OK, so I've done a post every single day for the past month or so... but tonight, I'm not at home... and I have no ideas... but still, I feel the need to do a post. So I'm going to write something...
I watched a move this evening about cannibals. And it was kind of gross. But there were cute boys in it... so it was kind of OK.
I'm not sure what that says about me.
I'm not sure I care.
Also, I've had a significant amount of wine.
I'm thinking that's why the cannibal stuff was kind of OK. I'm also thinking that might be why this is possibly the worst blog post I've ever done.
And it's also why I'm OK with it.
Yeah.
So, happy Wednesday, my bloggy peeps. Have some wine. And don't eat any people. 'Cause it's really gross. Even if there are cute boys involved.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Let Me Tell You a Story About a Spider...
It's, like, 652 degrees below zero outside and I'm as sick as the proverbial dog (though my real dog is quite fine, snoring beside me). My brain is all frozen and fuzzy and I've had difficulty articulating coherent thoughts all day.
So, instead of slapping down some NyQuil-induced gibberish, I'm going to give you some gibberish I came up with when it was about 652 degrees above zero outside, in the way of several recycled Facebook posts.
Last summer, I started a story on Facebook that just trailed off after several installments, but I've been meaning to pick it back up, as several people enjoyed it and I had fun writing it. I'll give you the back-story today, as well as several of the original posts, and then, hopefully, I'll continue it periodically, until it's finished.
So, as I say, let me tell you a story about a spider...
It all began two summers ago, actually, when Ryan went into my bedroom for something... she came back into the living room and stated (rather matter-of-factly, I thought), "There was a spider on your pillow."
"Um... a spider? On my pillow?"
"Yeah. A big one."
"Did you get it?"
"Uh, no. It was a big one."
Lovely. I went to bed that night with some trepidation. I'm not afraid of spiders, mind you (like several people I know), and I "rescue" them quite often, but the idea of one crawling on me in my sleep? That gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Turns out? I had little to worry about. I became convinced, in fact, that the spider was friendly, and that he'd taken it upon himself to turn off my alarm the next morning.
Two days after Ryan's initial spotting (July 3, 2012, to be specific), I posted this on Facebook...
I will admit, many people who read that Facebook post thought I was a little... well... screwy. Whatevs. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.
It would be more than a year before I would hear from Christopher J. again. It was, in fact, this past August that he re-appeared. Here is the post from August 16, 2013...
Last night, exhausted, I dragged myself to my room, ready to sleep for days. Sundance hopped onto the bed, barked once, and then snuffled about my pillow. How surprised I was to see our very own Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, holding onto the corner of my pillowcase for dear life, to avoid being sucked up Sunny’s nose! He looked decidedly bedraggled, his vest torn, his bowler hat (did I mention he wears a bowler hat?) askew, and he was (gasp!) missing a leg!
“Christopher J.” I exclaimed, pulling my curious dog away. “You startled me. Are you alright? What are you doing here?”
Poor Christopher J. collapsed, prone on my pillow, clearly exhausted and possibly even in shock. “I’m… sorry. I… need… a… place… to… stay… tonight…”
Given his state, I decided it was best not to press him for more information. “Of course,” I nodded, “no worries.” I lifted him gently, opened my nightstand drawer, and placed him onto an open pack of Kleenex (a soft bed for certain). He sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped immediately off to sleep. He’s still sleeping, in fact, poor little guy. His story will have to wait until later…
Now, understandably, some people were curious about what on earth Christopher J. had been doing for a whole year and I know I wanted to find out how he lost an appendage! It would be the next day before the little guy woke up, though...
I stole quietly into my room and crept over to the nightstand. The drawer was open a smidge, so as not to suffocate poor Christopher J. Arachington , of the Red Shed Arachingtons, and to keep nosy canines and felines from injuring him further (or worse!). I slid the drawer open to find our friendly arachnid pal reclining on his Kleenex bed.
“Christopher J.! How are you? I’ve been thinking of you all day!"
He smiled and tipped his bowler hat at me, “I’m well, thank you. Much better than last night, certainly. I slept longer and more deeply than I have in a year. I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality.”
“Aw, it was nothing, really. I have to say, though, I’m very curious to hear about what’s happened in your life since the last time we spoke.”
Christopher J. straightened up and cleared his throat, “I would love to regale you with tales of my adventures. But first, might I impose upon you a wee bit more? I haven’t had a proper meal in a few days and, well, the truth is, a bath is really in order, as I’m rather, shall we say, ripe.”
“Of course! How rude of me not to offer. But, um, I’m not sure what to prepare. I mean, I don’t really have a supply of, you know,” I dropped my voice to a whisper,”… insects... hanging about.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” Christopher J. exclaimed. “I’m a vegetarian. Some sort of salad would be lovely.”
“A vegetarian? Really?”
He looked a bit defensive, as if, perhaps, he’s had to explain this often. “Don’t get me wrong, I used to love a good, juicy fly as much as the next spider. But then I met my friend, Spencer C. Flyby (‘Specs’ for short) and, well, as you can imagine, I was faced with a moral dilemma the likes of which I’ve never encountered! It changed my philosophy regarding ‘the circle of life’ altogether.”
I nodded, understanding completely (I felt the same way about a cow I knew as a child) and ran about fetching something for Christopher J. to bathe in (a jar lid) and dry off with (a neatly trimmed piece of thick, absorbent paper towel). When his bath was ready, I set off to find salad fixings fit for a spider, leaving Christopher J. to sort himself out (he seemed a bit reluctant to remove his vest in front of me).
As I left the room, he called out, “And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, a spot of tea? Earl Grey if you have it. With cream and sugar? If you please.”
I do so love a spider with good manners. Don’t you?
After his bath, dinner (finely chopped spinach, tomato, and a wee bit of grated cheese [for protein]), and his tea (Earl Grey, sipped from the lid of a honey container), Christopher J. thanked me profusely, settled back onto his Kleenex bed, patted his tummy in a satisfied manner, and rummaged in his valise. Bringing out a tiny pipe, he asked, “Do you mind?”
“Well, I do, actually. But if you’d like to sit on the window sill and blow the smoke outside, that would be fine.”
At the mention of the sill, his eyes widened in fear and he quickly put the pipe away. “No, no, really. I should quit anyway. Nasty habit, it is. Alright then, where should I begin? At the beginning, I suppose… on the evening of July 3, 2012, when you kindly set me out in the front yard, off for the adventure of a lifetime…”
And so it began -- the story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons…
I'll leave off there for now... but there is more to come. Soon...
So, instead of slapping down some NyQuil-induced gibberish, I'm going to give you some gibberish I came up with when it was about 652 degrees above zero outside, in the way of several recycled Facebook posts.
Last summer, I started a story on Facebook that just trailed off after several installments, but I've been meaning to pick it back up, as several people enjoyed it and I had fun writing it. I'll give you the back-story today, as well as several of the original posts, and then, hopefully, I'll continue it periodically, until it's finished.
So, as I say, let me tell you a story about a spider...
It all began two summers ago, actually, when Ryan went into my bedroom for something... she came back into the living room and stated (rather matter-of-factly, I thought), "There was a spider on your pillow."
"Um... a spider? On my pillow?"
"Yeah. A big one."
"Did you get it?"
"Uh, no. It was a big one."
Lovely. I went to bed that night with some trepidation. I'm not afraid of spiders, mind you (like several people I know), and I "rescue" them quite often, but the idea of one crawling on me in my sleep? That gave me the heebie-jeebies.
Turns out? I had little to worry about. I became convinced, in fact, that the spider was friendly, and that he'd taken it upon himself to turn off my alarm the next morning.
Two days after Ryan's initial spotting (July 3, 2012, to be specific), I posted this on Facebook...
I will admit, many people who read that Facebook post thought I was a little... well... screwy. Whatevs. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.
It would be more than a year before I would hear from Christopher J. again. It was, in fact, this past August that he re-appeared. Here is the post from August 16, 2013...
Last night, exhausted, I dragged myself to my room, ready to sleep for days. Sundance hopped onto the bed, barked once, and then snuffled about my pillow. How surprised I was to see our very own Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, holding onto the corner of my pillowcase for dear life, to avoid being sucked up Sunny’s nose! He looked decidedly bedraggled, his vest torn, his bowler hat (did I mention he wears a bowler hat?) askew, and he was (gasp!) missing a leg!
“Christopher J.” I exclaimed, pulling my curious dog away. “You startled me. Are you alright? What are you doing here?”
Poor Christopher J. collapsed, prone on my pillow, clearly exhausted and possibly even in shock. “I’m… sorry. I… need… a… place… to… stay… tonight…”
Given his state, I decided it was best not to press him for more information. “Of course,” I nodded, “no worries.” I lifted him gently, opened my nightstand drawer, and placed him onto an open pack of Kleenex (a soft bed for certain). He sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped immediately off to sleep. He’s still sleeping, in fact, poor little guy. His story will have to wait until later…
Now, understandably, some people were curious about what on earth Christopher J. had been doing for a whole year and I know I wanted to find out how he lost an appendage! It would be the next day before the little guy woke up, though...
I stole quietly into my room and crept over to the nightstand. The drawer was open a smidge, so as not to suffocate poor Christopher J. Arachington , of the Red Shed Arachingtons, and to keep nosy canines and felines from injuring him further (or worse!). I slid the drawer open to find our friendly arachnid pal reclining on his Kleenex bed.
“Christopher J.! How are you? I’ve been thinking of you all day!"
He smiled and tipped his bowler hat at me, “I’m well, thank you. Much better than last night, certainly. I slept longer and more deeply than I have in a year. I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality.”
“Aw, it was nothing, really. I have to say, though, I’m very curious to hear about what’s happened in your life since the last time we spoke.”
Christopher J. straightened up and cleared his throat, “I would love to regale you with tales of my adventures. But first, might I impose upon you a wee bit more? I haven’t had a proper meal in a few days and, well, the truth is, a bath is really in order, as I’m rather, shall we say, ripe.”
“Of course! How rude of me not to offer. But, um, I’m not sure what to prepare. I mean, I don’t really have a supply of, you know,” I dropped my voice to a whisper,”… insects... hanging about.”
“Oh, dear me, no!” Christopher J. exclaimed. “I’m a vegetarian. Some sort of salad would be lovely.”
“A vegetarian? Really?”
He looked a bit defensive, as if, perhaps, he’s had to explain this often. “Don’t get me wrong, I used to love a good, juicy fly as much as the next spider. But then I met my friend, Spencer C. Flyby (‘Specs’ for short) and, well, as you can imagine, I was faced with a moral dilemma the likes of which I’ve never encountered! It changed my philosophy regarding ‘the circle of life’ altogether.”
I nodded, understanding completely (I felt the same way about a cow I knew as a child) and ran about fetching something for Christopher J. to bathe in (a jar lid) and dry off with (a neatly trimmed piece of thick, absorbent paper towel). When his bath was ready, I set off to find salad fixings fit for a spider, leaving Christopher J. to sort himself out (he seemed a bit reluctant to remove his vest in front of me).
As I left the room, he called out, “And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, a spot of tea? Earl Grey if you have it. With cream and sugar? If you please.”
I do so love a spider with good manners. Don’t you?
After his bath, dinner (finely chopped spinach, tomato, and a wee bit of grated cheese [for protein]), and his tea (Earl Grey, sipped from the lid of a honey container), Christopher J. thanked me profusely, settled back onto his Kleenex bed, patted his tummy in a satisfied manner, and rummaged in his valise. Bringing out a tiny pipe, he asked, “Do you mind?”
“Well, I do, actually. But if you’d like to sit on the window sill and blow the smoke outside, that would be fine.”
At the mention of the sill, his eyes widened in fear and he quickly put the pipe away. “No, no, really. I should quit anyway. Nasty habit, it is. Alright then, where should I begin? At the beginning, I suppose… on the evening of July 3, 2012, when you kindly set me out in the front yard, off for the adventure of a lifetime…”
And so it began -- the story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons…
I'll leave off there for now... but there is more to come. Soon...
Monday, January 6, 2014
Dat Tat
Tattoos fascinate me. They really do. When I see a cool one, even if it's on someone I don't know, I want to know - and often ask about - the story behind it. Sometimes the story is as cool as the tattoo. Sometimes there is no story and the art is just something the wearer liked.
I have to say, if I'm going to have something permanently inked onto my body? I'm going to have to like it one hell of a lot.
I have a lot of friends who have them... some of them are beautiful, some are intensely personal (symbols, words, verses, even the handwriting of someone special), and some are... well... let's just say that some are pictures I wouldn't want plastered all over my butt.
I've seen quite a few, really, that have made me scratch my head. Once, when I was camping, I saw the NASCAR logo, in all its brilliant colors, tattooed on a woman's leg.
And it was BIG.
Whatever floats your boat, eh? Or, you know, drives your car...
And once? I saw hands tattooed around a woman's neck - they looked like they were strangling her. That one? I did not understand. At. All. (And I was a little askeerd to ask about it, as she looked like maybe she could strangle me.)
But I'm amazed by some of the originality in some I see - and the thought and sentimentality behind them.
Ryan likes tattoos, too. She has a whole board on Pinterest dedicated to ones she likes. And that's fine. I wouldn't let her get one now, certainly. And though I know she might want one as soon as she turns 18, I've asked her to please, please, please understand that her taste at 18 and her taste at 30 will be completely different (hello! Have you seen the glasses I wore when I was 18?)... and that her taste at 50 will be different from her taste at 30 (remember the 90s?). I've told her that, right or wrong, employers in many, many fields frown on visible ink, and I've asked her to consider the fact that a tattoo that looks good when she's wearing a bikini may not look nearly so nice when she's wearing an all-dressed-up outfit (or a wedding dress).
And I'll keep reminding of her those things...
A lot.
Regret is a painful thing.
I know quite a few people who regret theirs. I feel bad for them.
I know a lot of people who say, "Never. Not me!"
I get that. It's a trend, after all... albeit a growing one... but one that will, eventually, become unpopular, as all trends do. By then, nursing homes are going to be full of some very colorful (literally) old folk!
Still, I've considered getting one. Seriously considered it. For several years. Just a small one, on my wrist (I want to be able to see it, as if I can't see it, I don't see the point in having it). Something meaningful. But I've wondered if what's meaningful to me today will be meaningful to me at 60. Honestly, I figure it probably will be. I mean, it's not as if I'm 18 anymore (lord knows I'm not 18 anymore). And then I've wondered if I'll even give a hoot when I'm 60 (or, you know, even be able to see) what small thing is tattooed on my wrist.
Then? The time I spent in the hospital in the spring (and the blood work I have to have done regularly now) nearly cured me of the thought...
I don't like being stuck.
Needles? Suck.
But then, after a while, I started to think about it again...
I'm thinking about it now...
Just a small one. On my wrist. Something meaningful. Something simple.
Yeah... I'm thinking about it...
I have to say, if I'm going to have something permanently inked onto my body? I'm going to have to like it one hell of a lot.
I have a lot of friends who have them... some of them are beautiful, some are intensely personal (symbols, words, verses, even the handwriting of someone special), and some are... well... let's just say that some are pictures I wouldn't want plastered all over my butt.
I've seen quite a few, really, that have made me scratch my head. Once, when I was camping, I saw the NASCAR logo, in all its brilliant colors, tattooed on a woman's leg.
And it was BIG.
Whatever floats your boat, eh? Or, you know, drives your car...
And once? I saw hands tattooed around a woman's neck - they looked like they were strangling her. That one? I did not understand. At. All. (And I was a little askeerd to ask about it, as she looked like maybe she could strangle me.)
But I'm amazed by some of the originality in some I see - and the thought and sentimentality behind them.
Ryan likes tattoos, too. She has a whole board on Pinterest dedicated to ones she likes. And that's fine. I wouldn't let her get one now, certainly. And though I know she might want one as soon as she turns 18, I've asked her to please, please, please understand that her taste at 18 and her taste at 30 will be completely different (hello! Have you seen the glasses I wore when I was 18?)... and that her taste at 50 will be different from her taste at 30 (remember the 90s?). I've told her that, right or wrong, employers in many, many fields frown on visible ink, and I've asked her to consider the fact that a tattoo that looks good when she's wearing a bikini may not look nearly so nice when she's wearing an all-dressed-up outfit (or a wedding dress).
And I'll keep reminding of her those things...
A lot.
Regret is a painful thing.
I know quite a few people who regret theirs. I feel bad for them.
I know a lot of people who say, "Never. Not me!"
I get that. It's a trend, after all... albeit a growing one... but one that will, eventually, become unpopular, as all trends do. By then, nursing homes are going to be full of some very colorful (literally) old folk!
Still, I've considered getting one. Seriously considered it. For several years. Just a small one, on my wrist (I want to be able to see it, as if I can't see it, I don't see the point in having it). Something meaningful. But I've wondered if what's meaningful to me today will be meaningful to me at 60. Honestly, I figure it probably will be. I mean, it's not as if I'm 18 anymore (lord knows I'm not 18 anymore). And then I've wondered if I'll even give a hoot when I'm 60 (or, you know, even be able to see) what small thing is tattooed on my wrist.
Then? The time I spent in the hospital in the spring (and the blood work I have to have done regularly now) nearly cured me of the thought...
I don't like being stuck.
Needles? Suck.
But then, after a while, I started to think about it again...
I'm thinking about it now...
Just a small one. On my wrist. Something meaningful. Something simple.
Yeah... I'm thinking about it...
Sunday, January 5, 2014
More Good Reads...
It's rainy and cold out today... a perfect day for curling up with a good book and a cup of tea. So I figured I'd list a few more of my favorite reads... you can see my first book post, Reads with Staying Power, right here...
Here's a list of five more, in no particular order:
The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
This is not a book to simply read... it's a book designed to help you find your creative center, your creative path, when you're stuck. It's a 12-week program and each week guides you through a new un-sticking process. I've taught writing/creativity classes loosely based on the book, using the methods in it, and I've used them myself when I've been stuck. I should actually break it out again...
Peter and the Starcatchers by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
This is the first book in a series by two brilliant writers (one of whom is Dave Barry, the humor columnist) -- the prequel to the Peter Pan story. It's marketed as a series for young people and, indeed, I read it to Ryan when she was 7 or so, but it's so much more than that (and everyone I've recommended to or bought it for has loved it). The story is so beautifully told; it's complex but not confusing, mature but not pretentious, delightful but not cutesy. I would get so excited reading it out loud that Ryan would put her hand on my arm and say, "Breathe, Mama! Breathe!"
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne
This a heartbreaking story set during World War II, at Auschwitz. It focuses on a little boy whose father is the Commandant of the camp. The family lives just outside the fence and the boy, still innocent, believes the people within its confines are working on a farm, treated kindly and fairly. He secretly befriends an imprisoned boy and their friendship results in a devastating turn of events, which reminds us that we're all human, and that our actions have consequences. This little book affected me deeply and I had Ryan read it before we visited the Holocaust Museum in DC the first time.
The Freedom Writers Diary by The Freedom Writers and Erin Gruwell
This is the amazing story (stories!) of a teacher who successfully reached and elevated a class full of (supposedly) unreachable and un-teachable high school kids -- primarly through writing. The book is filled with their brilliant, poignant, and heart-wrenching diary entries, which are, at times, incredibly difficult to read. I absolutely sobbed through it.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Anne Schaffer and Annie Barrows
I crazy-loved this book! Set just as WWII has ended, it's told strictly in correspondence. The characters are so beautifully developed and I fell in love with each and every one of them. I wanted to move to Guernsey in 1945 and live with them forever. It breaks my heart to know that the author died before the book was completely finished (her niece completed the editing) and she'll never know its success or how it affected people.
Here's a list of five more, in no particular order:
The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
This is not a book to simply read... it's a book designed to help you find your creative center, your creative path, when you're stuck. It's a 12-week program and each week guides you through a new un-sticking process. I've taught writing/creativity classes loosely based on the book, using the methods in it, and I've used them myself when I've been stuck. I should actually break it out again...
Peter and the Starcatchers by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
This is the first book in a series by two brilliant writers (one of whom is Dave Barry, the humor columnist) -- the prequel to the Peter Pan story. It's marketed as a series for young people and, indeed, I read it to Ryan when she was 7 or so, but it's so much more than that (and everyone I've recommended to or bought it for has loved it). The story is so beautifully told; it's complex but not confusing, mature but not pretentious, delightful but not cutesy. I would get so excited reading it out loud that Ryan would put her hand on my arm and say, "Breathe, Mama! Breathe!"
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne
This a heartbreaking story set during World War II, at Auschwitz. It focuses on a little boy whose father is the Commandant of the camp. The family lives just outside the fence and the boy, still innocent, believes the people within its confines are working on a farm, treated kindly and fairly. He secretly befriends an imprisoned boy and their friendship results in a devastating turn of events, which reminds us that we're all human, and that our actions have consequences. This little book affected me deeply and I had Ryan read it before we visited the Holocaust Museum in DC the first time.
The Freedom Writers Diary by The Freedom Writers and Erin Gruwell
This is the amazing story (stories!) of a teacher who successfully reached and elevated a class full of (supposedly) unreachable and un-teachable high school kids -- primarly through writing. The book is filled with their brilliant, poignant, and heart-wrenching diary entries, which are, at times, incredibly difficult to read. I absolutely sobbed through it.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Anne Schaffer and Annie Barrows
I crazy-loved this book! Set just as WWII has ended, it's told strictly in correspondence. The characters are so beautifully developed and I fell in love with each and every one of them. I wanted to move to Guernsey in 1945 and live with them forever. It breaks my heart to know that the author died before the book was completely finished (her niece completed the editing) and she'll never know its success or how it affected people.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Can You Remember?
I'm going to spend some time today trying to remember...
I think that Me would like to be remembered...
I know I'd like to become reacquainted...
Have a lovely Saturday, my peeps! XO
Friday, January 3, 2014
Of Guns and Grins
It's not.
No, sir.
Not. At. All.
Guns and the laws surrounding them have become (always been?) such a polarizing issue in this country and, while I think it's necessary (or at least a good idea) to participate in whatever groups/activities/forums/etc you feel best support your views (and I do this), I'm not talking about it here.
I'm not.
I'm not.
OK?
OK.
No. This is about something different.
Related... sort of... but different.
It's about pictures.
.jpg)
Yes, photographs. And Facebook. And the Internet.
Now, if you don't do the whole Facebook thing, you might not know what I'm talking about. And if you don't know any people who hunt for sport, you might not know what I'm talking about. Well, not firsthand, anyway. But I'm sure you can imagine.
I'm talking about those pictures you stumble upon by accident in your feed -- the ones of the dead deer, the hunters kneeling beside them, all proud and happy...
You know the ones?
God, I hate those pictures! I wish there was a warning label preceding them:
"WARNING!
You are about to see a dead animal and a happy, proud hunter!
If you do not wish to see a dead animal and a happy, proud hunter, ABORT!"
I would so abort.
Now, I know why people hunt. I know it's necessary to cull herds. For some, it's necessary to put food on the table. I get it. I do.
But, even if it's necessary, I don't understand the pride in those pictures. I don't understand feeling proud of killing anything. And I really don't see it as sport. Sport, to me, is a game or an event in which all the participants have similar skills, abilities, and tools. That's not the way hunting works. Deer don't have guns. (Sometimes? I so wish they did.)
Now, to clarify (as I'm sure some people have their panties in a bunch by now), I'm not saying hunting is wrong. I'm not saying people who hunt are bad. I don't believe that for a second. And I'm not judging people who hunt. I'm simply saying that I don't understand the pride that comes (for some) with killing a living thing. I don't.
That's me.
But even worse (to me), are those photos people put up of themselves holding or shooting guns that are not meant for hunting 'game'...
Guns that are meant for one thing and one thing only...
To hurt or kill human beings.
I just don't get it.
I know some people feel the need to own guns. I get that. I do. I'm so sorry they do, but I understand that people feel afraid and they do what they have to do to not feel afraid. And I think that if a person owns a gun, he/she should absolutely, most certainly know how to use it properly (so he doesn't shoot off his private parts [or someone else's] by accident, which seems to be happening with some regularity of late). I get that, too. I do.
But to be proud of it? To be proud of feeling the need to arm oneself and proud of how one looks when holding or shooting a gun?
Nope. I don't get that.
When a person (man, woman, or, especially, a child) is proud of his/her skill with a gun -- of how he/she can hit a target dead on (pun intended) -- I want to say, "Um, you do know that target represents a human being, don't you?"
I can understand a person feeling the need to be prepared to take a life if necessary. But it just seems incredible to me that anyone could be proud of and happy about their willingness (regardless of the situation), ability, or (heaven help us all) their desire, to do so -- to kill a human being.
Preparation to kill should not leave us smiling. It should leave us resigned and sick inside. We should not ever, ever joke about it. There is nothing at all (nothing at all!) even remotely funny or joyful or prideful about preparing oneself to kill.
So, to want to take and post photos of oneself, smiling and proud, with a weapon designed to do absolutely nothing but hurt or kill a human being?
I do not get that.
I do not get that at all.
Those pictures? Those smiling, proud faces? They offend me. They hurt me at my core, where my humanity is rooted.
I know I'm not the only one. But I also know there are many, many (oh, so many) people who do not share my view.
And that?
I do not get.
Nope. I do not get that at all.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Too Much Stuffs
Years ago, I read a book about a woman who lived with only 200 personal possessions. She was attached to almost nothing. Then I read a blog post about a man who decided to live with only 100 personal possessions for a year. Can you imagine?
I can. The idea of living with few possessions appeals to me... living light (there's that word again!).
Mostly.
I always say I'm not very stuff-oriented. And I think that's true.
Unless the 'stuff' is actually 'books.'
Then I'm very stuff-oriented.
But, in general, I'm not. I'm not a shopper. I hate to shop, actually. If I need something, I'm in and out as fast as possible. I'm not a collector of anything (except, you know, books). I don't like clutter (even though I can be terribly disorganized). I don't really own anything valuable -- not jewelry or gadgets or... anything.
I just don't care about stuff.
But, strangely, I still seem to accumulate... stuff. How does this happen?
I haven't worked that out yet.
I have, however, worked out a way to get rid of all the stuff I don't want or need. I read about this process, and then did it, two years ago. It worked beautifully. And I'm going to do it again this year (because, obviously, it's not permanent). Basically, it works this way:
Every day, for the whole year, you get rid of one thing.
The one thing can be given away, thrown away, or donated. It simply has to leave your possession. It can be something small or something large. It doesn't matter. It just has to be something you currently possess, which you no longer want or need.
Oh, and for every one new thing you bring in, you have to let an additional item go.
At first, and for a couple of months, it's easy. When I did this the first time, I kept a couple of bags in my closet, which I filled -- one thing per day -- with things I wanted to give away or donate. If I wanted to throw the thing out, of course, I simply did that. At the end of each month, I'd drop the donations off at the charity shop or library (yes, I can actually part with books. Some books. Occasionally). I'll use that method again.
As time goes on, however, the process gets more difficult. As it should. Toward the end of the year, I found myself really scrounging for something to get rid of. But I did it. Every day. It forced me to look at everything I owned -- really look -- and consider four things:
1. Do I use/wear it regularly?
2. If I don't use it regularly, will I need it occasionally?
3. If I have to replace it, will it be expensive?
4. Do I love it?
I found that I owned a lot things I didn't use/wear, could get by without, and didn't love.
So why keep them?
So I didn't.
I expect it will be harder this time around. I know it feels as though I've gathered a lot of belongings in the last year or so, but I'm sure that once I get going, I'll find that it's not really as bad as it appears. And if it turns out that I've gotten rid of everything I can by June, I'll be fine with that.
My Word of the Year is light. So here I go... lightening my load. Quite literally. I won't get down to 100 things. Not this year. But I'll journey on with fewer things -- with less stuff -- than last...
I can. The idea of living with few possessions appeals to me... living light (there's that word again!).
Mostly.
I always say I'm not very stuff-oriented. And I think that's true.
Unless the 'stuff' is actually 'books.'
Then I'm very stuff-oriented.
But, in general, I'm not. I'm not a shopper. I hate to shop, actually. If I need something, I'm in and out as fast as possible. I'm not a collector of anything (except, you know, books). I don't like clutter (even though I can be terribly disorganized). I don't really own anything valuable -- not jewelry or gadgets or... anything.
I just don't care about stuff.
But, strangely, I still seem to accumulate... stuff. How does this happen?
I haven't worked that out yet.
I have, however, worked out a way to get rid of all the stuff I don't want or need. I read about this process, and then did it, two years ago. It worked beautifully. And I'm going to do it again this year (because, obviously, it's not permanent). Basically, it works this way:
Every day, for the whole year, you get rid of one thing.
The one thing can be given away, thrown away, or donated. It simply has to leave your possession. It can be something small or something large. It doesn't matter. It just has to be something you currently possess, which you no longer want or need.
Oh, and for every one new thing you bring in, you have to let an additional item go.
At first, and for a couple of months, it's easy. When I did this the first time, I kept a couple of bags in my closet, which I filled -- one thing per day -- with things I wanted to give away or donate. If I wanted to throw the thing out, of course, I simply did that. At the end of each month, I'd drop the donations off at the charity shop or library (yes, I can actually part with books. Some books. Occasionally). I'll use that method again.
As time goes on, however, the process gets more difficult. As it should. Toward the end of the year, I found myself really scrounging for something to get rid of. But I did it. Every day. It forced me to look at everything I owned -- really look -- and consider four things:
1. Do I use/wear it regularly?
2. If I don't use it regularly, will I need it occasionally?
3. If I have to replace it, will it be expensive?
4. Do I love it?
I found that I owned a lot things I didn't use/wear, could get by without, and didn't love.
So why keep them?
So I didn't.
I expect it will be harder this time around. I know it feels as though I've gathered a lot of belongings in the last year or so, but I'm sure that once I get going, I'll find that it's not really as bad as it appears. And if it turns out that I've gotten rid of everything I can by June, I'll be fine with that.
My Word of the Year is light. So here I go... lightening my load. Quite literally. I won't get down to 100 things. Not this year. But I'll journey on with fewer things -- with less stuff -- than last...
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
The Journey of a Thousand Miles...
Everyone's heard the Lao Tzu quote, right?
I, however, tend to journey without knowing how many miles I have to travel. Or even where I'm really going. I ramble. A lot. Sometimes in circles. Sometimes uphill... both ways... in the snow.... Always, as my blog title mentions, toward clarity (though I certainly do take the long way there).
But there have been a few times in my life when I've known exactly how many miles I've had to travel. Quite literally.
When I used to do the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Events, I knew I'd be walking 60 miles in 3 days. I knew how many miles I had to walk to train for those (sometimes more than 50 per week). A little over a year ago, I walked 150 miles in a month, to raise money for a friend's cancer research foundation.
I like to know how many miles I have to go. I like finite distances. Even if they are far.
But lately, I haven't been journeying much. Not literally, anyway. And it shows, as my horrifying little foray onto the scale the other day proved. So I decided that one of my goals for 2014 was to journey more. On my own two feet.
I thought about how to do it... I considered just making it a goal to walk every day. But I wanted something a little more specific. So I thought about calculating the number of miles to a place I want to go and then walking them.
But the 3,000 miles to London seemed excessive... and wet.
Also? I'd never get there. And that just seemed unfair.
So after much thought, I decided 1,000 miles sounded like a good, round number.
It sounds like a lot when you say it in one lump sum, doesn't it? One thousand miles.
Yikes.
But when you split it up over 365 days, it's quite do-able. I actually have to walk fewer than three miles per day.
See? Do-able.
It even sounds kind of easy. Maybe too easy, huh?
But see, I know myself.
I'm a bit of a slacker.
And I know there will be a bunch of evenings when I'm going to get home, put my jammies on, and plant myself in front of the TV, the computer, or a book.
And for every day I skip, that increases the mileage necessary over subsequent days.
Hell, if I'm not careful, I could wind up with 500 miles to do next December.
As I say, I know myself.
The good thing is, I have a beautiful dog who needs to be walked. Now, I do take him to the park every day but I don't actually do that much walking. I kind of mosey and he runs around me. In circles (we're a lot alike, that pooch and me). So we'll have to adjust our routine a bit. And I have the gym to get to... and the trainer to listen to...
So I should be able to keep up.
(Please note that should is the operative word in that sentence.)
Now, bear in mind, I'm not journeying to any tangible place in particular. Most of these miles will be logged around my neighborhood, the park, and on the treadmill. Getting to a physical location isn't the point.
This is about something else for me. It's about feeling better. I feel better when I move (you'd think I'd do it more, eh? Go figure). It's also about the solitude. When I was training for the 3-days, I logged hundreds of miles by myself and I loved it. It gave me time to think. I was unplugged, with only my own thoughts and the world at my eyeballs and under my feet to entertain me. It gave me time to work through things bothering me. It gave me some clarity.
So, as always, I'll be rambling. But as always, I'll be rambling with some purpose. I'll be rambling toward clarity.
And after 1,000 miles? There should be some damned clarity. Don't you think?
We shall see.
To keep me accountable, I've put a mileage tracker up on my blog (top right, under my profile)... I'll update it daily... or I won't... we shall see. Feel free to ask me about it if it's not changing terribly often...
I should also mention that I'm tying this goal to another one, which involves a long-term writing project. I'll share more about that at another time.
In any case, as we all know, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
And that step is followed by a freakin' shitload of other steps.
So I'm off to lace up my sneakers.
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Just Wednesday
2014 will be here in about five hours. I've sat here for a little while this evening, trying to figure out what I'm going to write for my last post of the year.
Yeah. I've got nothin'.
In the past, I've written about making resolutions... and breaking resolutions; about the optimism a new year brings; about setting goals and starting over.
But I've spent today feeling really down. I'm not sure why, really. I mean, I'm glad 2013 is almost over, as it's been a year. It's been a year I felt I simply survived. And sometimes? Barely survived.
That's something, though, right? Surviving, even barely so, is better than the alternative, certainly.
But for as glad as I might feel that this year is coming to a close, I realized that tomorrow? 2014? It's really just the day after today. The slate isn't magically wiped clean simply because the calendar flips. When the sun comes up in the morning, it will be 2014, yes... but it will also be 'just Wednesday.' The mess I left on my desk today won't disappear when the ball drops. I won't wake up tomorrow miraculously filled with energy. My lymph nodes will still be full of cancer, my bank account still filled with nothing, my ex-husband still a jerk, my bedroom still a mess.
Right?
Right.
But still...
It is a new year. And the optimist in me (and she's there, even when she's hiding under the blankets, refusing to be social) wants to believe that this new year will be different. She wants to believe that goals will be met, passions uncovered, dreams realized, love found.
Actually, she sort of has to believe it.
Otherwise she'd just give up.
And giving up is not acceptable.
So, tonight, I'm going to ring in the New Year with my dog. And I'm going to wake up tomorrow -- on 'just Wednesday' -- and take him to the park. I'm going to clean my messy bedroom. I'm going to write down a few goals I want to meet in the coming year and plans to reach them.
And I'm going to do my very best to keep my heart and mind open, all year, in order to recognize and realize those passions, dreams, and love when they come my way.
I'm going to keep my Word of the Year - light - in mind, always. I'm going to try to remember that all I have to do is turn the light on when things feel dark.
And hopefully, when 2015 rolls around, I'll be able to say that I didn't simply survive 2014... I'll be able to say that I thrived.
And that? Might be the most important goal I've ever set... for a Wednesday.
Monday, December 30, 2013
The Good Fight
2013 is drawing to a close. And I'm not sad about it. At all.
It's been quite a year. My life changed. A lot. In some good ways and in some not-very-good ways.
I've mentioned that I started a new job this year -- one I thought was going to be great. But it hasn't proven such thus far. It's an incredibly worthwhile non-profit project... managed by a for-profit company. And those two? Don't mix. Not as far as I'm concerned, anyway. The for-profit company, concerned primarily with profits (duh), has managed everything -- from start to now (some 6 months later) -- in a way that has left much to be desired. Everyone involved is frustrated, tired, angry, overwhelmed, spent.
Me included.
I don't like to give up. I don't like to give in. But I'm also at an age where I've figured enough out to know that some things simply aren't worth fighting for.
And I've realized this year that Life is just too damned short to fight for things that aren't worth fighting for.
So I have some thinking to do. And some doing to do.
There's still some fight in me...
Now I just have to focus on a fight worth fighting.
This little guy's going to help me do it.
His name is Rocky.
He came into my life recently, quite by serendipitous accident, when I really needed something to remind me that Life is about fighting the good fight...
And getting up when you feel like staying down...
And that with hard work and focus, you can love your dreams into reality.
Here's to a new year... a new focus... a new reality.
It's been quite a year. My life changed. A lot. In some good ways and in some not-very-good ways.
I've mentioned that I started a new job this year -- one I thought was going to be great. But it hasn't proven such thus far. It's an incredibly worthwhile non-profit project... managed by a for-profit company. And those two? Don't mix. Not as far as I'm concerned, anyway. The for-profit company, concerned primarily with profits (duh), has managed everything -- from start to now (some 6 months later) -- in a way that has left much to be desired. Everyone involved is frustrated, tired, angry, overwhelmed, spent.
Me included.
I don't like to give up. I don't like to give in. But I'm also at an age where I've figured enough out to know that some things simply aren't worth fighting for.
And I've realized this year that Life is just too damned short to fight for things that aren't worth fighting for.
So I have some thinking to do. And some doing to do.
There's still some fight in me...
Now I just have to focus on a fight worth fighting.
This little guy's going to help me do it.
His name is Rocky.
He came into my life recently, quite by serendipitous accident, when I really needed something to remind me that Life is about fighting the good fight...
And getting up when you feel like staying down...
And that with hard work and focus, you can love your dreams into reality.
Here's to a new year... a new focus... a new reality.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Lessons Before Dying
Yesterday, on December 28, a beautiful man died.
I didn't know him personally. He was the friend of a friend. He was actually, from what I can gather, the friend of an entire city -- a well-loved television news personality in San Diego, CA.
His name was Loren Nancarrow.
And he was beautiful -- physically, and in his heart and soul. And even though I did not know him personally, I know this for sure.
Less than a year ago, he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. He decided to share this experience with the people who knew and loved him -- and with those who would come to wish they knew him and loved him from afar -- via his blog, The Nancarrow Project, and his Facebook page. Through is postings, and those of his lovely wife and children, he shared the experience of living with -- and dying from -- this terrible, cruel cancer.
He was, through it all, beautiful... and brave and funny and matter-of-fact and real.
His words -- every post -- affected me. Full of honesty and humor and compassion, they made me smile or cry or resolve to do more and better... and always, wish I knew personally the man who wrote them.
I read a lovely tribute to this beautiful, very real man this morning (you can read it in its entirety here). In it, the author listed five lessons Loren Nancarrow imparted to the people he touched:
My heart aches for a life cut short... for his family, who clearly adored him and will miss him beyond comprehension... for his friends, whose lives he enriched beyond measure.
I will miss his words -- his insight, his courage, his humor. And I will take his lessons to heart, because they are damned good ones.
And I'll be thinking of the lessons I hope to leave behind one day.
What lessons would you like to leave?
I didn't know him personally. He was the friend of a friend. He was actually, from what I can gather, the friend of an entire city -- a well-loved television news personality in San Diego, CA.
His name was Loren Nancarrow.
And he was beautiful -- physically, and in his heart and soul. And even though I did not know him personally, I know this for sure.
Less than a year ago, he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. He decided to share this experience with the people who knew and loved him -- and with those who would come to wish they knew him and loved him from afar -- via his blog, The Nancarrow Project, and his Facebook page. Through is postings, and those of his lovely wife and children, he shared the experience of living with -- and dying from -- this terrible, cruel cancer.
He was, through it all, beautiful... and brave and funny and matter-of-fact and real.
His words -- every post -- affected me. Full of honesty and humor and compassion, they made me smile or cry or resolve to do more and better... and always, wish I knew personally the man who wrote them.
I read a lovely tribute to this beautiful, very real man this morning (you can read it in its entirety here). In it, the author listed five lessons Loren Nancarrow imparted to the people he touched:
- Find reasons to rejoice.
- Anticipate "the possibilities of tomorrow."
- Remain in awe of sunsets.
- "Wherever they are, whatever they may be, seek out your passions and cultivate them” while also being mindful "that it is far better to do good for others, than to do good for oneself."
- Be curious.
My heart aches for a life cut short... for his family, who clearly adored him and will miss him beyond comprehension... for his friends, whose lives he enriched beyond measure.
I will miss his words -- his insight, his courage, his humor. And I will take his lessons to heart, because they are damned good ones.
And I'll be thinking of the lessons I hope to leave behind one day.
What lessons would you like to leave?
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Fat Karma
I can remember, many, many years ago, saying these words to my best friend, while observing a rather, shall we say, 'portly' (or, if you please, 'rotund'... 'corpulent'... 'well-padded') woman in a public setting:
"Good God. Please don't ever let me get that fat!"
Was it a nice thing to say? No. No, it certainly was not. But (and I know it doesn't matter, or make it any nicer) I didn't say it within earshot. She had no idea I thought she looked awful or that I was making my friend swear not to allow me to become like her. I was young. And, at times, insensitive. And there was no such thing as 'fat-shaming' back then. Honestly? There weren't as many fat people back then.
Still, it was not nice.
But you know what?
Karma
Karma, that's what.
Also?
My friend let me down. Way down. Way, way, way down.
See, I got on the scale this morning. For the first time in a while.
And I was afraid Ryan was going to have to call the rescue squad.
I'm guessing I now weigh the equivalent of a third-grader MORE than that fat woman from years ago. I am afraid I am the person skinny college girls look at and say to their best friends, "Good God. Please don't ever let me get that fat!"
Like I said, Karma, baby.
But seriously, how did this happen?
I could give you all sorts of excuses. It's been a rough year. I haven't been feeling well for a long time. I mean, hello! I have cancer!
...
Did it work for you?
Yeah. Even I didn't buy it.
The truth is, even though I haven't been feeling well for a while, it hasn't stopped me from shoveling all the wrong kinds of food into my mouth (which I've been doing since long before the cancer diagnosis). It hasn't stopped me from making excuses for skipping the gym (which I've been doing since long before the cancer diagnosis). It hasn't stopped me from stepping on the scale every so often to see what's going on, so that I don't have a cardiac episode when I eventually do step on.
In short, I have allowed this to happen.
And yes, I know all about how I need to love myself for who I am, no matter my flaws. I know I am more than the size of my ass (though, truly? I don't think I could be much more than that). I know my personality and my intelligence and my worth as a person have nothing to do with the size of my jeans (which is coming dangerously close to matching my age, for crying out loud).
I do! I know all that. I promise!
But the fact remains, if I gain one more pound, I'm going to be bedridden! And I don't want to get winded tying my shoes! And I would prefer it if my butt does not require its own zip code!
So I marched (where 'marched' equals 'walked slowly, so as not to hurt myself') my ample backside into the gym today and I scheduled several sessions with the personal trainer.
And to give you an idea about how serious I am? I didn't even check to see if I got the cute one.
I will get this in hand. I will. I'll eat better (real, whole foods)... I'll keep those appointments with the trainer (and I'll even do what he says)... I'll do all the right things. I know what they are... I know how and when and where to do them... and, most importantly, I know why I need to do them. My goal, beyond simply feeling (and looking) better, is to be as healthy as I can be; to avoid chemo for as long as possible; to keep my lymph nodes as small as I can for as long as I can. Now, is there any guarantee that living healthier will keep my cancer at bay? No. But I believe, wholeheartedly, that it will help... and if it doesn't, it certainly won't hurt.
And I will put a gag and a straight-jacket on the self-deprecating part of my psyche who seems to want to see me fall on my face. I'll unlock the door she's been guarding -- the one that houses the part of me who says kind things to myself, is encouraging, and who doesn't think I'm an enormous failure.
Although the enormous part is not inaccurate. Just sayin'.
OK, that was the last one. I promise. Really. Honest. The very last.
Truly.
Yesterday I posted that my Word of the Year is light. So, here's to a lighter me in 2014... in every way.
"Good God. Please don't ever let me get that fat!"
Was it a nice thing to say? No. No, it certainly was not. But (and I know it doesn't matter, or make it any nicer) I didn't say it within earshot. She had no idea I thought she looked awful or that I was making my friend swear not to allow me to become like her. I was young. And, at times, insensitive. And there was no such thing as 'fat-shaming' back then. Honestly? There weren't as many fat people back then.
Still, it was not nice.
But you know what?
Karma
Karma, that's what.
Also?
My friend let me down. Way down. Way, way, way down.
See, I got on the scale this morning. For the first time in a while.
And I was afraid Ryan was going to have to call the rescue squad.
I'm guessing I now weigh the equivalent of a third-grader MORE than that fat woman from years ago. I am afraid I am the person skinny college girls look at and say to their best friends, "Good God. Please don't ever let me get that fat!"
Like I said, Karma, baby.
But seriously, how did this happen?
I could give you all sorts of excuses. It's been a rough year. I haven't been feeling well for a long time. I mean, hello! I have cancer!
...
Did it work for you?
Yeah. Even I didn't buy it.
The truth is, even though I haven't been feeling well for a while, it hasn't stopped me from shoveling all the wrong kinds of food into my mouth (which I've been doing since long before the cancer diagnosis). It hasn't stopped me from making excuses for skipping the gym (which I've been doing since long before the cancer diagnosis). It hasn't stopped me from stepping on the scale every so often to see what's going on, so that I don't have a cardiac episode when I eventually do step on.
In short, I have allowed this to happen.
And yes, I know all about how I need to love myself for who I am, no matter my flaws. I know I am more than the size of my ass (though, truly? I don't think I could be much more than that). I know my personality and my intelligence and my worth as a person have nothing to do with the size of my jeans (which is coming dangerously close to matching my age, for crying out loud).
I do! I know all that. I promise!
But the fact remains, if I gain one more pound, I'm going to be bedridden! And I don't want to get winded tying my shoes! And I would prefer it if my butt does not require its own zip code!
So I marched (where 'marched' equals 'walked slowly, so as not to hurt myself') my ample backside into the gym today and I scheduled several sessions with the personal trainer.
And to give you an idea about how serious I am? I didn't even check to see if I got the cute one.
I will get this in hand. I will. I'll eat better (real, whole foods)... I'll keep those appointments with the trainer (and I'll even do what he says)... I'll do all the right things. I know what they are... I know how and when and where to do them... and, most importantly, I know why I need to do them. My goal, beyond simply feeling (and looking) better, is to be as healthy as I can be; to avoid chemo for as long as possible; to keep my lymph nodes as small as I can for as long as I can. Now, is there any guarantee that living healthier will keep my cancer at bay? No. But I believe, wholeheartedly, that it will help... and if it doesn't, it certainly won't hurt.
And I will put a gag and a straight-jacket on the self-deprecating part of my psyche who seems to want to see me fall on my face. I'll unlock the door she's been guarding -- the one that houses the part of me who says kind things to myself, is encouraging, and who doesn't think I'm an enormous failure.
Although the enormous part is not inaccurate. Just sayin'.
OK, that was the last one. I promise. Really. Honest. The very last.
Truly.
Yesterday I posted that my Word of the Year is light. So, here's to a lighter me in 2014... in every way.
Friday, December 27, 2013
The Lightness of Being
For the past several years, I've been following an adorable blog called The Lettered Cottage. It's written by an adorable couple - Layla and Kevin Palmer - who mostly write about decorating their adorable house(s). Every now and then, though, they do a different sort of post... like today...
You can read it here: 2014 Word of the Year
According to Layla, since 2006, she's been choosing a Word of the Year to "...focus on, meditate on, and reflect upon..." as she goes about her daily life. She says, "[The words have] been imbedded into who I am, and into who I’m becoming. They’ve been what I’ve needed (and didn’t know I needed). They’ve helped me to breathe deeper, to see clearer, and to grow."
As for what you're supposed to do with your word of the year, she goes on to explain, "You live with it, you let it speak to you…you follow where it leads. There are no rules…it’s just supposed to be a little spark."
I? Love this idea!
I mean, I crazy-love this idea!
I'm a word person. I adore words. I'm comfortable with them, surrounded by them. They are powerful. They excite me, inspire me, soothe me, and give me hope.
So the idea of choosing a word to focus on for the coming year?
It made me smile. Big. It gave me the warm fuzzies.
And, as it turned out, I didn't even have to choose.
My word? Chose me.
As I was reading her post, the word 'light' washed over me. I felt it physically. It settled in me and around me and I knew it would be my Word of the Year. And it makes sense, really. 2013 was a year filled with some pretty dark moments... scary moments... moments that felt as if they'd go on forever... moments that weighed me down - body, mind, heart, and soul.
Light is what I want, need, and will seek in 2014.
Light in the dark moments... lighter thoughts... a lighter heart... even physical lightness.
I've mentioned how much I love the lyrics from Leonard Cohen's 'Anthem'...
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
They've become my anthem. And they're about... hello...
Light.
And? How perfection isn't...
Well, it just isn't. Imperfection allows the light in -- and back out -- of us.
A beautiful concept, no?
Yes.
So, here's to a year filled with light. I'm ready for it. I'm going to focus on it, meditate on it, and follow where it leads me.
You know I'll keep you posted...
Now, if you were to pick a Word of the Year, what would it be? I'd love to know...
You can read it here: 2014 Word of the Year
According to Layla, since 2006, she's been choosing a Word of the Year to "...focus on, meditate on, and reflect upon..." as she goes about her daily life. She says, "[The words have] been imbedded into who I am, and into who I’m becoming. They’ve been what I’ve needed (and didn’t know I needed). They’ve helped me to breathe deeper, to see clearer, and to grow."
As for what you're supposed to do with your word of the year, she goes on to explain, "You live with it, you let it speak to you…you follow where it leads. There are no rules…it’s just supposed to be a little spark."
I? Love this idea!
I mean, I crazy-love this idea!
I'm a word person. I adore words. I'm comfortable with them, surrounded by them. They are powerful. They excite me, inspire me, soothe me, and give me hope.
So the idea of choosing a word to focus on for the coming year?
It made me smile. Big. It gave me the warm fuzzies.
And, as it turned out, I didn't even have to choose.
My word? Chose me.
As I was reading her post, the word 'light' washed over me. I felt it physically. It settled in me and around me and I knew it would be my Word of the Year. And it makes sense, really. 2013 was a year filled with some pretty dark moments... scary moments... moments that felt as if they'd go on forever... moments that weighed me down - body, mind, heart, and soul.
Light is what I want, need, and will seek in 2014.
Light in the dark moments... lighter thoughts... a lighter heart... even physical lightness.
I've mentioned how much I love the lyrics from Leonard Cohen's 'Anthem'...
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
They've become my anthem. And they're about... hello...
Light.
And? How perfection isn't...
Well, it just isn't. Imperfection allows the light in -- and back out -- of us.
A beautiful concept, no?
Yes.
So, here's to a year filled with light. I'm ready for it. I'm going to focus on it, meditate on it, and follow where it leads me.
You know I'll keep you posted...
Now, if you were to pick a Word of the Year, what would it be? I'd love to know...
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Oh Dear...
A couple of years ago, when I was really active in Blogland, most of my posts would generate a fair number of comments... from 10 to 50, depending on the topic... and that meant that many more people were actually reading, as only a small percentage comments. Now, this was the result, not of great writing, but of me being an extremely active participant in this fabulous little world. I read a lot of blogs... I commented on a lot of blogs... and people commented here, at The Ramblings.
Good blogging is, most certainly, a reciprocal activity.
But since I've started back up, I haven't had the time I used to have to hop around and read. I wish I did, as there are some amazing writers out there, not to mention people for whom I feel genuine affection, even if I've never met them in person.
So I've had to get used to writing for a smaller audience than before. And that's actually been fine. I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing every day... to find things to write about, even when I'm not inspired... to not worry about whether or not what I'm putting down is good enough for anyone else to see...
I'm writing for me this time around.
I do mention each post on my Facebook page and a number of my friends (many of whom are bloggy friends who became FB friends) read from there. I like that. It's nice.
So I still keep an eye on my feed. Feedjit isn't as effective as it was, as it doesn't capture cities/countries if the reader comes from a device other than a computer (so I can't always tell where people are coming from), but it does record all direct hits to a post, regardless of the device used to access it.
That's kind of cool.
Most of my posts, in the first week or so, get anywhere from 50 to 100 hits. That's not including the people who come to the main page of the blog, without clicking onto a specific post. And I'm really happy with that. That's a lot of people. Some posts lately have gotten has many 350, 400, and nearly 500 hits. That? Is very cool. Very cool.
But one in particular? Has hit the ball out of the park. Way out of the park...
About three weeks ago, I did a post called That Boy-Girl Thing. It was about how my teenaged daughter views her first "real" boyfriend relationship.
Sweet, right?
That post has gotten... are you ready for it?
1800 hits
In just over three weeks.
I could not figure out for the life of me why.
Then I noticed that a few people came to it from Google... by searching for...
Girls
And I realized...
That somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 people came to my blog, looking for...
Porn.
Oh dear.
And then I laughed and laughed, thinking how disappointed they must have been.
Good blogging is, most certainly, a reciprocal activity.
But since I've started back up, I haven't had the time I used to have to hop around and read. I wish I did, as there are some amazing writers out there, not to mention people for whom I feel genuine affection, even if I've never met them in person.
So I've had to get used to writing for a smaller audience than before. And that's actually been fine. I'm trying to get back into the habit of writing every day... to find things to write about, even when I'm not inspired... to not worry about whether or not what I'm putting down is good enough for anyone else to see...
I'm writing for me this time around.
I do mention each post on my Facebook page and a number of my friends (many of whom are bloggy friends who became FB friends) read from there. I like that. It's nice.
So I still keep an eye on my feed. Feedjit isn't as effective as it was, as it doesn't capture cities/countries if the reader comes from a device other than a computer (so I can't always tell where people are coming from), but it does record all direct hits to a post, regardless of the device used to access it.
That's kind of cool.
Most of my posts, in the first week or so, get anywhere from 50 to 100 hits. That's not including the people who come to the main page of the blog, without clicking onto a specific post. And I'm really happy with that. That's a lot of people. Some posts lately have gotten has many 350, 400, and nearly 500 hits. That? Is very cool. Very cool.
But one in particular? Has hit the ball out of the park. Way out of the park...
About three weeks ago, I did a post called That Boy-Girl Thing. It was about how my teenaged daughter views her first "real" boyfriend relationship.
Sweet, right?
That post has gotten... are you ready for it?
1800 hits
In just over three weeks.
I could not figure out for the life of me why.
Then I noticed that a few people came to it from Google... by searching for...
Girls
And I realized...
That somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 people came to my blog, looking for...
Porn.
Oh dear.
And then I laughed and laughed, thinking how disappointed they must have been.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Of Daughters and Backbones
Every year, my daughter asks me what I want for Christmas. I never know what to tell her. I rarely want anything specific and this year was no different.
Mostly I just want to get through the end of December, unscathed.
But that's not really in her price range.
This year, she's been doing a lot of cool projects for her fine arts class. I've liked them all... been impressed with them all. She doesn't consider herself a 'visual artist' (she got into the program in the creative writing strand), so seeing her step out of her comfort zone and produce really original, risky (for her) pieces of tangible, visible art has been kind of wonderful.
So I asked her to make something for me... something I could hang up and look at.
So she did.
The quote is:
"Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be." (Clementine Paddleford)
At first, I thought it an odd choice. After all, I'm her mother, not her daughter.
But as I read it, over and over and over, I was struck by how relevant it is to my life right now, in this very moment.
I asked her why she chose that quote to illustrate. She said she didn't really know, but she kept coming back to it... she was drawn to it...
It just seemed right, even if it didn't seem right.
I actually understood that.
Since she was little, I've tried to teach her that wishing for something isn't enough... if you want it, you have to work for it... you have to throw your back into it.
And she does.
But I don't. Not always.
And not lately, it seems.
There's been a lot of wishing going on... in my head and in my heart...
But I haven't been actively working toward what I'm wishing for.
I've been sitting at the bottom of the ladder instead of climbing toward the top.
See, I don't like ladders. They scare me. They give me jelly-knees and when I'm on them and look down, I feel sick.
But you know what?
I also haven't gotten to see the view from the top. Not lately. Not for quite a while.
So I'm going to hang this beautiful piece and I'm going to read it every day. I'm going to remember that wishing isn't enough... that to see the view, I have to climb the ladder.
I'm going to dust my backbone off and replace my wishbone with it... and I'm going to get to work.
Mostly I just want to get through the end of December, unscathed.
But that's not really in her price range.
This year, she's been doing a lot of cool projects for her fine arts class. I've liked them all... been impressed with them all. She doesn't consider herself a 'visual artist' (she got into the program in the creative writing strand), so seeing her step out of her comfort zone and produce really original, risky (for her) pieces of tangible, visible art has been kind of wonderful.
So I asked her to make something for me... something I could hang up and look at.
So she did.
The quote is:
"Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be." (Clementine Paddleford)
At first, I thought it an odd choice. After all, I'm her mother, not her daughter.
But as I read it, over and over and over, I was struck by how relevant it is to my life right now, in this very moment.
I asked her why she chose that quote to illustrate. She said she didn't really know, but she kept coming back to it... she was drawn to it...
It just seemed right, even if it didn't seem right.
I actually understood that.
Since she was little, I've tried to teach her that wishing for something isn't enough... if you want it, you have to work for it... you have to throw your back into it.
And she does.
But I don't. Not always.
And not lately, it seems.
There's been a lot of wishing going on... in my head and in my heart...
But I haven't been actively working toward what I'm wishing for.
I've been sitting at the bottom of the ladder instead of climbing toward the top.
See, I don't like ladders. They scare me. They give me jelly-knees and when I'm on them and look down, I feel sick.
But you know what?
I also haven't gotten to see the view from the top. Not lately. Not for quite a while.
So I'm going to hang this beautiful piece and I'm going to read it every day. I'm going to remember that wishing isn't enough... that to see the view, I have to climb the ladder.
I'm going to dust my backbone off and replace my wishbone with it... and I'm going to get to work.
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