Suppose you are allergic to seafood. You are at a restaurant and ask the waiter what he recommends. He says the shrimp scampi. Knowing what your needs are, knowing what is unacceptable to you, you order the veal Parmesan.
To say you have to accept the current society, the now environment, the status quo-
that Hollywood and Madison Avenue dictate what we do and how we view ourselves is irresponsible bullshit. To believe that means you do not know yourself and are too weak minded to stand up. It means you deserve the psycho-emotional anaphylaxia you put yourself through.
Know thyself and to thine own self be true-
Monday, August 1, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
at work
I work in a tag office- I process car registrations and titles and collect vehicle property taxes. I meet notable people now and then-
an Indian guy with turret's syndrome and stuttered
a woman with a PO box over 300 miles away to decoy a man who wants to kill her
a family trying to retitle their cars before the father gets out of jail
a young man who had his foot reattached very very recently-
an Indian guy with turret's syndrome and stuttered
a woman with a PO box over 300 miles away to decoy a man who wants to kill her
a family trying to retitle their cars before the father gets out of jail
a young man who had his foot reattached very very recently-
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Memorial Day drive
After breakfast burritos, we set out to see new things. I get it from my Dad- the desire to not be on the interstate. The back roads have more to see and friendlier people.
First stop was http://www.deercreekgunshop.net/index.html to get information on build kits for match lock pistols and rifles for our Elizabethan Trayed Band recreation. These guys have a large Civil War re-enactor clientele, with all the black powder supplies they need. Since that means percussions cap, Pat Rabun advised us to explore The National Muzzle Loading Rifle Association website http://www.nmlra.org/index.asp. I found myself admiring the craftsmanship of the filigree work of the trigger plates and the carving of the stocks.
While on Fairground, I spied an estate sale sign. At the end of a dead end, we were greeted by a 3 month old guard dog named Daisy who’s preferred plan of attack was looking up at you and asking “Why are you not petting me?” and you just had to, so you wouldn’t break her little puppy heart. Once we made it past Daisy, we met Clay and Eric McNeil of Certified Asset Removal and Liquidations http://certifiedliquidations.com/About_Us.html
The unusually big house and ware house were peppered with furniture, books, and renovation supplies. This was the first of their big shop sale and they hope to make a regular thing of it.
Back on the road north- We pealed off onto Old Highway 41 just after Kennesaw University. Hooters was hosting a “Mud for Blood” event. Georgia Bounty Runners http://www.gbr4wd.com/ were running a blood drive while showing off their off road mud running vehicles tricked out to the extreme. Arin’s favorite was red, with a black exterior roll cage, 5 point harnesses in the bucket seats- and pink knitting on the floor boards.
Every week, we pass a shop on South Main Street in Kennesaw. We finally stopped and visited Holly Jones at The Painted Butterfly http://www.thepaintedbutterflykennesaw.com/ . Her huge collection of colorful folk art is watched over by Sylvester – a loving Hemmingway Cat. With careful reading of the painted quote plaques in the gallery, you can find a few from Holly herself. One room has wonderful hand knitted Christmas stockings.
Turning right again, we stayed on Old 41 to see where it went.At the intersection of Old 41 and Hwy 293, we saw the sign for The Dixie Highway http://dixiehighway.org/dixie-history/ and we just had to turn. The drive was beautiful curvy green. We didn’t see very many cars until we got to Acworth. I had been to Acworth a couple years ago for an architectural restoration workshop. It was lunchtime, so our first stop was Henry’s Louisiana Grill http://www.chefhenrys.com/henrys/index.html . The back of the menu told a story about Henry learning to make “the best cornbread in the world” from his Nanny. And yes he did! It’s sweet, thick, cake like consistency, and bits of peppers mixed in. Jesus would have more followers if Henry’s cornbread were the bread of life. We ate crawfish etoufee’ and seafood po’boys with battered fries. I wasn’t that full even after the all you could eat buffet. We needed a walk around. Randy Shaw at Bars and Pubs LLC http://www.barspub.com/ had custom made the skylight in The Oak Barrel wine shop where Cookie Thorpe knows her stuff. She also consigns bottle art by Bonny and James Tillman from the Vino- Eco Candle company http://vinoecocandles.com/ We spent the majority of our time in the Acworth Bookstore and Library in Southern Expressions http://www.acworthbookstore.com/ We sipped coffee browsing the shelves. Arin found a wonderful repro copy of an Ames Sword Company catalog http://www.amessword.com/ in the Military History section.
Back on the Dixie Highway, we tried to find the Etowah Indian Burial Grounds, but the signage was poor. Instead, we found an 1800’s cemetery that shared a parking lot with an elementary school. The town of Emerson is so pretty. Families adopted the highway in front of their own homes. Eventually, the Dixie Highway fed us to Cartersville. Arin caught sight of the City Hall dome through the busier 4 lane. When you want to go downtown, turn on Main Street. The list of shops we stopped in is huge- Psycho Sisters, Blue Sky Outfitters, Pawn and Shop, and so many more I can’t remember. Spring Place Pottery sells local artists’ work including Dry Creek Naturals http://www.drycreeknaturals.blogspot.com/ raw and hand dyed wools from her very own goats. Tina said she will let a few folks come out to her farm in Taylorsville to help and learn.
For the ride home more than 6 hours later, we ended up heading south on Highway 5. through Holly Springs, Woodstock, Canton, and Marietta. It is strange that on a Memorial Day weekend, Marietta was the only town with flags on display for our Honored Dead. Kind of odd-
First stop was http://www.deercreekgunshop.net/index.html to get information on build kits for match lock pistols and rifles for our Elizabethan Trayed Band recreation. These guys have a large Civil War re-enactor clientele, with all the black powder supplies they need. Since that means percussions cap, Pat Rabun advised us to explore The National Muzzle Loading Rifle Association website http://www.nmlra.org/index.asp. I found myself admiring the craftsmanship of the filigree work of the trigger plates and the carving of the stocks.
While on Fairground, I spied an estate sale sign. At the end of a dead end, we were greeted by a 3 month old guard dog named Daisy who’s preferred plan of attack was looking up at you and asking “Why are you not petting me?” and you just had to, so you wouldn’t break her little puppy heart. Once we made it past Daisy, we met Clay and Eric McNeil of Certified Asset Removal and Liquidations http://certifiedliquidations.com/About_Us.html
The unusually big house and ware house were peppered with furniture, books, and renovation supplies. This was the first of their big shop sale and they hope to make a regular thing of it.
Back on the road north- We pealed off onto Old Highway 41 just after Kennesaw University. Hooters was hosting a “Mud for Blood” event. Georgia Bounty Runners http://www.gbr4wd.com/ were running a blood drive while showing off their off road mud running vehicles tricked out to the extreme. Arin’s favorite was red, with a black exterior roll cage, 5 point harnesses in the bucket seats- and pink knitting on the floor boards.
Every week, we pass a shop on South Main Street in Kennesaw. We finally stopped and visited Holly Jones at The Painted Butterfly http://www.thepaintedbutterflykennesaw.com/ . Her huge collection of colorful folk art is watched over by Sylvester – a loving Hemmingway Cat. With careful reading of the painted quote plaques in the gallery, you can find a few from Holly herself. One room has wonderful hand knitted Christmas stockings.
Turning right again, we stayed on Old 41 to see where it went.At the intersection of Old 41 and Hwy 293, we saw the sign for The Dixie Highway http://dixiehighway.org/dixie-history/ and we just had to turn. The drive was beautiful curvy green. We didn’t see very many cars until we got to Acworth. I had been to Acworth a couple years ago for an architectural restoration workshop. It was lunchtime, so our first stop was Henry’s Louisiana Grill http://www.chefhenrys.com/henrys/index.html . The back of the menu told a story about Henry learning to make “the best cornbread in the world” from his Nanny. And yes he did! It’s sweet, thick, cake like consistency, and bits of peppers mixed in. Jesus would have more followers if Henry’s cornbread were the bread of life. We ate crawfish etoufee’ and seafood po’boys with battered fries. I wasn’t that full even after the all you could eat buffet. We needed a walk around. Randy Shaw at Bars and Pubs LLC http://www.barspub.com/ had custom made the skylight in The Oak Barrel wine shop where Cookie Thorpe knows her stuff. She also consigns bottle art by Bonny and James Tillman from the Vino- Eco Candle company http://vinoecocandles.com/ We spent the majority of our time in the Acworth Bookstore and Library in Southern Expressions http://www.acworthbookstore.com/ We sipped coffee browsing the shelves. Arin found a wonderful repro copy of an Ames Sword Company catalog http://www.amessword.com/ in the Military History section.
Back on the Dixie Highway, we tried to find the Etowah Indian Burial Grounds, but the signage was poor. Instead, we found an 1800’s cemetery that shared a parking lot with an elementary school. The town of Emerson is so pretty. Families adopted the highway in front of their own homes. Eventually, the Dixie Highway fed us to Cartersville. Arin caught sight of the City Hall dome through the busier 4 lane. When you want to go downtown, turn on Main Street. The list of shops we stopped in is huge- Psycho Sisters, Blue Sky Outfitters, Pawn and Shop, and so many more I can’t remember. Spring Place Pottery sells local artists’ work including Dry Creek Naturals http://www.drycreeknaturals.blogspot.com/ raw and hand dyed wools from her very own goats. Tina said she will let a few folks come out to her farm in Taylorsville to help and learn.
For the ride home more than 6 hours later, we ended up heading south on Highway 5. through Holly Springs, Woodstock, Canton, and Marietta. It is strange that on a Memorial Day weekend, Marietta was the only town with flags on display for our Honored Dead. Kind of odd-
Friday, March 11, 2011
insomnia rant-
I'm more and more convinced that I am unbalanced. At least after a bit of a cry and a rant, I feel much more stable when I do get a full nights sleep-
I am scared most of the time. I feel I need to be ready to explain myself- not defend, but explain, because my mistakes are catching up with me.
I am lonely most of the time. Giving out, without a balance of putting back in.
I feel left out, forgotten
I don't know what's going on with my friends
I feel avoided
I feel I have nothing to offer
I have lost inspiration to create.
I feel like I am not doing what I need to be doing to be a worth while friend- like I haven't earned fellowship.
I am grieving for the loss of my family, my business, my Shire, my household- all of which have faded in the last few years.
When I want to reach out, and take myself back, I am reluctant for fear of failing again.
I have no more faith. I put it all in my business, in the SCA and in RSC.
I find out later I have been not invited, and it's whispered like I was never meant to know. I feel abandoned by friends who didn't say that they were leaving. Two in particular who say they miss me while feeling more and more guarded on our rare visits.
I have so few people, I'm taking it harder than I should be. I am over reacting because I feel my circle getting smaller. I feel like I have forced people away without realizing it and I want that feeling to stop. I want to know the root cause. I ask what I need to do, and I have no reply, or mean ones that don't address the issue.
So much for clearing the air. Today, I decided to wipe all my slates. Clean house and deal with the 'it's been really bugging me' things that I have been accepting and just pushing down. So far it hasn't turned out well. Do what's best for you, I'm told- but I have rotten timing. Or something-
There's a bunch of people out there who owe me sincere public (or at least witnessed) apology. There are a bunch more who owe me sincere thanks.
There are bunch who's company was comforting and fun and moved the world who I feel separate from. I wonder if I am unbalanced? I need reassurances. I need faith. I need good news. I need joy and silliness.
I need to know I don't somehow deserve isolation: see Karma, see divine retribution-
I need to feel secure in the times that must happen that I am not forgotten, left behind. I've spent a lot of time on my own. You'd think I'd be used to it. Ok with it. But I'm not. I feel like I have to chase down company, grasp at people who want to be uncaught.
I take myself, and my hurts way too seriously, too much to heart.
I say the wrong thing at the wrong time and get blown up at.
Maybe Dad was right and sometimes turning the other cheek means walking away.
Maybe that friend was right when he said things run smoother because I was not around- one of those jokes that cuts to my bone, but will always make me wonder if there was truth to it, because it did unload smoother with out me.
One thing I know is when you start saying "everybody says/thinks/does..." it means you say/think/do...whatever it is.
People have been reaching out this week. I've been wrapped up in my own darkness to notice properly. Like the wounded animal, I snap before realizing. I disappoint myself when I do that and stay wounded. I can't heal because I am already hurt.
I still want to ball up and grieve for my Dad when I hear "Swing Low" and remember the walls singing as we all bellowed it our in our rooms last time my brothers and sisters were together. A time when, I found out later, I hurt people without knowing and was told it caused unfixable damage. Yet another example of should have been addressed at that moment before it was too late.
I want to grieve for the dreams my business held for me and the 'I can make anything' attitude- even though that got me in over my head on a few projects. I loved every minute of it, even when I hated it. I feel like the fact that it really was a full time job squeezed into 5 hours days was not understood or respected. I started being hurt by that attitude, and when I confronted people, I had it carefully explained how that didn't mean I had open days and could easily do things that could not happen with a real job-
I want to grieve the fact that things were so fucked up when they were babies that I couldn't enjoy those times that will never be again. I am angry at myself when I resent the boys when it was G who was the issue.
I want these things to be seen as real injuries. I want my sadness respected. I want my circumstances respected. I want to be poo-pooed. I want to be told not to worry- that people will come back. That I haven't been abandoned. That I haven't fucked up without knowing it. That it's not too late-
I want to be able to not feel like I have to speak and act perfectly as not to upset anyone.
I grieve most of not being me - river walking, rock climbing, beer swilling, sword swinging me- because I have my grown up responsibilities I need to tend. There are kids whose future depends on my doing the right thing. It's taking me a way too long time to use this grindstone for my nose instead of trying to come up with as many other uses for it as I can find.
It's my dreadful high maintenance side -The fear that I will look up and everyone has gone- left me behind and I could have prevented it, if I only knew I was supposed to- a piece of me that has always been there and a burden to have.
I hate being weak and insecure. I don't blame other people for making me feel this way. I blame myself for being so needy.
Sleep is finally coming. It's been almost 2 weeks of on and off sleeplessness. We'll see what the future brings- if I have cause harm tonight or not. And if it is fixable.
I am scared most of the time. I feel I need to be ready to explain myself- not defend, but explain, because my mistakes are catching up with me.
I am lonely most of the time. Giving out, without a balance of putting back in.
I feel left out, forgotten
I don't know what's going on with my friends
I feel avoided
I feel I have nothing to offer
I have lost inspiration to create.
I feel like I am not doing what I need to be doing to be a worth while friend- like I haven't earned fellowship.
I am grieving for the loss of my family, my business, my Shire, my household- all of which have faded in the last few years.
When I want to reach out, and take myself back, I am reluctant for fear of failing again.
I have no more faith. I put it all in my business, in the SCA and in RSC.
I find out later I have been not invited, and it's whispered like I was never meant to know. I feel abandoned by friends who didn't say that they were leaving. Two in particular who say they miss me while feeling more and more guarded on our rare visits.
I have so few people, I'm taking it harder than I should be. I am over reacting because I feel my circle getting smaller. I feel like I have forced people away without realizing it and I want that feeling to stop. I want to know the root cause. I ask what I need to do, and I have no reply, or mean ones that don't address the issue.
So much for clearing the air. Today, I decided to wipe all my slates. Clean house and deal with the 'it's been really bugging me' things that I have been accepting and just pushing down. So far it hasn't turned out well. Do what's best for you, I'm told- but I have rotten timing. Or something-
There's a bunch of people out there who owe me sincere public (or at least witnessed) apology. There are a bunch more who owe me sincere thanks.
There are bunch who's company was comforting and fun and moved the world who I feel separate from. I wonder if I am unbalanced? I need reassurances. I need faith. I need good news. I need joy and silliness.
I need to know I don't somehow deserve isolation: see Karma, see divine retribution-
I need to feel secure in the times that must happen that I am not forgotten, left behind. I've spent a lot of time on my own. You'd think I'd be used to it. Ok with it. But I'm not. I feel like I have to chase down company, grasp at people who want to be uncaught.
I take myself, and my hurts way too seriously, too much to heart.
I say the wrong thing at the wrong time and get blown up at.
Maybe Dad was right and sometimes turning the other cheek means walking away.
Maybe that friend was right when he said things run smoother because I was not around- one of those jokes that cuts to my bone, but will always make me wonder if there was truth to it, because it did unload smoother with out me.
One thing I know is when you start saying "everybody says/thinks/does..." it means you say/think/do...whatever it is.
People have been reaching out this week. I've been wrapped up in my own darkness to notice properly. Like the wounded animal, I snap before realizing. I disappoint myself when I do that and stay wounded. I can't heal because I am already hurt.
I still want to ball up and grieve for my Dad when I hear "Swing Low" and remember the walls singing as we all bellowed it our in our rooms last time my brothers and sisters were together. A time when, I found out later, I hurt people without knowing and was told it caused unfixable damage. Yet another example of should have been addressed at that moment before it was too late.
I want to grieve for the dreams my business held for me and the 'I can make anything' attitude- even though that got me in over my head on a few projects. I loved every minute of it, even when I hated it. I feel like the fact that it really was a full time job squeezed into 5 hours days was not understood or respected. I started being hurt by that attitude, and when I confronted people, I had it carefully explained how that didn't mean I had open days and could easily do things that could not happen with a real job-
I want to grieve the fact that things were so fucked up when they were babies that I couldn't enjoy those times that will never be again. I am angry at myself when I resent the boys when it was G who was the issue.
I want these things to be seen as real injuries. I want my sadness respected. I want my circumstances respected. I want to be poo-pooed. I want to be told not to worry- that people will come back. That I haven't been abandoned. That I haven't fucked up without knowing it. That it's not too late-
I want to be able to not feel like I have to speak and act perfectly as not to upset anyone.
I grieve most of not being me - river walking, rock climbing, beer swilling, sword swinging me- because I have my grown up responsibilities I need to tend. There are kids whose future depends on my doing the right thing. It's taking me a way too long time to use this grindstone for my nose instead of trying to come up with as many other uses for it as I can find.
It's my dreadful high maintenance side -The fear that I will look up and everyone has gone- left me behind and I could have prevented it, if I only knew I was supposed to- a piece of me that has always been there and a burden to have.
I hate being weak and insecure. I don't blame other people for making me feel this way. I blame myself for being so needy.
Sleep is finally coming. It's been almost 2 weeks of on and off sleeplessness. We'll see what the future brings- if I have cause harm tonight or not. And if it is fixable.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Sons of Somerled
I listen to the CD at work a lot. The lyric (or close to it) "...from a day when sword was mightier than pen...." harkens to a time before lawyers, and deeds, and land grants determining who owned the earth. My lands would stretch as far as I could defend myself and give protection and provision to those who would help me do so. An idea like that has a strength of responsibility that is almost unheard of on both sides of that fence these days. When you are lucky enough to find a few whom you can protect and provision, whether in body or in soul, you have allies. Even better if they are friends as well.
That piece of a line sounds a bit louder in my headphones. It triggers a deeper meaning I don't recall.
Excelsior-
That piece of a line sounds a bit louder in my headphones. It triggers a deeper meaning I don't recall.
Excelsior-
Blue Moon- feminine voice
I wanted to be poetic and beautifully deep while thinking about a Blue Moon, but honestly all that comes to mind is beer. I love beer. I don’t love getting drunk. I love the taste, the mouth feel, the patient creativity of brewing your own. When I am enjoying the flavor, the dulling drunk is annoying, limiting the palate.
The first time I drank beer, I spit it out. I think it was a Miller product. The next time was Guinness and I was redeemed. The two experiences could not be further apart. I started home brewing in 1993 while living in Florida. There were 5 of us sharing the house, which required plenty of beer. With a full crew, we had one batch blowing off, one in second fermentation, one aging, and one to drink. I lost the necessity of lots of bubbles. I appreciated what a good head was and how the top of the glass can be different than the bottom.
After a several year stop in production, I started to experiment again. I wanted to make a historical beer. Me being me, I had to choose the most difficult ones-the ones with no surviving recipes- Rye Beer, and Ebulum. With the German Purity Laws, brewing guilds had to destroy their secret recipes. Ebulum – an elderberry oatmeal beer- was never really written down. Well, they sort of were. They were like my recipes: a list of ingredients with no quantity or instructions of any kind. These are the best recipes. I like to play with my food. And drink-
I called the rye Judas Tears. The beverage is against the law. It is perceived as yuck by those who hear what it is, but when cajoled into trying it, those who hate beer are surprised to be fond of it.
The ebulum is called Heather and Hay- two Scottish items for an old Scottish beer. There's wheat and elderberries and a list of spices that it makes no sense that they would work together, but there you are- a bunch of individual elements that can stand on their own or combine unexpectedly into something good.
After 14 years of growing, my grape vines burst and overflow and I am encouraged to a more patient level creativity in wine making. I use my grapes, and honey and ciders to make combinations I've never heard of. My freezer is full of 15ish gallons of grapes waiting for the prefect day to get smooshed. It is the only time I am capable of patience- when I am brewing and vinting or waiting until the perfect day to do either. I'm willing to wait for a Blue Moon until it's ready.
The first time I drank beer, I spit it out. I think it was a Miller product. The next time was Guinness and I was redeemed. The two experiences could not be further apart. I started home brewing in 1993 while living in Florida. There were 5 of us sharing the house, which required plenty of beer. With a full crew, we had one batch blowing off, one in second fermentation, one aging, and one to drink. I lost the necessity of lots of bubbles. I appreciated what a good head was and how the top of the glass can be different than the bottom.
After a several year stop in production, I started to experiment again. I wanted to make a historical beer. Me being me, I had to choose the most difficult ones-the ones with no surviving recipes- Rye Beer, and Ebulum. With the German Purity Laws, brewing guilds had to destroy their secret recipes. Ebulum – an elderberry oatmeal beer- was never really written down. Well, they sort of were. They were like my recipes: a list of ingredients with no quantity or instructions of any kind. These are the best recipes. I like to play with my food. And drink-
I called the rye Judas Tears. The beverage is against the law. It is perceived as yuck by those who hear what it is, but when cajoled into trying it, those who hate beer are surprised to be fond of it.
The ebulum is called Heather and Hay- two Scottish items for an old Scottish beer. There's wheat and elderberries and a list of spices that it makes no sense that they would work together, but there you are- a bunch of individual elements that can stand on their own or combine unexpectedly into something good.
After 14 years of growing, my grape vines burst and overflow and I am encouraged to a more patient level creativity in wine making. I use my grapes, and honey and ciders to make combinations I've never heard of. My freezer is full of 15ish gallons of grapes waiting for the prefect day to get smooshed. It is the only time I am capable of patience- when I am brewing and vinting or waiting until the perfect day to do either. I'm willing to wait for a Blue Moon until it's ready.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Our Place- feminine voice dare
Had to get outside- snow on the edges of the yard, 40 degrees and dropping, but working in the mail room is not ok today. I don't belong in an office. I belong outside.
I put on my silk long john's, my cold weather under armor and headed out to rake the yard at 5:45 pm. I had started a new garden bed at the beginning of fall, and it needs much more work before spring.
Scratching scrape scratching scrape- heaped the pecan leaves into the garden. The boys will have a new chore of running back and forth a bit everyday to crush them up and speed composting. The soaker hose caught my attention. It kept getting stuck in the tines of the rake. I was getting annoyed by some issues between some friends and even more annoyed that I was dedicating more time to resolving that than tending to my own life. The soaker hose trapped again. And again.
There are two kinds of people, I decided. Those who pray for rain and those who use the talents and skills the creator gave them to over come the drought. It must be very insulting to give possibility only to have it ignored, or worse unnoticed. I know how it has felt at times in my life. I mulled over what my gifts, my talents and skills are. Seems silly to say I have forgotten, but the hard knocks and losses of the year made me forget. There has been unemployment, draining of all savings accounts to live, replacing cars, loosing loved ones- either from moving away or moving beyond. It's strangely difficult to remember.
There is a wonderful children's book called "I Am" by Mac. One every page are stick figures beside words that say things like "I am creative. I sing. I dance. I tell stories. I am creative.... I am strong...I am helpful...." The most important sentiment is "I am what I say I am. I am not what I say I am not."
I was working by the street light that made the snow deep amber. I looked up, sifted through the airplanes and found the First Star.
Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. I am keenly aware of the importance of vocabulary in these things. I had not made my new year's resolutions yet. I do this on the winter solstice. It makes sense to me that the longest night night should be the end of the old year with it's enveloping of light, and the beginning of the new one like an enormous egg with a tiny yolk of daylight that grows to something comparatively enormous. A resolution wish for me and only me- scratching scrape, scratching scrape. Last night I fell asleep thinking about a challenge tourney we were all in in May. When Erika could not decide who she should call out, I asked her "Who was the scariest one up there? Who could she learn the most from when the fight was over?"
My thoughts were like pop corn- soaker hose, drought, star, fight- me.....
I made the scariest wish, biggest leap of faith, the thing I could learn and remember the most of myself from to counter the drought.
"I wish to become everything the Maker has faith in me to be."
I can not longer lie in my later years. It's not that I am bad at it, I simply can't make myself do it. When I can say out loud "I am what I say I am. I am not what I say I am not" then my wish will have come true.
Time for dinner. Arin and Jason are cooking. And I have to write something down so I don't forget it.
I put on my silk long john's, my cold weather under armor and headed out to rake the yard at 5:45 pm. I had started a new garden bed at the beginning of fall, and it needs much more work before spring.
Scratching scrape scratching scrape- heaped the pecan leaves into the garden. The boys will have a new chore of running back and forth a bit everyday to crush them up and speed composting. The soaker hose caught my attention. It kept getting stuck in the tines of the rake. I was getting annoyed by some issues between some friends and even more annoyed that I was dedicating more time to resolving that than tending to my own life. The soaker hose trapped again. And again.
There are two kinds of people, I decided. Those who pray for rain and those who use the talents and skills the creator gave them to over come the drought. It must be very insulting to give possibility only to have it ignored, or worse unnoticed. I know how it has felt at times in my life. I mulled over what my gifts, my talents and skills are. Seems silly to say I have forgotten, but the hard knocks and losses of the year made me forget. There has been unemployment, draining of all savings accounts to live, replacing cars, loosing loved ones- either from moving away or moving beyond. It's strangely difficult to remember.
There is a wonderful children's book called "I Am" by Mac. One every page are stick figures beside words that say things like "I am creative. I sing. I dance. I tell stories. I am creative.... I am strong...I am helpful...." The most important sentiment is "I am what I say I am. I am not what I say I am not."
I was working by the street light that made the snow deep amber. I looked up, sifted through the airplanes and found the First Star.
Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. I am keenly aware of the importance of vocabulary in these things. I had not made my new year's resolutions yet. I do this on the winter solstice. It makes sense to me that the longest night night should be the end of the old year with it's enveloping of light, and the beginning of the new one like an enormous egg with a tiny yolk of daylight that grows to something comparatively enormous. A resolution wish for me and only me- scratching scrape, scratching scrape. Last night I fell asleep thinking about a challenge tourney we were all in in May. When Erika could not decide who she should call out, I asked her "Who was the scariest one up there? Who could she learn the most from when the fight was over?"
My thoughts were like pop corn- soaker hose, drought, star, fight- me.....
I made the scariest wish, biggest leap of faith, the thing I could learn and remember the most of myself from to counter the drought.
"I wish to become everything the Maker has faith in me to be."
I can not longer lie in my later years. It's not that I am bad at it, I simply can't make myself do it. When I can say out loud "I am what I say I am. I am not what I say I am not" then my wish will have come true.
Time for dinner. Arin and Jason are cooking. And I have to write something down so I don't forget it.
Monday, December 13, 2010
3 am again, no 4 am rant
The middle of the night is the only time I feel like I have myself to myself. It is also the worst time to write, or sew and expect to be able to go to work the next day. Well crap.
Sometimes I come home for lunch just to be alone for 15 minutes. Even if the family all backs off and know Mom's in time out, their enerigies are there. My darling love is wondering and reaching out to me with his heart- it is not the same as just being alone to recharge, to find restful peace before starting it all at full bore again. I keep telling myself, because others keep telling me- there is always tomorrow, or next week- and it fills me with rage.
Later is the kind of thinking that has it all ending up being too late in the end. I've spent too much time waiting. I have full faith in all of you to be able to figure it out. Leave me to me. I don't want to go out. I want to stay here, alone. And when I come out in 3 or 4 or 8 or 12 hours, it will have helped and I won't resent being needed, or the being the only one who knows what to do. As much. The thing with moms needed to take time for themselves is something we know in a full "no Shit" capacity. It's everyone else who needs to respect that fact, and give it to us. I don't feel that this need is respected by anyone. Otherwise, they would not tell me to just do it tomorrow, or next week. And if I had that feeling about making dinner......? It's starting to sound like a reasonable idea to pack up the sewing room and let the boys have it for play room. I'm not using it and they could. And it makes me sad that I feel like my need to have my own kind of recreation feels so disrespected that it does sound like such a reasonable idea. I packed it all into the attic before when the boys were all in diapers. It cracked my heart a little each day to see what was such a part of me having to be ignored. It was less painful to put it all out of sight and forget how it felt to feel peaceful creation. There was a bit of release when I did that- like when I mowed over the gardens, or decided to stop clearing the work benches- a relief that I didn't have to be sad about it anymore because it was gone. And I stare at the TV doing nothing and feeling like I don't know anything anymore. Worse part is, I can see the same broken heart behind the eyes of the boys about the things they used to love. No time or soul to play baseball with Patrick, teach Richard to sew, play music, rock climb, draw, paint, build- I don't even know what they like anymore. I don't know any of us anymore it seems. It makes me very sad that this is the only kind of writing I can come up with because of the emotional, mental, and spiritual log jam feels iced over with no signs of spring in sight. Even more so that I have to rant and demand to get respected time alone. That feels dirty- not at all helpful or healing. I don't remember the last time I relaxed- that I was not in full speed ahead mode. I some how think if I get what needs to get done, then I will have time for myself to enjoy the things that being me peace- as long as no one else needs something from me, even if it is just love. I'm tapped out and it's hard work to scrape the inside of that barrel. Me, what I do, my time, does not feel important enough in others minds. I want to run away from home. Or change the locks, albeit temporarily. So this is Purgatory-
There's always next week, I'm told.
Back to bed. Being so worn out will not help my defeated feeling. It only makes it worse. I had a life goal to be a force of change for myself, and not a complainer. That goal is out the window tonight. I do feel better though. Thanks for listening.
Sometimes I come home for lunch just to be alone for 15 minutes. Even if the family all backs off and know Mom's in time out, their enerigies are there. My darling love is wondering and reaching out to me with his heart- it is not the same as just being alone to recharge, to find restful peace before starting it all at full bore again. I keep telling myself, because others keep telling me- there is always tomorrow, or next week- and it fills me with rage.
Later is the kind of thinking that has it all ending up being too late in the end. I've spent too much time waiting. I have full faith in all of you to be able to figure it out. Leave me to me. I don't want to go out. I want to stay here, alone. And when I come out in 3 or 4 or 8 or 12 hours, it will have helped and I won't resent being needed, or the being the only one who knows what to do. As much. The thing with moms needed to take time for themselves is something we know in a full "no Shit" capacity. It's everyone else who needs to respect that fact, and give it to us. I don't feel that this need is respected by anyone. Otherwise, they would not tell me to just do it tomorrow, or next week. And if I had that feeling about making dinner......? It's starting to sound like a reasonable idea to pack up the sewing room and let the boys have it for play room. I'm not using it and they could. And it makes me sad that I feel like my need to have my own kind of recreation feels so disrespected that it does sound like such a reasonable idea. I packed it all into the attic before when the boys were all in diapers. It cracked my heart a little each day to see what was such a part of me having to be ignored. It was less painful to put it all out of sight and forget how it felt to feel peaceful creation. There was a bit of release when I did that- like when I mowed over the gardens, or decided to stop clearing the work benches- a relief that I didn't have to be sad about it anymore because it was gone. And I stare at the TV doing nothing and feeling like I don't know anything anymore. Worse part is, I can see the same broken heart behind the eyes of the boys about the things they used to love. No time or soul to play baseball with Patrick, teach Richard to sew, play music, rock climb, draw, paint, build- I don't even know what they like anymore. I don't know any of us anymore it seems. It makes me very sad that this is the only kind of writing I can come up with because of the emotional, mental, and spiritual log jam feels iced over with no signs of spring in sight. Even more so that I have to rant and demand to get respected time alone. That feels dirty- not at all helpful or healing. I don't remember the last time I relaxed- that I was not in full speed ahead mode. I some how think if I get what needs to get done, then I will have time for myself to enjoy the things that being me peace- as long as no one else needs something from me, even if it is just love. I'm tapped out and it's hard work to scrape the inside of that barrel. Me, what I do, my time, does not feel important enough in others minds. I want to run away from home. Or change the locks, albeit temporarily. So this is Purgatory-
There's always next week, I'm told.
Back to bed. Being so worn out will not help my defeated feeling. It only makes it worse. I had a life goal to be a force of change for myself, and not a complainer. That goal is out the window tonight. I do feel better though. Thanks for listening.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
fire in the sky
Every day on my work breaks, I go for a walk to look at things far away, esp the clouds. They have been very white and remind me of charcoal drawings the way they feather out. They are usually a blank slate to stretched cotton. Every day this week, I have seen the form of a phoenix in the skies.
We hear what we want to hear, but we see what we need to see. Phoenix is fire. Phoenix re starts, redoes, or begins to continue.
Which pile of ashes am I to sweep up and drink the tea of? I am eager, even impatient to know. I can start feeling like I am living my own life again. I was a fulfilling and powerful, grown up feeling when I had it in the past. Fire does not wait well.
We hear what we want to hear, but we see what we need to see. Phoenix is fire. Phoenix re starts, redoes, or begins to continue.
Which pile of ashes am I to sweep up and drink the tea of? I am eager, even impatient to know. I can start feeling like I am living my own life again. I was a fulfilling and powerful, grown up feeling when I had it in the past. Fire does not wait well.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Repetition as a Form of Change- Feminine Voice week 20
After a long respite, I began fencing again. Reading – and understanding- Fiore’s manual has reminded me how seriously I take this martial art. I wanted to start with drill work to build my strength back up again and I am more determined to train it right right from the beginning. I paid attention to what I learned from Dr James and from 41 years of getting to know the quirks of this particular make and model of human being.
Every joint in my right leg is like raw nerve. I had forgotten about my ankle- that I had severely sprained it 3 times, minorly countless others and fractured it. As I lunged, my knee and toe were in perfect align, my stance wider and my pelvis tilted too correct fleet angle. The deeper I lunge, the more my heel rolls under, my ankle not supporting the leg above it. I would still lose my balance and my knee was in grinding pain because I had forgotten about my ankle.
The first few days of physical therapy were exhausting. With every bit of focus I could muster and every muscle on the right side of my body, I slowly did 10 lean drills. I forced my ankle into proper alignment by brute force of will. I wanted to cry with the same screaming as when I injured it falling through the stage years ago. I wanted to be rescued and comforted. Who knew it took so many muscles for a foot and ankle to stay put? I can feel the work all the way up to my hip. My knee brace is too uncomfortable to wear.
And then I did it again the next night. Four days later, I think about foot alignment while walking on my breaks at work. Every step is controlled, precise, and perpetual correction. I do not roll to the outside of my heel while at standing at rest infrequently enough that I have noticed I have changed. Last night, I did 45 lean drills. For the first time in years, I had to stop an exercise because of muscle fatigue instead of knee pain.
I have added neck therapy and once these become habits, wall angels. I might not have to stop fencing after all.
Every joint in my right leg is like raw nerve. I had forgotten about my ankle- that I had severely sprained it 3 times, minorly countless others and fractured it. As I lunged, my knee and toe were in perfect align, my stance wider and my pelvis tilted too correct fleet angle. The deeper I lunge, the more my heel rolls under, my ankle not supporting the leg above it. I would still lose my balance and my knee was in grinding pain because I had forgotten about my ankle.
The first few days of physical therapy were exhausting. With every bit of focus I could muster and every muscle on the right side of my body, I slowly did 10 lean drills. I forced my ankle into proper alignment by brute force of will. I wanted to cry with the same screaming as when I injured it falling through the stage years ago. I wanted to be rescued and comforted. Who knew it took so many muscles for a foot and ankle to stay put? I can feel the work all the way up to my hip. My knee brace is too uncomfortable to wear.
And then I did it again the next night. Four days later, I think about foot alignment while walking on my breaks at work. Every step is controlled, precise, and perpetual correction. I do not roll to the outside of my heel while at standing at rest infrequently enough that I have noticed I have changed. Last night, I did 45 lean drills. For the first time in years, I had to stop an exercise because of muscle fatigue instead of knee pain.
I have added neck therapy and once these become habits, wall angels. I might not have to stop fencing after all.
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