I wrote over 2000 words for "Skyhawk" today. Good words, I think -- we'll see if that opinion changes tomorrow when I read to revise, but they felt solid and real.
The whole experience felt danged good, to be honest. Productive, positive, and ME.
What would it be like to write 2000 solid words every day?
I CAN -- I know I can.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Long ago -- a true story
It was the fourth afternoon in a row that I’d turned the corner and found Lynn sitting in shiny red Acura on my driveway. I didn’t really want her there, didn’t know her beyond a few short conversations between church services, indeed had seen her for the first time only three weeks before when she joined the choir, but in her mind somehow we were new best friends. I wanted to tell her that I needed this time to myself, needed to unwind and walk in silence, needed the scratchy trudge of rubber-soled walking shoes across gravel and asphalt scraping away the edges of my sadness and stress – but somehow I couldn’t. So I let her encroach on the one ritual I’d established just for me, the only time I felt at peace.
So we walked -- and she talked. I can’t even say ‘we talked,’ because it wasn’t that. It was an interrogation, sweetened by gushy compliments about my hair, the way I’d played the offertory solo last Sunday, the way she admired my rapport with the choir and its director. Did I know much about his wife? Had I spent time at their house? Were the kids close to their father? She wasn’t always happy with my short, deflecting answers and frequent silences, but then she’d change tack, rattling on about the flowered curtains the decorator had installed in her bedroom, her wine collection, how great it was that she’d found a new friend (me), and her last vacation in Baja. Disjointed, rambling prattle followed by more questions. Always questions. I was uncomfortable, but still I walked.
“Let’s go this way,” she said. “I promised I’d stop by Phil’s house and feed the dog this week.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“My almost ex-husband. Come on.” With that, she stopped prattling and stepped up the pace. I thought about turning around and heading home, but then I pictured the inevitable confrontation in front of the gossiping harpies in the choir and decided to continue. I needed the job, both for the extra income and because it filled the hours and I didn’t have to think.
One more walk and I’ll tell her, I told myself. One more walk and to hell with what anybody says or thinks.
I stayed a few steps behind; focusing on the spackled, glittering bits of sunlight filtered through the line of purple jacaranda trees separating the street from the gully and railroad track. A dingy paneled truck sped past, tires spewing a cloud of dust and gritty bits of dirt across my path. I dragged the back of my hand across a tiny dribble of sweat beading my forehead, resenting everything: the truck, the heat, the walk, and the woman dragging me into her drama.
Phil’s house smelled of overripe bananas and wet dog, stagnant air and the stench of musty tobacco. I watched her pick up and examine the scattered envelopes and circulars littering the polished wood floor of the foyer. Lynn ignored the excited leaps and yips of the wiggly-bottomed black mutt, sometimes shoving his nose aside to grab another piece of mail, not saying a word to either of us as she studied every envelope, pocketed a few, and then dropped and scattered the stack.
I followed her into the house, pausing to slip off my dirty shoes before stepping into the carpeted living room.
“No need,” she said, grinning at me as she ground her own dirty shoes in little circles over the abandoned mail.
The dog sniffed my empty shoes before sitting down and turning his damp nose and stubby-prickly whiskers into my right knee. I patted the space between his straight-up ears and then bent to scratch the fur between his front legs as I murmured doggie nonsense in his ear. He sighed and lolled harder against my side.
“Come on, let’s get this over with,” Lynn called from somewhere in the house.
I heard a door slam, water rushing from a faucet, the sound of rustling paper. The dog licked my hand and trotted towards the noise, so I followed him through a living room decorated in muted shades of blue and yellow, past a wall of sliding glass reflecting the blue shimmers of the pool outside. The dog’s toenails clicked staccato patterns on the flagstone tiles.
Silence.
“Lynn?” Should I follow? I hesitated in the doorway, wondering at the difference between the chattering, intrusive woman ruining my peace and this silent, frankly scary alternative.
“Shit!”
Something crashed to the floor, the dog yelped, and Lynn slammed past me. I staggered, grabbing the doorframe as she rushed through the house and onto the street.
I stood there for a moment, thinking that this was some rude joke and she’d come running back inside the house, laughing at what she’d pulled over on me.
Apparently not.
I heard the rattle of the dog’s collar as he licked something, heard the insistent beep of a still-open refrigerator door, and the sound of metal scraping on tile. I turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen.
The dog was busy exploring the broken shell of an Easter basket, licking pink frosting from a sugared egg as his claws pulled the cellophane off a chocolate bunny. I hurried to snatch the lethal candy out of his mouth and off the floor, pulling him by his collar to the safety of a small half bathroom before grabbing a trashcan and cleaning up the mess.
I spent almost an hour picking up green plastic strands of Easter grass, foil-covered chocolate eggs, pastel jelly beans and jagged pieces of broken glass, mopping the floor and searching the cabinets for substitute bowls big enough to hold water and dry kibble. The dog whined and scratched at the closed bathroom door, but I couldn’t let him out until I was sure everything was cleaned up and he wouldn’t be hurt.
The two of us slouched on the front doorsill for another hour before one of the neighbors pulled into her driveway. I didn’t know quite what to say, but ended up telling her that Lynn had gotten ill and left the house before giving me the key to lock up. She seemed to accept my explanation – I don’t know why. Perhaps she’d witnessed other outbursts, perhaps she was tired herself and wanted only to go inside her own home and shut the world out, perhaps –
Doesn’t matter. She waited while I hugged the dog and whispered a last goodbye in his ear, then used the key Phil left with her for just such emergencies to relock the door.
I walked home.
Lynn married a newly arrived, recently divorced minister about four years after I decided to listen to my own soul instead of picking up after others.
I never learned the dog’s name. I wish I had.
So we walked -- and she talked. I can’t even say ‘we talked,’ because it wasn’t that. It was an interrogation, sweetened by gushy compliments about my hair, the way I’d played the offertory solo last Sunday, the way she admired my rapport with the choir and its director. Did I know much about his wife? Had I spent time at their house? Were the kids close to their father? She wasn’t always happy with my short, deflecting answers and frequent silences, but then she’d change tack, rattling on about the flowered curtains the decorator had installed in her bedroom, her wine collection, how great it was that she’d found a new friend (me), and her last vacation in Baja. Disjointed, rambling prattle followed by more questions. Always questions. I was uncomfortable, but still I walked.
“Let’s go this way,” she said. “I promised I’d stop by Phil’s house and feed the dog this week.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“My almost ex-husband. Come on.” With that, she stopped prattling and stepped up the pace. I thought about turning around and heading home, but then I pictured the inevitable confrontation in front of the gossiping harpies in the choir and decided to continue. I needed the job, both for the extra income and because it filled the hours and I didn’t have to think.
One more walk and I’ll tell her, I told myself. One more walk and to hell with what anybody says or thinks.
I stayed a few steps behind; focusing on the spackled, glittering bits of sunlight filtered through the line of purple jacaranda trees separating the street from the gully and railroad track. A dingy paneled truck sped past, tires spewing a cloud of dust and gritty bits of dirt across my path. I dragged the back of my hand across a tiny dribble of sweat beading my forehead, resenting everything: the truck, the heat, the walk, and the woman dragging me into her drama.
Phil’s house smelled of overripe bananas and wet dog, stagnant air and the stench of musty tobacco. I watched her pick up and examine the scattered envelopes and circulars littering the polished wood floor of the foyer. Lynn ignored the excited leaps and yips of the wiggly-bottomed black mutt, sometimes shoving his nose aside to grab another piece of mail, not saying a word to either of us as she studied every envelope, pocketed a few, and then dropped and scattered the stack.
I followed her into the house, pausing to slip off my dirty shoes before stepping into the carpeted living room.
“No need,” she said, grinning at me as she ground her own dirty shoes in little circles over the abandoned mail.
The dog sniffed my empty shoes before sitting down and turning his damp nose and stubby-prickly whiskers into my right knee. I patted the space between his straight-up ears and then bent to scratch the fur between his front legs as I murmured doggie nonsense in his ear. He sighed and lolled harder against my side.
“Come on, let’s get this over with,” Lynn called from somewhere in the house.
I heard a door slam, water rushing from a faucet, the sound of rustling paper. The dog licked my hand and trotted towards the noise, so I followed him through a living room decorated in muted shades of blue and yellow, past a wall of sliding glass reflecting the blue shimmers of the pool outside. The dog’s toenails clicked staccato patterns on the flagstone tiles.
Silence.
“Lynn?” Should I follow? I hesitated in the doorway, wondering at the difference between the chattering, intrusive woman ruining my peace and this silent, frankly scary alternative.
“Shit!”
Something crashed to the floor, the dog yelped, and Lynn slammed past me. I staggered, grabbing the doorframe as she rushed through the house and onto the street.
I stood there for a moment, thinking that this was some rude joke and she’d come running back inside the house, laughing at what she’d pulled over on me.
Apparently not.
I heard the rattle of the dog’s collar as he licked something, heard the insistent beep of a still-open refrigerator door, and the sound of metal scraping on tile. I turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen.
The dog was busy exploring the broken shell of an Easter basket, licking pink frosting from a sugared egg as his claws pulled the cellophane off a chocolate bunny. I hurried to snatch the lethal candy out of his mouth and off the floor, pulling him by his collar to the safety of a small half bathroom before grabbing a trashcan and cleaning up the mess.
I spent almost an hour picking up green plastic strands of Easter grass, foil-covered chocolate eggs, pastel jelly beans and jagged pieces of broken glass, mopping the floor and searching the cabinets for substitute bowls big enough to hold water and dry kibble. The dog whined and scratched at the closed bathroom door, but I couldn’t let him out until I was sure everything was cleaned up and he wouldn’t be hurt.
The two of us slouched on the front doorsill for another hour before one of the neighbors pulled into her driveway. I didn’t know quite what to say, but ended up telling her that Lynn had gotten ill and left the house before giving me the key to lock up. She seemed to accept my explanation – I don’t know why. Perhaps she’d witnessed other outbursts, perhaps she was tired herself and wanted only to go inside her own home and shut the world out, perhaps –
Doesn’t matter. She waited while I hugged the dog and whispered a last goodbye in his ear, then used the key Phil left with her for just such emergencies to relock the door.
I walked home.
Lynn married a newly arrived, recently divorced minister about four years after I decided to listen to my own soul instead of picking up after others.
I never learned the dog’s name. I wish I had.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Happy New Year
I remember…
11:59 p.m. and Happy New Year. Sitting on the ugly mauve toadstool-banquette in the middle of the empty Orlando airport concourse, suitcases next to me, unread book in hand, waiting for the 7:10 a.m. flight home. Spinning through his last words, the note, and the hours since my heart slammed shut for the last time.
“I didn’t want to hurt you, so I wrote this while you were in the shower this morning.”
He handed me the note, a half-sheet of single-spaced typing creased with a single crooked fold in the middle.
I remember standing at the kitchen counter, the one with about fifty coats of polyurethane sealant built up on the faux-wood finish because he didn’t want it ruined by moisture.
Reading the note a second, third, fourth time. Planning my escape.
“It’s not you.”
Sure thing.
“Writing this hurt me a lot.”
“You could stay – maybe things will change.”
Not for me. No going back.
I called the airline and moved my return flight back four days. $618 that I didn’t have, but it didn’t matter. Thirteen hours until check in.
“You can still spend the night. We could talk this out. Try again.”
No, I couldn’t, and no, we couldn’t. I called a cab. One hour. Time enough.
Too much, actually.
He stood in the bedroom doorway watching me pack, occasionally repeating “I’m sorry,” “I didn’t want to hurt you,” and “My mother will be very upset that you left.”
Headlights splashed across the bedroom window, illuminating the shallow grays of early darkness. I picked up my bag, shouldered my purse and carryon.
The cabbie honked.
I looked at him for the first time since he handed me the note.
He moved.
Thank God.
I dropped my zircon engagement ring next to the crumpled-up note on the phony wood counter.
Funny thing. I didn’t cry at the airport, didn’t cry on the plane, didn’t cry as the shuttle van threaded through the freeway traffic, didn’t cry as I paid the pet sitter and then closed and locked myself inside. Actually I didn’t cry for three whole days, almost exactly the amount of time I’d been with Dan on this trip before he handed me the note.
His last words?
“I love you.”
Of course he did.
I remember…
11:59 p.m. and Happy New Year. Sitting on the ugly mauve toadstool-banquette in the middle of the empty Orlando airport concourse, suitcases next to me, unread book in hand, waiting for the 7:10 a.m. flight home. Spinning through his last words, the note, and the hours since my heart slammed shut for the last time.
“I didn’t want to hurt you, so I wrote this while you were in the shower this morning.”
He handed me the note, a half-sheet of single-spaced typing creased with a single crooked fold in the middle.
I remember standing at the kitchen counter, the one with about fifty coats of polyurethane sealant built up on the faux-wood finish because he didn’t want it ruined by moisture.
Reading the note a second, third, fourth time. Planning my escape.
“It’s not you.”
Sure thing.
“Writing this hurt me a lot.”
“You could stay – maybe things will change.”
Not for me. No going back.
I called the airline and moved my return flight back four days. $618 that I didn’t have, but it didn’t matter. Thirteen hours until check in.
“You can still spend the night. We could talk this out. Try again.”
No, I couldn’t, and no, we couldn’t. I called a cab. One hour. Time enough.
Too much, actually.
He stood in the bedroom doorway watching me pack, occasionally repeating “I’m sorry,” “I didn’t want to hurt you,” and “My mother will be very upset that you left.”
Headlights splashed across the bedroom window, illuminating the shallow grays of early darkness. I picked up my bag, shouldered my purse and carryon.
The cabbie honked.
I looked at him for the first time since he handed me the note.
He moved.
Thank God.
I dropped my zircon engagement ring next to the crumpled-up note on the phony wood counter.
Funny thing. I didn’t cry at the airport, didn’t cry on the plane, didn’t cry as the shuttle van threaded through the freeway traffic, didn’t cry as I paid the pet sitter and then closed and locked myself inside. Actually I didn’t cry for three whole days, almost exactly the amount of time I’d been with Dan on this trip before he handed me the note.
His last words?
“I love you.”
Of course he did.
I remember…
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Saturday night
Kathy's husband left her tonight. I don't know if it's permanent. I don't know what's wrong with him. He insisted over and over again that it wasn't her, that she deserved better than what she could give him, that he still loved her but his feelings had changed, that they had nothing in common anymore -- and that it wasn't her.
Is there ANYTHING fair left in this life? Is love EVER fair and honest and true -- and forever?
I don't understand. I don't know if I ever will understand. Any of it. For any of us.
Is there ANYTHING fair left in this life? Is love EVER fair and honest and true -- and forever?
I don't understand. I don't know if I ever will understand. Any of it. For any of us.
Tell me something I can't forget...
“Tell me something I can’t forget…”
…here in ‘good girl’ and ‘guilt’ land, the lifetime-land where I take care of everyone else’s needs, bow and curtsey to anyone loud enough (or enough of a bully) to push me around and make me afraid (easily done, unfortunately), and the land where I absorb everyone else’s anxieties, foibles, and concerns as my own. Healthy? Hell, no – but I’m a lifer, conditioned from birth by the screaming and emotional abuse surrounding me, the loss of everyone who got past these self-imposed barriers, the fear of ‘being found out’ even though there’s really NOTHING to be ashamed of or hide – so much fear, so many non-secrets, so much hiding in my life. What’s the deal?
I can’t forget… the ‘dough boy’ nightmares of my childhood, the black hole dreams where a huge billowy-white blob would appear in the blank ‘page’ of my mind. In this dream the blob pushed and burrowed, expanded and consumed all of me until I jerked awake, crying for understanding from a parent who then punished me for waking her up.
I grew up afraid of the ‘dough boy,’ afraid of my mother’s wrath, hurtful criticisms, constant negativity, and physical abuse. I grew up afraid of exposing these ‘secrets’ to the few friends I was allowed to have. We weren’t allowed to invite friends to the house, to close the bathroom or bedroom doors, to date (heaven forbid), or to go out and DO. Car rides were a nightmare of screaming lectures about the horrors of sex and the shame I’d perpetuated on the family (how and why I never quite understood), pinches, slaps and the nauseating smell of my mother’s nail polish and remover (her favorite activity on long trips).
As an adult, I understand what this abuse did to a defenseless child, but it still haunts me. I’m close to one niece (who has gone through much the same experiences with both her mother – my older sister – and her grandmother), but avoid the rest of my family because of the continuing negativity and ‘one up’ abuse. Nothing is EVER good enough for these people – a perception I realize may be false, but it’s there and we (niece and myself) work daily to cope and overcome.
So I’m alone. Three engagements – the first and third to alcoholic abusers modeled after my mother and family, the second to a wonderful understanding man who died of a heart attack three months before our wedding. I love my job, but I don’t ‘mingle’ with most of my co-workers and still reveal only as much as I have to. I work long hours during the school year, never say ‘no,’ bow to the bullies – and resent it.
I hide behind food and the resulting extra weight. I hide behind books and busywork. I hide behind all that extra work I take on because I’m afraid to say ‘no’ and lose approval and so-called friendship.
I’m TIRED of this. I’m working to change these lifetime habits by examining myself and trying to be in the moment rather than ‘in the past’ hurts. It’s difficult, but I believe that the process of opening up and writing (among other things) will help me.
I’m TIRED of the ‘good girl’ role robbing me of my life. I’m tired of hiding, of putting others first because it’s the only way I can feel liked and appreciated. I want to live an authentic life. I want to lose the fear, to open myself up and to re-learn how to TRUST – if indeed I’ve ever understood that concept.
It’s about time, don’t you think? That’s why I’m here.
So I’m here.
…here in ‘good girl’ and ‘guilt’ land, the lifetime-land where I take care of everyone else’s needs, bow and curtsey to anyone loud enough (or enough of a bully) to push me around and make me afraid (easily done, unfortunately), and the land where I absorb everyone else’s anxieties, foibles, and concerns as my own. Healthy? Hell, no – but I’m a lifer, conditioned from birth by the screaming and emotional abuse surrounding me, the loss of everyone who got past these self-imposed barriers, the fear of ‘being found out’ even though there’s really NOTHING to be ashamed of or hide – so much fear, so many non-secrets, so much hiding in my life. What’s the deal?
I can’t forget… the ‘dough boy’ nightmares of my childhood, the black hole dreams where a huge billowy-white blob would appear in the blank ‘page’ of my mind. In this dream the blob pushed and burrowed, expanded and consumed all of me until I jerked awake, crying for understanding from a parent who then punished me for waking her up.
I grew up afraid of the ‘dough boy,’ afraid of my mother’s wrath, hurtful criticisms, constant negativity, and physical abuse. I grew up afraid of exposing these ‘secrets’ to the few friends I was allowed to have. We weren’t allowed to invite friends to the house, to close the bathroom or bedroom doors, to date (heaven forbid), or to go out and DO. Car rides were a nightmare of screaming lectures about the horrors of sex and the shame I’d perpetuated on the family (how and why I never quite understood), pinches, slaps and the nauseating smell of my mother’s nail polish and remover (her favorite activity on long trips).
As an adult, I understand what this abuse did to a defenseless child, but it still haunts me. I’m close to one niece (who has gone through much the same experiences with both her mother – my older sister – and her grandmother), but avoid the rest of my family because of the continuing negativity and ‘one up’ abuse. Nothing is EVER good enough for these people – a perception I realize may be false, but it’s there and we (niece and myself) work daily to cope and overcome.
So I’m alone. Three engagements – the first and third to alcoholic abusers modeled after my mother and family, the second to a wonderful understanding man who died of a heart attack three months before our wedding. I love my job, but I don’t ‘mingle’ with most of my co-workers and still reveal only as much as I have to. I work long hours during the school year, never say ‘no,’ bow to the bullies – and resent it.
I hide behind food and the resulting extra weight. I hide behind books and busywork. I hide behind all that extra work I take on because I’m afraid to say ‘no’ and lose approval and so-called friendship.
I’m TIRED of this. I’m working to change these lifetime habits by examining myself and trying to be in the moment rather than ‘in the past’ hurts. It’s difficult, but I believe that the process of opening up and writing (among other things) will help me.
I’m TIRED of the ‘good girl’ role robbing me of my life. I’m tired of hiding, of putting others first because it’s the only way I can feel liked and appreciated. I want to live an authentic life. I want to lose the fear, to open myself up and to re-learn how to TRUST – if indeed I’ve ever understood that concept.
It’s about time, don’t you think? That’s why I’m here.
So I’m here.
What I really want to say is --
What I really want to say is –
You haven’t really failed me, you know. I realize that it may seem so because I’m so down on you all the time, telling you all the things I wish you were instead of praising and expressing my gratitude for everything that you ARE.
What you ARE is courageous, forgiving, and patient – especially with me. You keep plugging even when I’m sure you can’t move another step, you demand next to nothing and complain very little when you don’t get it. I know I’m not good to you. I try, but -- ?
Why do I keep running the negative-hyper-critical script through my brain 24/7? That’s a lifetime of listening to and watching our parents and older sister, my friend – another ingrained habit I’m working to dispel. Your brain is a good one. It’s full of creativity, laughter, and compassion. You shared the humor gene with Uncle Bill, who absorbed a lifetime of negativity in addition to the alcohol and tobacco that officially killed him. Was it the booze, the cigarettes – or the constant feeling of never being good enough? Did he ever feel as though he belonged? Was he ever able to sit on his front porch after supper and tell himself that he was okay, that he mattered to the world, that he’d done a great job in this life, made a difference to one person or to one of his many strays? Did Bill ever do that, or did the negative scripts programmed into his brain eat away at him until he just let go?
He mattered to me.
I hate the word ‘should.’ Don’t you? It just screams failure before you even leave it and tack on what all those critics – including you yourself – tell you that you ‘should’ be doing. Work harder, make more money, lose weight, be ‘nicer’ and tick off every single chain-link on that endless ‘good girl-do’ list until you’re as bound and deformed as a geisha’s crippled feet. Can’t make the end of the list? Ever? Well, you SHOULD.
Unhuh. Tell me more. Wait, I have to grab a big spoon for the ice cream.
I talked to my niece Kathy last night. She’s overwhelmed, stressed, and feeding herself the same negative script. There it is – third generation that I know about – the endless ‘should’ and ‘good girl’ lists chomping down on another good person who deserves far better than what she’s being given right now. She’s scared of losing love again, of watching her husband walk away from her just as her father did when his heart gave out ten years ago. She’s scared. She doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong, how to go about ‘fixing’ it, and most of all why she’s somehow still not good enough. So she allows her frustration to fuel her angers, pushing her to lash out at others when she’s really screaming for help.
Been there. Can’t tell her exactly what to do it’s up to her to grab the guilt-cutter, hack away the chains of ‘should’ and shove everything else aside. All I can do is listen.
Remember.
Remind myself of what it was like.
How far I’ve come.
How far I have yet to travel.
How every day, every hour, every second is a new beginning.
What I really want to say is – I appreciate you. You’re a body to be proud of. You have a brain that works well. You have a heart that’s still wounded and hiding away, but I’m trying. No more ‘should’ or ‘good girls do…’ taking the place of what’s real and true and mine.
You’re MINE – and I’m grateful.
I’m working on the love thing, working to reprogram the lifetime-till-now script and revise the definition. Accepting love from others means first embracing love from within myself. I know that.
I’m trying.
What I want to say is --
You haven’t really failed me, you know. I realize that it may seem so because I’m so down on you all the time, telling you all the things I wish you were instead of praising and expressing my gratitude for everything that you ARE.
What you ARE is courageous, forgiving, and patient – especially with me. You keep plugging even when I’m sure you can’t move another step, you demand next to nothing and complain very little when you don’t get it. I know I’m not good to you. I try, but -- ?
Why do I keep running the negative-hyper-critical script through my brain 24/7? That’s a lifetime of listening to and watching our parents and older sister, my friend – another ingrained habit I’m working to dispel. Your brain is a good one. It’s full of creativity, laughter, and compassion. You shared the humor gene with Uncle Bill, who absorbed a lifetime of negativity in addition to the alcohol and tobacco that officially killed him. Was it the booze, the cigarettes – or the constant feeling of never being good enough? Did he ever feel as though he belonged? Was he ever able to sit on his front porch after supper and tell himself that he was okay, that he mattered to the world, that he’d done a great job in this life, made a difference to one person or to one of his many strays? Did Bill ever do that, or did the negative scripts programmed into his brain eat away at him until he just let go?
He mattered to me.
I hate the word ‘should.’ Don’t you? It just screams failure before you even leave it and tack on what all those critics – including you yourself – tell you that you ‘should’ be doing. Work harder, make more money, lose weight, be ‘nicer’ and tick off every single chain-link on that endless ‘good girl-do’ list until you’re as bound and deformed as a geisha’s crippled feet. Can’t make the end of the list? Ever? Well, you SHOULD.
Unhuh. Tell me more. Wait, I have to grab a big spoon for the ice cream.
I talked to my niece Kathy last night. She’s overwhelmed, stressed, and feeding herself the same negative script. There it is – third generation that I know about – the endless ‘should’ and ‘good girl’ lists chomping down on another good person who deserves far better than what she’s being given right now. She’s scared of losing love again, of watching her husband walk away from her just as her father did when his heart gave out ten years ago. She’s scared. She doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong, how to go about ‘fixing’ it, and most of all why she’s somehow still not good enough. So she allows her frustration to fuel her angers, pushing her to lash out at others when she’s really screaming for help.
Been there. Can’t tell her exactly what to do it’s up to her to grab the guilt-cutter, hack away the chains of ‘should’ and shove everything else aside. All I can do is listen.
Remember.
Remind myself of what it was like.
How far I’ve come.
How far I have yet to travel.
How every day, every hour, every second is a new beginning.
What I really want to say is – I appreciate you. You’re a body to be proud of. You have a brain that works well. You have a heart that’s still wounded and hiding away, but I’m trying. No more ‘should’ or ‘good girls do…’ taking the place of what’s real and true and mine.
You’re MINE – and I’m grateful.
I’m working on the love thing, working to reprogram the lifetime-till-now script and revise the definition. Accepting love from others means first embracing love from within myself. I know that.
I’m trying.
What I want to say is --
Monday, January 22, 2007
Steal -- and seize -- the day
Like a little kid playing hooky --
Sometimes you have to pay more attention to your emotional and mental well-being than the drudgery of a same-old, same-old day.
I'm fighting the traces, I know.
What is this telling me? Where do I go next? Who am I to become?
Steal--and seize--the day.
Make it count.
Sometimes you have to pay more attention to your emotional and mental well-being than the drudgery of a same-old, same-old day.
I'm fighting the traces, I know.
What is this telling me? Where do I go next? Who am I to become?
Steal--and seize--the day.
Make it count.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Anticipation
-- two whole days.
--of peace. Always anticipating peace. For all of us.
--of laughter and joy.
--of love.
--of hope. No anticipation necessary. It's just there.
Surrounding all of us if we allow it. Peace. Joy. Laughter.
Love.
Most of all love.
Anticipating love.
Is it worth the heartache? You bet. Worth that and more.
Bring it on. I'm ready to try again.
Finally.
--of peace. Always anticipating peace. For all of us.
--of laughter and joy.
--of love.
--of hope. No anticipation necessary. It's just there.
Surrounding all of us if we allow it. Peace. Joy. Laughter.
Love.
Most of all love.
Anticipating love.
Is it worth the heartache? You bet. Worth that and more.
Bring it on. I'm ready to try again.
Finally.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Just a Quote
"In the depth of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
Albert Camus
Albert Camus
Friday, January 5, 2007
Vacations and Gratitudes
...remembering almost two weeks ago, sitting here thinking about the wonderful blessing of the days ahead.
...sitting here, 2 days left, grateful for time well spent, happiness, serenity, and smiles -- but still wishing for just ONE more week.
Sigh.
Turning off the alarm clock did this, huh? I'll be fine after next Monday -- survive and thrive. That's the Monday motto.
Of course, a small quantity of fine chocolate wouldn't be refused at that time...
Thank you, Lord.
I'm grateful for these past two weeks.
I'm grateful for the Siamese, their constancy, the funny-naughty ways that make me smile each and every day, the purring and the love. Please help me keep them safe, healthy, and happy for many, many years to come.
I'm grateful for the silence of the alarm clock.
I'm grateful for good books, for Richard Gere and George Clooney, for hot tea, early mornings in my pj's, and serenity. Most of all the serenity.
I'm grateful for the gentle nudges that helped me write every day. Felt good, Lord -- thank you. Please keep nudging.
I'm grateful for Kathy, for Joyce and her husband Chris, for Karen and the boys, for so many other caring friends.
I'm grateful for time, for peace, for showing me a doorway to serenity and putting the abuses of the past (and those relationships) where they belong -- in the past.
I pray you'll find a way to help K and T find their way back to each other's love. I pray you'll help each of them understand and renew with compassion and hope.
Thank you, Lord. Please help me DO.
...sitting here, 2 days left, grateful for time well spent, happiness, serenity, and smiles -- but still wishing for just ONE more week.
Sigh.
Turning off the alarm clock did this, huh? I'll be fine after next Monday -- survive and thrive. That's the Monday motto.
Of course, a small quantity of fine chocolate wouldn't be refused at that time...
Thank you, Lord.
I'm grateful for these past two weeks.
I'm grateful for the Siamese, their constancy, the funny-naughty ways that make me smile each and every day, the purring and the love. Please help me keep them safe, healthy, and happy for many, many years to come.
I'm grateful for the silence of the alarm clock.
I'm grateful for good books, for Richard Gere and George Clooney, for hot tea, early mornings in my pj's, and serenity. Most of all the serenity.
I'm grateful for the gentle nudges that helped me write every day. Felt good, Lord -- thank you. Please keep nudging.
I'm grateful for Kathy, for Joyce and her husband Chris, for Karen and the boys, for so many other caring friends.
I'm grateful for time, for peace, for showing me a doorway to serenity and putting the abuses of the past (and those relationships) where they belong -- in the past.
I pray you'll find a way to help K and T find their way back to each other's love. I pray you'll help each of them understand and renew with compassion and hope.
Thank you, Lord. Please help me DO.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
No Title
"My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble one another, that others carry wounds like mine—and that they will therefore understand.” Orhan Pamuk
"Reminding one another of the dream that each of us aspires to may be enough for us to set each other free."
Antoine De Saint-Exupery
"Reminding one another of the dream that each of us aspires to may be enough for us to set each other free."
Antoine De Saint-Exupery
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Gratitudes
This morning I'm grateful for --
--the sunlight through my windows. This morning it's dancing with breezy little leaf-shadows from the big tree outside my patio. Joy.
--waking up to Pennie's gentle paw-pats and big purrs instead of the obnoxious drone of the alarm clock. Love.
--Ray Charles' version of 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning' (with Count Basie's orchestra). Smiles.
--vacations. Happiness.
--good books, comfortable recliner chair complete with fuzzy blanket (and Siamese), small quantities of fine chocolate, a cup of tea, and no deadlines for at least a few days. Bliss.
Peace and serenity.
Thank you, Lord. I'm well and truly blessed -- and grateful.
--the sunlight through my windows. This morning it's dancing with breezy little leaf-shadows from the big tree outside my patio. Joy.
--waking up to Pennie's gentle paw-pats and big purrs instead of the obnoxious drone of the alarm clock. Love.
--Ray Charles' version of 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning' (with Count Basie's orchestra). Smiles.
--vacations. Happiness.
--good books, comfortable recliner chair complete with fuzzy blanket (and Siamese), small quantities of fine chocolate, a cup of tea, and no deadlines for at least a few days. Bliss.
Peace and serenity.
Thank you, Lord. I'm well and truly blessed -- and grateful.
Monday, January 1, 2007
New Beginnings
Yeah, it's trite. Trite -- but it still works.
Time is the option. Time is the must.
My choices remain the variable.
May they be thoughtful.
May they be fruitful.
May they be positive -- and may they be fun.
Only possibilities.
Time is the option. Time is the must.
My choices remain the variable.
May they be thoughtful.
May they be fruitful.
May they be positive -- and may they be fun.
Only possibilities.
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