Did you ever have one of those desperate weeks where the flow just doesn't arrive? I really thought I was, what with Dr. appointments and various errands that needed run. But when I look over my shoulder, I realize I'm farther ahead than I thought.
I started my week with the rewrites of Alyce Times One. because I had such clarity about where it needed to go after the two readings. My notes for both nights were almost identical. The segues needed a little tweaking and some chatter needed trimmed. I suppose I cut four pages... I love it but haven't exhaled yet. I'm waiting for my co-writer's opinion before I start patting myself on the back.
I purchased Collins Australian Gem Thesaurus. It's barely bigger than a double pack of playing cards and very handy. Half price books. I haven't ever seen one in the states before, so I don't know how readily available they are...
My client's MS has been transformed and the second round edits are less time consuming than the original version. It's amazing the difference of one who willingly accepts the corrections as opposed to one who will not even entertain the idea that they need corrected. Out of six chapters, there are two to go and then I can return it to her.
The writing improved exponentially. She's truly impressive.
My interview with an exciting and forward thinking Public Relations "diva"
from the North and East Coast took just under two hours. I'm in the process of transcribing every word now to build an article around her for her information packet (a paying gig)and a few mags. If I start feeling sorry for myself, I'll have to remember her story.
I have just begun receiving rejections from the first tier of women's mags regarding another interview. I will begin querying the second tier next week.
I'm on track, I guess. I even have two more article ideas I can market that I've already collected some information for. How is your week finishing up?
My writing friend Lori wonders how do I write everyday?
My youngest is 17, gets her own breakfast, plans her own entertainment and writes also.
It seems easy to me to write, trading one discipline for another. Almost ten years ago, as a potter, my day began with making coffee and heading to the studio to make pots, or bowls. I took weekends off, usually just Sundays.
It took a while to find a groove but once I did, it became a habit.
I didn't have another job, and my daughter then was a self starter. I tired of being in the basements of houses, especially in Summer. When the transition came for me to begin writing, the go to your routine ritual had been established.
It seems for years, I had been stacking up words like cordwood and now they've been called upon. All those unexpressed thoughts finding their voice, riding the pen to paper. Before that, I did write, sporadically in letters and journals. I had as many as six penpals at a time. No one could keep up for very long. I burned them all out. None of them write me today.
You may wonder like I did, why didn't anyone ever tell me I was to be a writer? I think of all the time I wasted chasing silly things...
Finding smidgens of time in between children and life events may seem difficult, and it is at times. It's all material. I have a dozen sparking ideas everyday, anyone of which could catch fire and turn into an essay.
At last count, I had 249 essays in need of edits. And I still write everyday.
The 365 blog was never my idea, until I read about it on Lori's blog. And what began as a challenge, to help me think in filler sized posts became my life raft. If I didn't get anything else done, I had at least one focus 3oo words or less of postable material.
Currently, this makes 192 posts. Minus four or five, that's how long my dad's been gone.
If you want to write every day, it doesn't matter if you complete a saleable essay. But get it down. That's all. It's the goal. Write something. Anything. If you don't write today, the goal is still to write everyday. Write tomorrow. A quote, your take on a Bible passage, that client that makes you nuts, that friend that always smiles at you. Whatever hurts, whatever you cherish, what makes a good day, a bad day. My words of wisdom, never give up.
My youngest is 17, gets her own breakfast, plans her own entertainment and writes also.
It seems easy to me to write, trading one discipline for another. Almost ten years ago, as a potter, my day began with making coffee and heading to the studio to make pots, or bowls. I took weekends off, usually just Sundays.
It took a while to find a groove but once I did, it became a habit.
I didn't have another job, and my daughter then was a self starter. I tired of being in the basements of houses, especially in Summer. When the transition came for me to begin writing, the go to your routine ritual had been established.
It seems for years, I had been stacking up words like cordwood and now they've been called upon. All those unexpressed thoughts finding their voice, riding the pen to paper. Before that, I did write, sporadically in letters and journals. I had as many as six penpals at a time. No one could keep up for very long. I burned them all out. None of them write me today.
You may wonder like I did, why didn't anyone ever tell me I was to be a writer? I think of all the time I wasted chasing silly things...
Finding smidgens of time in between children and life events may seem difficult, and it is at times. It's all material. I have a dozen sparking ideas everyday, anyone of which could catch fire and turn into an essay.
At last count, I had 249 essays in need of edits. And I still write everyday.
The 365 blog was never my idea, until I read about it on Lori's blog. And what began as a challenge, to help me think in filler sized posts became my life raft. If I didn't get anything else done, I had at least one focus 3oo words or less of postable material.
Currently, this makes 192 posts. Minus four or five, that's how long my dad's been gone.
If you want to write every day, it doesn't matter if you complete a saleable essay. But get it down. That's all. It's the goal. Write something. Anything. If you don't write today, the goal is still to write everyday. Write tomorrow. A quote, your take on a Bible passage, that client that makes you nuts, that friend that always smiles at you. Whatever hurts, whatever you cherish, what makes a good day, a bad day. My words of wisdom, never give up.
Sad Ending
A long time connection breaks
Like rocks over the edge of Grand Canyon
I've chosen to let it go.
__
Tonite at sunset
I'll close doors against you
That God reinforced.
Traveling by Car
I saw this convertible pull in one early evening while we were picnicking in a favorite spots by the reservoir. They were in search of a boat ramp.
Unfortunately I wasn't quick enough to follow them
and find out where they were. The sun had begun to dip behind the trees and I didn't them after this. Too bad. I would have loved to shot some photos of the car traveling across the water.
Expose Yourself to Art
The Daily Muse that never fails to a-muse me in some way. This one really got me thinking because us it's so reminiscent of Post Secret.
Thanks to Nikki for her unfailing daily content that often inspires, always informs and hasn't been the same thing twice. Maybe you'de like to be part of an art project? If so check it out...
Sign up for the Art House "Stuff Your Sorries in a Sack" project and kiss your regrets goodbye. If you register in time, you'll get one of the 500 little sacks they're sending out that they want filled with things that you need to let go of. They'll display the sacks at a reception at their Atlanta gallery on October 24 and let people experience what you have moved on from. Sign up deadline is September 15 and the entry fee is $14.00. Read more about it on their web site.
~Nikki Hardin, Publisher, Skirt! Magazine
Thanks to Nikki for her unfailing daily content that often inspires, always informs and hasn't been the same thing twice. Maybe you'de like to be part of an art project? If so check it out...
Sign up for the Art House "Stuff Your Sorries in a Sack" project and kiss your regrets goodbye. If you register in time, you'll get one of the 500 little sacks they're sending out that they want filled with things that you need to let go of. They'll display the sacks at a reception at their Atlanta gallery on October 24 and let people experience what you have moved on from. Sign up deadline is September 15 and the entry fee is $14.00. Read more about it on their web site.
~Nikki Hardin, Publisher, Skirt! Magazine
Mark on Books
"The man who does not read good books
has no advantage
over the man who cannot read them."
Mark Twain
Mark Twain
Growing Out of the Rock
While driving along the highway through the mountains, I see a tree growing right out of the rock face. Without climbing up there to look, it’s hard to say how much soil hangs on that lip of rock. None the less, it is now the home of a very stubborn tree.
All the other trees seem to look over the edge incredulously, and a few of us look up.
This tree reminds me that God placed me where He wanted and I’ve been placed a lot. My only response is to bloom where I’m planted.
It reminds me not to look to others to gauge my development, progress or status. I’m only to look one direction, toward God.
No matter where I find myself, even if it’s in the lip of a rock with hardly any soil, God will take care of me. He will sustain me in the face of what seems impossible.
He is able to accomplish what no one else can: Growth in unlikely places.
All the other trees seem to look over the edge incredulously, and a few of us look up.
This tree reminds me that God placed me where He wanted and I’ve been placed a lot. My only response is to bloom where I’m planted.
It reminds me not to look to others to gauge my development, progress or status. I’m only to look one direction, toward God.
No matter where I find myself, even if it’s in the lip of a rock with hardly any soil, God will take care of me. He will sustain me in the face of what seems impossible.
He is able to accomplish what no one else can: Growth in unlikely places.
Amid the Rushing
Thursday morning didn’t start out smoothly. When I turned on the coffee pot, even though we woke up earlier than the day before, in an effort to get more coffee, while getting ready for work, juice got spilled. Not one glass, but two. Apologies were made and readily accepted. It was an accident, after all. My daughter woke up late, desperately needing java. With 20 minutes to get ready for school, she made quesadillas for lunch and applied ointment to iron burns (don’t ask) looking very put-together.
Twelve cups of coffee brewed this morning. Thinking I’m going to merge with all the rushing, I pour a cup.
But there isn’t a whole cup. Right then, I tell the Lord I’m thankful for my family. I truly mean it with all my heart.
Right now in the next city over, a widow I talked to yesterday wakes up wondering if she wants to make a full pot of coffee, or if she’ll even bother making breakfast. Her grown kids are gone and she’s packing up her belongings in her too-big-for-one dream home that she and her late husband built together and shared their lives in.
Shortly after that, my daughter's ride pulls in. I’m grateful for spilled juice and the coffee- swilling teenager freaking out about time and failed alarms. I love her dearly. I realize that in a moment it could all disappear. I'll take the good with the less than good and hang onto these lovely people as long as I can.
I fire up a half pot of decaf and when I turn around, I'm alone for the day. My half-cup of coffee and I go to my home-office where the radio plays.
A song that rarely airs on our local station begins just as I enter. Jim Brickman’s The Love of My Life with Michael W. Smith singing.
It makes my heart happy to hear it, because the very first time I heard it I cried in an empty living room far from friends, my daughter was away and singlehood had recently snatched me out of a 12 year marriage.
I sit down for a moment reflecting on how different my life is, and the changes I prayed for that the Lord brought. The song is like a touchstone between us, reminding me that He still thinks of me, blesses me and helps me take time to remember what’s really important.~
Finish Strong
It’s August. We’re a little better than halfway through the year, and it seems like a good time to take out that list of goals we wrote out earlier, in January, and blow the dust off of them. (Hey back there, do I hear whining?) I stumbled upon mine yesterday while trying to find a printer driver disc. The list laid out most days, ignored, to be glanced in a moment and prompt me to keep on track. In all honesty, another paper had been laid on it “temporarily” (three months ago) blocking my view and of course, all progress.
The last time I even thought about it was before summer started. I’ve managed to keep up with three out of… sixteen goals: write every day, blog twice a week and read aloud in writers group. As of a week ago, I'd gotten on track with six additional ones almost by osmosis.
Needless to say, a few things that I thought priorities six months ago have more or less taken a back seat due to a couple setbacks. If I scratch those until next year, all of which have to do with a book, it knocks off three. Now I’m doing better than half of my list. I have not read two books a week, more like two books a month. Even my magazines lay unfinished.
So far, my goal of 100 “sent” a year is currently at 32 (instead of 64). I can still meet 100 if I send 17 per month for the rest of the year. I’m hoping for a much better next year. I aspire to be on track and get to my five a week goal. If I could maintain that through from now through May, I’d be into a hundred before Summer hit.
Crazy as it sounds, I’m only concerned with getting the words out, and that isn't the goal. What in the world might happen if I actually get replies andmags want me to write for them?
It sounds like the beginning of a career...
Last Day of Vacay
Sam and I spent the last day of her summer vacation hanging out, going for a walk, eating lunch, writing and wishing the day would
never end...
Redeeming Failure
What lies ahead isn’t always as important as how we dealt with what lies behind. I have had to go back to people from my past and make amends for comments, behaviors and attitudes. The farther I travel down the road, the more likely it is that I have offended someone.
Instead of worrying about how much someone had hurt me, I need to remember all the ways I have offended others. If I’ve offended someone, I need to go to them and make it right. Sometimes, it had been an exercise in humility. I’ve brought up events to discover that I offended no one. While it is a welcome relief, I must admit, it’s pretty rare.
When I began this particular journey seeking forgiveness, I apologized to an acquaintance for changing my plans without regard to how it affected her schedule.
“It’s not the first time,” she said. Such statements made me look at the way I dealt with people I considered friends, and re evaluate relationships. Sometimes I’ve made this statement to people when we struck up a friendship, “I promise you I will blow it, fail you, hurt you or disappoint you and it won’t be intentional. But if you tell me, I will do everything in my power to rectify it or make it up to you.”
I want to talk not to make it worse, but to make it work.
Instead of worrying about how much someone had hurt me, I need to remember all the ways I have offended others. If I’ve offended someone, I need to go to them and make it right. Sometimes, it had been an exercise in humility. I’ve brought up events to discover that I offended no one. While it is a welcome relief, I must admit, it’s pretty rare.
When I began this particular journey seeking forgiveness, I apologized to an acquaintance for changing my plans without regard to how it affected her schedule.
“It’s not the first time,” she said. Such statements made me look at the way I dealt with people I considered friends, and re evaluate relationships. Sometimes I’ve made this statement to people when we struck up a friendship, “I promise you I will blow it, fail you, hurt you or disappoint you and it won’t be intentional. But if you tell me, I will do everything in my power to rectify it or make it up to you.”
I want to talk not to make it worse, but to make it work.
House Bridge
I liked the waves of the roof, the stone arc
of the bridge and the brick of the house
one level lower.
Cloud Song
This year the weather patterns have been unusual in our area, in that we seem to me on the edge of an inordinate number of storm edges. To the right the cloud darkened so as to appear night-like.
Parles vous Francais?
With apologies to my favorite tech- Rico.
The trouble with the new desk top is how similar it is to the old one. I have in my head I’m going to do something, and find the program missing.
Or I find the typeface missing. We’re creative people. We like lots of creative choices. I figured out a long time ago how to glean fonts from various program discs. We had over 500 to choose from. With the new PC I’m missing a few programs that I really really liked.
I realized I had no word program to speak of. And then not enough fonts. When a computer crashes, it seems one is overcome with a kind of shock that brings with it amnesia. After crashing more than my fair share of computers, I learned to back and save just about everything. Especially photos, artwork and writing.
When becoming familiar with a new computer, the transition is less traumatic when the icons are the same, the programs run, or run the same.
I have a program that ran like a dream in XP. I now have XP Professional. It’s slightly different, and behaves sometimes like Vista. I download the scanner printer I’ve been using for two years and the instructions to proceed are easy—English. When I click on the next set of instructions, they come up in French. Not my native language.
Maybe there should be a DIY PC guide of multilingual translations. Sometimes, it’s easier to learn a foreign language than fix what’s wrong.
The trouble with the new desk top is how similar it is to the old one. I have in my head I’m going to do something, and find the program missing.
Or I find the typeface missing. We’re creative people. We like lots of creative choices. I figured out a long time ago how to glean fonts from various program discs. We had over 500 to choose from. With the new PC I’m missing a few programs that I really really liked.
I realized I had no word program to speak of. And then not enough fonts. When a computer crashes, it seems one is overcome with a kind of shock that brings with it amnesia. After crashing more than my fair share of computers, I learned to back and save just about everything. Especially photos, artwork and writing.
When becoming familiar with a new computer, the transition is less traumatic when the icons are the same, the programs run, or run the same.
I have a program that ran like a dream in XP. I now have XP Professional. It’s slightly different, and behaves sometimes like Vista. I download the scanner printer I’ve been using for two years and the instructions to proceed are easy—English. When I click on the next set of instructions, they come up in French. Not my native language.
Maybe there should be a DIY PC guide of multilingual translations. Sometimes, it’s easier to learn a foreign language than fix what’s wrong.
Clouds and Dreaming
Three nights ago, I dreamt about the back of my dad’s head.
He and his wife were sitting in the pew in front of me.
Before the service was over, he had disappeared, and she sat in the row behind us.
I ponder again the strangeness of dreams.
Having flying dreams and paralysis dreams and wonder if
all of it is a sort of premonition via sleep.
Can our souls see the future?
Is the dream state really the cross roads where our soul
tries to communicate with our consciousness?
I’ve dreamt of being shot, although in a dream it is hard to tell if you die or not.
I’ve dreamt of being shot, although in a dream it is hard to tell if you die or not.
I didn’t attend my funeral.
But until lately, I only dreamt of a funeral once at 17, having never been to one.
Before he finally passed I had dreamt about my father dying
at least three times. They were years apart,
but disconcerting nonetheless.
I have never awakened from one not feeling depressed
and like I’d cried for a week.
I have even dreamt of a few close friends passing.
I have even dreamt of a few close friends passing.
Such dreams just make me wonder if they mean anything.
I guess it’s a little like trying to read clouds for picture messages.
I mean, is that silly?
Don’t tell anyone, but I do that too.
Where I’m From
I am from photographs and music, yellow smog and buoy bells.
From tugboat honks turned train horns and Golden Books with color pages
I am from the North Hill of my city,
in the Northeast in my state,
the Midwest in my country
in the Western world, of the Late Great Planet Earth.
I bloomed in full view of dark secrets and cussing
and wished for invisibility.
I grew like the dandelion thistle and clover fields,
The stink tree and bachelor buttons growing in holey brick-lined gravel
Whose long stems grew as rangy as me and
the neighbor’s orange dog--Frosty.
I am from a dreamer and a hopeless trauma queen.
Except for a brunette sister whom they teased belonged to the milkman
I'm from yearly family photos and blondes
The top step of six cascading, two girls with four brothers
I'm from oppressive Latin Mass Catholics and liberal alcoholics
few encouragers and too many bullsh--t artists
I'm from middle class and failed rhythm method
And “Someday” sung by Dorothy while she dreamed
from a grey place like me,
Before landing in her Emerald City.
I'm from corduroy coats with wood toggle buttons under costumes,
Looking like Casper the Friendly Pillsbury dough girl
dressed-up for trick-or-treat on a chilly October night
I'm from St. Thomas hospital and Jewish roots hidden
in German-Christian traditions
Sauerkraut with pork loin cooked all day on New Year’s and
ham for Easter dinner
I’m from a very Catholic family replete with nuns and priests
And three sets of Grandparents that left my friends,
Nay-saying and teachers scratching their heads.
I'm from dull aluminum lunch pails,
Crinkly evening newspapers, black and white TV shows.
I'm from "Go wash your hands" and dinner
on melamine cartoon plates at 5:30.
Dinner blessings brought to you by dad, while another baby squirms away
from a spoonful of strained veggies in a high chair,
broccoli in cans, Kool-aid drunk from plastic cups saved from butter tubs
and no seconds on desert.
I'm from "six kids are a birthday party"
and a few toys wrapped in Montgomery Ward bags.
I'm from "Look over here!" Blinding light photo ops.
Click! Bzzzzzt! Zip! Peel away Polaroids that develop while you watch
And using a butcher knife the size of a Machete
to cut birthday slices for wiggly little siblings.
I’m from a giant mirror-backed frame holding Nona’s Hummel’s,
The hi-fi on the mantel playing Sergio Mendez and Neil Diamond ,
The silver percolator on the counter choking
out black coffee when the mornings are dark.
I'm from the days of sedans
with enormous fuel tanks and cheap gas
and the red Ford Galaxy 500 that started me traveling
until I don’t know how many cars or sets of wheels
brought me here, hundreds of miles away from you.
Riding Around the Reservoir
It wouldn’t make sense unless I explain it to you. Why my dad is like the sailboat and my obsession with water. How mother is like a lighthouse (with a burned-out bulb). I wouldn’t have thought to explain it to anyone except someone made the statement that got me thinking.
“We sure spend a lot of time around the reservoir.”
And maybe we do.
Not even as much as I’d like, but almost every chance I get to go there, I take it. I drive along Sunbury Road only from Dempsey to Big Walnut Road because I see the most of the reservoir.
I wrote about this long way home a couple of years ago. “When I see water, my heart starts to travel...” When I feel confused or sad or lost I park the car where I can see the water and sit there. I have gone there when I was happy. I’ve taken other people on picnics there mostly. Sam mostly. Lately, when I start feeling something about my dad, I go there. It’s calming in way that I wish I could explain.
Even though I travel by reservoir at least once a week, in my heart I search for sailboats. Today there weren’t any. The weekenders weren’t out yet, too early on a Friday afternoon.
It's fall, zooming through the cool breeze, back into the wooded countryside, the leaves beginning to show yellow and signs of fall. I'm thinking about Dad again, wondering why some days are just like that; where you think of someone in great islands of times and then there are oceans of nothing about them. Taking the long way home, past the water. I saw a sail boat with teal and purple striped sail. The second I saw it, I heard my heart say, hi dad!
When I see them, it’s like he’s nearby. It’s not like we ever sailed or ever talked about it. But because he served in the navy, and always liked ships, Spanish Galleons to be precise, he and this icon have come to be inseparable in my mind. And if it lasted forever, it wouldn't be a bad thing.
“We sure spend a lot of time around the reservoir.”
And maybe we do.
Not even as much as I’d like, but almost every chance I get to go there, I take it. I drive along Sunbury Road only from Dempsey to Big Walnut Road because I see the most of the reservoir.
I wrote about this long way home a couple of years ago. “When I see water, my heart starts to travel...” When I feel confused or sad or lost I park the car where I can see the water and sit there. I have gone there when I was happy. I’ve taken other people on picnics there mostly. Sam mostly. Lately, when I start feeling something about my dad, I go there. It’s calming in way that I wish I could explain.
Even though I travel by reservoir at least once a week, in my heart I search for sailboats. Today there weren’t any. The weekenders weren’t out yet, too early on a Friday afternoon.
It's fall, zooming through the cool breeze, back into the wooded countryside, the leaves beginning to show yellow and signs of fall. I'm thinking about Dad again, wondering why some days are just like that; where you think of someone in great islands of times and then there are oceans of nothing about them. Taking the long way home, past the water. I saw a sail boat with teal and purple striped sail. The second I saw it, I heard my heart say, hi dad!
When I see them, it’s like he’s nearby. It’s not like we ever sailed or ever talked about it. But because he served in the navy, and always liked ships, Spanish Galleons to be precise, he and this icon have come to be inseparable in my mind. And if it lasted forever, it wouldn't be a bad thing.
King Kong's Vacay?
What can I say? You never know who you'll see in Vacay.
This is K.Kong incognito...The glasses really disguise him, dontcha think?
Jack's Storage
Hey Jack, one of your relatives? Or another stream of income?
On the way home from VA Beach.
Losing My Religion?
They say the religious wars are being fought on the book shelves. Check this article to see who's winning.
Thou Shalt Not @&#!!
Have you ever seen a sign stating this?
My first one was spotted in NewPort News Virginia.
What Would You Do?
Do you get this sort of mail in your e-mail very often? I get about four to six Jesus e-mails a year. Almost always, they require me to send them on to other people.I don't believe in chain letters, snail or electronic. So if you are one that sends them to me, please know I almost never foreward them.
I don't know if pictures are miraculous, but I know Jesus performed miracles. I know evil has some power, and fear,if we give in to it has a lot of power. But I believe that God has the ultimate power. He sees my heart. He doesn't require me to send this on and cause a glut of mail for people. If people want Jesus they know where to find him, don't they? I would never dare call an image of Christ junkmail. It seems sacriligious.
If gazing upon this image has caused a miracle in your life, I'd love to hear about it. If it causes one in mine, I'll post it, I promise.
Lunch with a View
Virginia is so picturesque you could literally pull off the road and picnic with a gorgeous view anywhere you see a tree. But with no berm to speak of, trees growing practically to the edge of Route 64, and branches over hanging, the roads appear so skinny as to feel claustrophobic. A fat horse might feel claustrophobic.On our way to Newport News, The Tourist and Visitors and Information Office seems like a good place to stop. Perusing two impressive walls of brochures we stand at the counter before elderly women.
“Is there a park nearby where we can have a picnic lunch?” we ask.
“Are you kidding?” one lady answers. “We’re sitting on 8,000 acres of park."
Who knew? She pulled out a tear-off pad of maps and gave us one. She directed us—if we were fond of water views—to the beautiful picnic area 2.
Lodge pole pines towered above us. In this lovely wooded location I noticed Holly trees, Magnolias and Maples. Beyond them lay a spectacular view of the reservoir. We chose an unoccupied shelter house and laid out our table cloth, printed with ants included. The quiet all but obscured the faint hum of traffic, a sound easily lost as wind in the trees. We looked out over the water nibbling cheese & crackers, ranch-dipped carrots and sandwiches packed just that morning.
My family took day trips to other counties. One we spent tromping around the woods of Mohican State park lost because of my mother’s navigational “skills”.
Ever the adventurer, my dad seemed to have a map of our home state on the back of his hand. He was never lost. But then, he traveled the world while in the Navy. If there was one thing my dad always knew, it was the way home.
I know a guy that thinks getting 'lost' is the beginning of a great adventure.
Lately, I dream a lot about that.
Thou Shalt Not Worry
Usually, I don't worry about things if I can help it. But I've discovered I'm a vacation worrier. When we're at home I wonder if the weather will hold up. When we are on the road I wonder if we're going to find a hotel room. When we get the hotel room, I wonder about the house at home. I used to worry about the cats when I was away.
When we are still, I worry that traffic will be bad, that we'll get lost and sometimes I worry in the wrong neighborhood that we'll be car jacked. I'm a fanatic about locking doors because the world can be so crazy.
When I'm finally starting to get into the vacation mode, I worry that everyone may not be having a great time. If they are, then I wonder how long it will last.
When we get close to where we want to go, I worry that all the parking spots will be taken. When I'm doing anything I think is fun I worry that no one else is having fun. It's better for me if I do what other people want to do. Especially if it's something I've never done, because I always need to be stretched and it always gives me material to write about.
Sometimes I worry about terrorist attacks, but usually after I get home the reality sinks in that it could have happened. I'm to busy worrying about the daily stuff to worry about a larger picture.
Wherever I am, I worry about where I'm not, whenever I have one thing seemingly under control, I worry about the thing that cannot be controlled without my presence.
All the same, I look forward to going on vacation, seeing new things and facing my worry with the hope of slaying it. Maybe if I went on vacation everyday...
When we are still, I worry that traffic will be bad, that we'll get lost and sometimes I worry in the wrong neighborhood that we'll be car jacked. I'm a fanatic about locking doors because the world can be so crazy.
When I'm finally starting to get into the vacation mode, I worry that everyone may not be having a great time. If they are, then I wonder how long it will last.
When we get close to where we want to go, I worry that all the parking spots will be taken. When I'm doing anything I think is fun I worry that no one else is having fun. It's better for me if I do what other people want to do. Especially if it's something I've never done, because I always need to be stretched and it always gives me material to write about.
Sometimes I worry about terrorist attacks, but usually after I get home the reality sinks in that it could have happened. I'm to busy worrying about the daily stuff to worry about a larger picture.
Wherever I am, I worry about where I'm not, whenever I have one thing seemingly under control, I worry about the thing that cannot be controlled without my presence.
All the same, I look forward to going on vacation, seeing new things and facing my worry with the hope of slaying it. Maybe if I went on vacation everyday...
Pretty Is
This pretty little mite tickles me to no end.
When she has little buns on her head,
or pineapple hair.
She always keeps me guessing about the style dujour.
Can't wait to see what it will be like tomorrow...
All I Hear is the Silence
What do you think about when you wake up at night and it's so quiet? All I hear is the silence and feel the peace. My thoughts come and go like tuning in a radio.
God's presence feels palpable when everyone sleeps and life energy drops to a low hum.
Sometimes I wish I could be awake to enjoy twilight more often. It's as though all the secrets of the world wait to be unlocked by the ones who stay up late pondering them.
I used to paint into the night listening to instrumental jazz. At that time, my second floor studio overlooked a parking lot guarded by a live oak hung with yards of spanish moss. I worked uninterupted from 11:00 p.m. until three a.m.
I'd change down the lights, have a glass of wine in a room illuminated by white twinkle lights. I'd stand at the window, winding down with my glass on the sill.
When I looked toward the north east, I'd see the lights of Jacksonville on the horizon. The air was full of promise, and I believed that anything was possible. My life could turn on a dime and change completely.
It still could.
Sometimes when I see people I haven't seen for a long time they'd say,
"Are you famous yet?" I always wondered where my life would lead, what it was people saw in me that wasn't in everyone else.
I still wonder.
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