people.It's probably not surprising that I married a man who is not as staid as I am. Let's just say in his younger years, he mooned people and also went streaking. He has that balance that I never achieved. So very responsible, but with a wild side. Oh, how I love him.Our kids have more of the balance, leaning towards my quiet nature in public. They have wonderful senses of humor and a wit that comes directly from their dad. Well, the corny part of their humor is from me. I went back and read my blog post from 10-30-22. It was bittersweet remembering where we were at that time and how things were with everyone. I've come far enough to understand that looking back in the past like that... it's meant to be something to roll around in your mind for a short while and then, set it free again. You can't sit in the past and walk toward the future. So, today is about making more memories to store away for future me. Put the chili in the crockpot. Set out our costumes. Unbag the candy and clean out the cauldron! Halloween 2024 is going to be a spooky, sweet, good time!!    Happy Halloween, everyone! |
| It's been over a year since I logged on to writing.com. My dad passed in September 2023 and the next day I withdrew from a lot of things to concentrate on my family and process the grief. My mom put their affairs in order and celebrated one last Christmas with us. She passed the next day. They were married for 55 years. I can count on one hand the number of nights they spent apart in all that time. They were perfectly imperfect. They shared joy and laughter, tears and fights. The last few years the dad we knew and husband she knew slipped away, taken by Alzheimer's. We lost him. He lost himself. She stayed with him until his last breath. After he passed, mom talked of things she might do in the future. And always there was a hollow ring to her voice. Improvements were made to their house in anticipation of her return. She only stayed one night there without him. Her health declined and she spent the rest of her time in facilities or the hospital. She received a pacemaker because her heartbeat was so low she could have passed without the medication they gave her. After it was in, she told me that she signed a paper saying after her death her pacemaker could be used for veterinary purposes. It would be donated and save a beloved pet who needed one. The morning she passed she was supposed to have a procedure that would look for what was still wrong with her heart. When I got the call, I already knew. It was broken in a way that medicine could not fix. The love of her life was waiting for her. After spending years saying goodbye to him, she was ready to be by his side again. They loved to dance. As a kid and later as an adult, I would admire how naturally they fit together. Dad always held her right hand in his left one, against his cheek, as he leaned close and held her tight. Just as she was by his bedside at that moment, I know dad was there at hers. Holding out his hand, asking her to dance. And that is how I remember them. The sharp pain has dulled to an aching throb. One that still makes my breath catch when I think of calling to tell them something and realize I can't. And the dull ache that means I am getting accustomed to their absence still makes me angry at times. I know that they would want all of us to continue on and enjoy each and every moment we can. That they are watching over us and waiting for us and hopefully it is a long time before that joyful moment when we meet again. So, we continue. We tell stories and laugh and cry. I see the turning of the seasons and think of dad mentioning the first frost of winter or how the ground was getting thawed enough to get back in the fields. I see school buses and think of the years that he drove one. Remember him teaching me to drive and walking me down the aisle. I hear his laughter echo in my mind and see him smiling, feel him hug me tight. I pass down knowledge and old sayings from my mom that she passed down to me from her mom. I cook her recipes with our kids. I watch the shows she liked to watch. I buy a book of stamps and think of her behind the counter in her post office when I would stop by with the kids. How her smile would shine when she saw us in line and how proud she was of her job. How it was hard for her to share emotion through words, but she never missed getting or giving a hug. And she always, always said I love you. I love and miss my mom and dad. My world - the whole world - is less bright because they are gone. But the world is so much better for having had them in it. |
| "Are you ok?" Those three words were spoken to me this morning while I was in the grocery store. An employee who was working in the produce section near me asked me that question. I hadn't looked towards her or indicated that I was in need of help. I didn't feel as though I was giving off any vibes of feeling bad. It was just a normal morning for me, stopping by the store after a workout. It struck me though. This out-of-the-blue question from a stranger. My first thought was, do I look like I'm not ok? What had I been thinking of? It made me do a quick self-check, I guess. I assured her that I was ok. She smiled and then asked if I was looking for something. I mentioned a vegetable that wasn't in stock, and she offered to go to the back to see if there were any. I told her thank you, but no. It was this incredibly short exchange between two strangers, but it was such a nice thing to have happen. A simple kindness reminding me that there are people out there who care, just because they are good people. So, to the ones reading this, from me to you - are you ok? |
| Vinegar has become my enemy. In the past, it was a love-love relationship. Give me pickles (especially homemade), salad dressing, or anything with mustard, mayonnaise, etc. I’ve always loved that tart bite on the tongue or even the smell of it. Distilled white, apple cider, white wine, rice or most recently balsamic – all of them were beloved. Until the last so many years. I started having trouble with swelling. Talking to my doctor, they steered me towards possible causes. Salt was one of them, but I had long since nearly eliminated it from my diet. Other allergens. I went to an allergist and was told I am only allergic to the most common of allergens, like dust and pollen, etc. When I spoke to the allergist, they informed me that a person cannot be allergic to vinegar. They said that the reactions I am experiencing were from acid reflux and possibly other coincidental occurrences that happened alongside eating something with vinegar. Here’s the thing. I can document that these side effects happen only when I eat something with vinegar and it is isolated events. They also greatly reduce and/or subside when I take an antihistamine. What am I getting to, then? That it is frustrating to go to a doctor and talk to them about something that is affecting you and have them tell you absolutely it just can’t be the case. I would argue that perhaps it could be that the something that is affecting me just hasn’t been widely documented and/or explored as a possible problem yet. At one point in time no one understood or believed that germs were a real thing. Could I be wrong? Absolutely. Could the doctors be wrong? Absolutely. I just know that it is only one of us that is readily available to admit to that possibility. So, here I am. Slogging through the realization that I just deal with this odd condition that seems to affect just me, or a very small percentage of the population at least. I went through my denial period. Perhaps, if I just listened to the doctors and ignored the consequences of eating something with vinegar, then those aggravating side effects would disappear. Not surprisingly, they didn’t. Weeks of misery and antihistamines later, I decided to quit vinegar ‘cold turkey’. Do you know how many things have vinegar in them?? Pretty much any condiment, salad dressing, or liquid seasoning known to mankind.   I completely realize there are more pressing issues for me, and society as a whole, to consider. On the scale of things to be distressed over, not being able to consume vinegar is pretty far down on the list. But *&#*(@$#*!!!!!  My hissy fit has long since been thrown. I have beaten my fists against the imaginary walls of denial, pig-headedness, and finally acceptance. I traversed the path of the love-hate relationship with vinegar.Now, I find myself walking the path of hate-hate with it. I hate that I still love and miss it. It hates me and makes me miserable by consistently reminding me of how much I miss it and trying to entice me into consuming it again… which I do… very rarely and with much regret. And Benedryl. The majority of the time, I focus on how much better I feel without it in my life. The swelling is nearly non-existent when I am completely free of it. I feel better overall with less sinus congestion, better blood sugars, and more energy. It is certainly strange to think that a lot of my overall suffering could be linked back to that one consumable. Something that I happened to see a correlation between and, even after doctors assured me it couldn’t possibly be the cause, took it upon myself to do elimination trials and found it helped my health to be away from it. So, while I admire vinegar from afar and have fond memories of potato salad, deviled eggs, and pickles, I find that my life is more enjoyable when I am not constantly fighting swelling and congestion. In the end, it is a good trade-off. Even if it is still one that I harbor ill will towards. Sometimes, we cannot have our vinegar and eat it, too. Unless we wish to be miserable and sleepy. And 99.9% of the time I choose not to be. |
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