wow.
wow.
Things have changed a lot in five years. We not only survive, but we thrive on a mostly daily basis. The health of my kids (and myself!) is testament to the power of connection, the awesomeness of being heard, the cathartic healing found in knowledge and the magic of friendship. Continue reading →
“Will they think I’m weird if I’m repelling off the play structure?”
“Who?”
“The neighbors.”
“They already think we’re weird.”
The three of us were walking across the park to the play structure. Jenny was carrying a climbing rope and harness. She’d come up with a new game – strategically place 10 bind weed blossoms and try to retrieve them without letting her feet touch the ground. In some cases, she needed to repel down and pick up the blossoms because she couldn’t access them from the structure any other way.
Will came along to watch. “Why do you care what the neighbors think?”
Jenny climbed the stairs of the play structure. “I don’t. Really. Well… I dunno. Is this weird?”
It was my job to gather the pink blossoms and place them around the structure. We had the whole park to ourselves. The sun was high and hot. I was wondering how long this was going to take. “If it’s fun, does it matter if it’s weird? Well, not too weird, I mean.” I found two more blossoms, “I hate wearing flips* to the park. Too many pokeys.”
Will laughed as he tried to fit his long legs and arms into the only bit of shade. “People aren’t really paying attention to what you are doing anyway. They’re mostly thinking about how they look and what they are doing.”
I looked up from hiding the last blossom. “That’s right. Where’d you hear that?”
“You told me that.”
I squeezed into the shade next to Will, “And you listened?”
*A million years ago, I lived in Redondo Beach for a couple months. I was asked to show my ID at a shop. When the cashier saw I was from Montana, he looked down at my feet and said, “Wow! They wear thongs (I told you it was a long time ago) in Montana?”
If you’ve spent any time in these parts, you know how I feel about making beds, but this morning I had an “epipha-me“.
I was thinking about choices, plans, wrong turns, course corrections and new directions.
There’s an idiom that goes like this:
You made your bed, now lie in it.My INFJness had my wheels spinning on that one. Mostly I was thinking about the individual who penned that classic phrase. How stuck was she, or I suppose it could have been a he? How dismal to go through life thinking, “This is it. This is where I am. This is what I planned for. I’m here. Better stick with it.”
How many decide that since they invested so much time in this relationship, or spent so much money on that degree, that they can’t make a choice to do something else? Even if they aren’t happy in that relationship or with the job that degree landed them, they stick with their choices.
I wish I could have told the person who wrote that idiom,
“If you can make one bed, you can make another.
It’s okay.
Really.
Make a new bed.”
“I’ll have a Jack and Coke. Hold the Coke.”
“Was the long weekend tough on ya? How was the lake?” The bartender reached for a rocks glass, filled it with ice and poured a steady stream of amber-colored attitude adjustment.
“The lake was fine.” He reached for the glass and took a long sip. “I married my mom.”
“You what!? This weekend? You did what?” The bartender paused, bar rag in hand, waiting for an explanation.
“No. Not like that.” He took another sip. “No, I meant that the woman I married is exactly like my mom.” Continue reading →
It seems I’ve entered my Nanny McPhee Period when grey hairs corkscrew from the top of my head and adult onset acne gets comfortable and refuses to leave. I know this isn’t a beauty blog, but I’ve discovered a couple products that have made this phase slightly less Nanny McPhee-like, and it wouldn’t be right not to share.
I haven’t the bravery to Google – “How Long Will I Keep Getting Periods” – because if there’s a woman out there who is still getting periods well into her senior years, I don’t want to know about her. I don’t want to know that I could be that empty-nest woman, in her 60s (because I will be close to 60 by the time Jen leaves, if she decides to do so), traveling to Italy, sipping red wine at a lovely cafe and having to excuse herself from the intelligent conversation at the quaint bistro table for two because she’s having a “period” emergency.
I can handle many things, but I’m not sure I want to know how long I’ll have to deal with periods. No, I won’t be doing hormone replacement therapy. I’m the anti-chemical, left-over hippy, who doesn’t put anything on her lawn, doesn’t own a microwave, and has never colored her hair. I will not be taking some sort of chemical supplement to help me through this phase, even if that would keep my kids from wanting to kill me or move into their dad’s house once a month. (Come to think of it, my mood swings are sure to bring about that empty nest.)
Primrose Oil has kept my kids from packing their bags. I don’t know why it works. I don’t care. It keeps me from wanting to slash the neighbor’s tires when he leaves his car running while he’s in his house obviously looking for his car keys. Primrose oil keeps me from hiding under the covers until my period passes. I love this stuff. If I’m telling you about it, that means it works. Continue reading →
“Margaret, do you think today’s narcissistic culture has lost sight of the Golden Rule?”
Margaret wiped her hands on her pressed apron. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, dear? Please explain.”
Gladys hopped down from her perch on a headstone and dusted off the back of her skirt. “Well, the original meaning of the Golden Rule had something to do with empathizing with our neighbor. We were encouraged to walk in their shoes, so to speak, and treat them with consideration. In today’s culture, it appears that the original meaning has been tailored a bit. Now it’s more like, ‘Be nice to your neighbor, as long as they are like you, and treat them the way you’d like to be treated, with no regard to how they want to be treated.'”
“Perhaps an example would help me understand? I’m not sure I see what you mean.”
“I’ll try. As it is now, they judge their neighbor based on how they dress, their car, their house and the school their kids go to. If they have those things in common, then they’ll decide it’s safe to be considerate. At the point of deciding their neighbor is worth approaching, they’ll bring the neighbor their favorite pie, regardless of whether their neighbor likes pie.” Continue reading →
“I’ve been doing this a few years. I think you’re the first INFJ result I’ve seen. Of course, most INFJs don’t take Business Management. Why are you in this curriculum?”
“Those career tests from high school indicated my aptitude was in clerical and organization, so I figured this was the curriculum for me.”
“Have you ever considered psychology or sociology or a degree in the creative arts?”
“They say there isn’t any money in that.”
“That may be true, but will you be happy with a degree in Business Management?” Continue reading →
I was cutting grass, head down, thinking about how the warm weather had finally gotten here as he wheeled around the corner on his scooter. I looked up to see a seven year old wearing a wrinkled, too small t-shirt and an expectant look on his face. I quit cutting and said, “How are you this morning?” He bounced in place, hopping on and off his scooter, “I’m okay. I wish I could play with my friends that live over there.” He pointed to a house a few doors down. “I bet you do. Maybe they like to sleep in on Saturday mornings. A lot of folks do that. It feels good, don’t you think?” He looked at me as he thought about it, “Yeah, I guess it does.”
And because I wanted to get my chores done so I could play in the sun, I went back to cutting the grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me until he gave up and went back home.
A few minutes later, I heard the sounds of a basketball being dribbled around the corner. The sound kept getting louder. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t look up at him. I can give you all the reasons why I didn’t. I’m not convinced that I could justify my reasons.
I kept cutting grass with my head down, listening to the basketball, afraid to strike up another conversation. If I chatted with him, he’d end up hanging in our driveway, drawing chalk smiley faces, eating cinnamony toast and finagling an invite to lunch. Only that’s not what he was hungry for. I know what he was hungry for. He was hungry for attention. Why else would a seven year old bounce a basketball in front of a middle-aged woman that he didn’t know – for what seemed like five solid minutes? Continue reading →
“Margaret, just a skinny sliver. Please! I wish I’d never discovered the deliciousness of your pies.”
Margaret chuckled and handed Gladys a plate with the smallest slice of lemon meringue. “Gladys, why do you still worry about your figure? Is that not one of the bonuses of being on this side? By the way, dear, what is your favorite kind?”
“Well, are we talking pie or men?” Gladys laughed as she watched Margaret wince.
“Oh, my! Well, I never. Well, sometimes I do. Oh! listen to me. I’m all flustered and Jon and Basil aren’t even here.” Gladys wiped the pie server on a cloth. “Since you brought it up, dear, what is your favorite kind – or is it type – of man?” Margaret fanned herself and adjusted her apron.
“Relax, Margaret. The guys won’t hear us. And so what if they did.” Gladys dabbed the corner of her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “In my experience, women and men have a type. No matter how many relationships they may have, their partners usually fall into the same category. Maybe he prefers brunettes. Maybe she prefers the quiet type. He needs to be mothered. She keeps trying to find the guy just like her dad. We all have a type.” Gladys reached for her bag to find a cigarette. Continue reading →
She read the quote again. She closed the laptop and walked over to the peely-paint cupboard that held art supplies and construction paper. What color should she pick? She settled on purple. She looked for a marker in the Kerr jar on the kitchen table. She wanted something bold – a marker that would yell. She found a juicy dark blue and purposefully wrote the quote.
She taped the quote next to the others that read: That is not my journey, NMP – not my problem, and No steamrollers!
As she re-read the quotes, she visualized a thick twisted rope. The strands of rope were different colors, twined together to make a rope as thick as her wrist. Each color represented something or someone that she’d allowed to drag her to where she found herself today.
The black represented every one-sided, caustic, demanding, life-sucking relationship she’d ever been in – the narcissists.
The charcoal symbolized her limiting self-talk.
The brown represented her expectations – going as far back as childhood – about what she thought her life would be.
The grey stood for definitions of who she was – assigned to her by others.
The burnt orange represented her lack of self-confidence.
The dark green was every negative, gossip-filled conversation that she hadn’t had the guts to excuse herself from.
She looked back at the quote.
Let go or be dragged.
She wondered where she’d be if she hadn’t allowed that rope to drag her where she is today. She laughed and told herself, “Well, that’s a waste of time. You could spend the rest of the day wondering where you could have gone, or you could pull out a pair of scissors and cut that rope apart.”
The burnt orange was the first to go, followed by the grey and the dark green. The brown was the most fun to cut. She ceremoniously snipped the brown and felt her mood brighten. There would be new doors to open once she locked the door on expectations.
The charcoal would take some effort. She’d have to sharpen the scissors for that one. Limiting self-talk had been her constant companion. With sharper scissors, she began to snip the threads of the charcoal strand.
She snipped – “You’re not good enough.”
She cut – “You’re an inconvenience.”
She removed – “Why aren’t you more like everyone else?”
She saw charcoal threads scattered on the floor at her feet. She noticed that the charcoal strand was tightly connected to the black strand. She kept cutting.
The black strand was the thickest – requiring more than a pair of scissors.
As of this writing, she’s still hacking away at the black strand.
Let go or be dragged.
“What’ll ya have?”
“Jack on the rocks. And some advice. Please.”
“Well, the Jack is easy. We’ll see how I do on the advice. What’s up?”
“I’ve been seeing an amazing woman. She’s smart, funny, beautiful, independent. She has friends and she’s tight with her family. She’s had a few relationships, so she’s already worked through stuff. Thing is… I dunno.”
“Ah…. sounds like I better leave the bottle of Jack right here. I’ll be back.” Continue reading →
“Have you noticed the anger coming out of them? They are all mad.” Gladys reached into her beaded bag for a cigarette.
Jon squirted oil on his bearings and gave the wheel a spin. “Why are they so angry? They’re alive. Isn’t that enough to keep ’em from being mad?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Jon. But all of them are angry. Some of them keep the anger bottled up. Some of them explode at the first provocation. It’s a shame, really. And by the way, I’ve made some fresh pie today – French Silk. That was my husband’s favorite. I made French Silk for every one of his birthdays. In fact, I often made him French Silk when he was angry about something. That’d do the trick every time.” Margaret reached behind to re-tie her flowered apron.
Jon put down his board and walked to Margaret’s side, “My mom made a chocolate pie. Is that what that is? I’d love some.” He takes a slice and leans against a grave marker. “So, Gladys, what are they mad about?”
Gladys exhales and says, “It’s more about who they are mad at. They are mad at their boss, or their boyfriend. Most often they are mad at their husband. A lot are mad at their mother or father. Hell, they’re mad at everyone.” Continue reading →
“So then I switched from the soft, muted technique you see here, to a palette knife technique. Do you see how it catches the light? Do you see the depth as the light changes? It’s fun to switch techniques and infuse new energy into the process.”
“I’m getting away from glassing each piece. I’m working on this new canvas that I found. Now I can work on a much larger scale. This canvas is bringing my work to a larger level.”
“I was out taking photos of buffalo for this sculpture and it turns out that it had been twenty years since the last set of bison twins. Those are the babies you see in that piece.”
These are quotes from three different artists. Continue reading →
