The universe has been showering me with blessings. In no particular order, here are some of the gifts that have been raining down upon me:
• My daughter took me on a cruise – my first ever – for my birthday.
• I’m taking Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University course. You can check out my progress at: http://www.ayearofcommoncents.blogspot.com/.
• My brain has finally convinced my heart to let go of the pain and shame of years of abuse I suffered throughout my childhood and teen years.
• I realize that not only did I survive, but I’m actually beginning to thrive!
I have a story to tell that can help others who have been abused. I know fear and shame and hiding in plain sight and secrets and ugly truths. I know hopelessness, and shadows on the soul. I know about baby steps forward and giant leaps backward. I know the comfort and safety found in oblivion, the faith and trust in no one and no thing.
I have a story to tell. It’s time I write it.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
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Friday, October 1, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
An Open Letter to Pastor Terry Jones on the Eve of 9/11
9/10/10
Pastor Terry Jones
Dove World Outreach Church
Gainesville, FL
Dear Pastor Jones,
Did your mother not teach you that two wrongs do not make a right? Your decision to continue with the burning of Qurans to protest the September 11, 2001 attack by al Qaeda will not 'fix' what happened. Nothing can make that 'right,' Pastor Jones, and your actions will send the wrong message to the terrorists. Do you really believe they will peacefully acknowledge your protest and think, 'Gosh, I'm sorry I hurt your great nation?" In case you haven't noticed, al-Qaeda acts like a bully. Your action will cause an 'I'll do you one-better' action on their part. You are handing terrorists a built-in excuse to punish our innocent citizens, citizens who have nothing to do with your misguided protest.
Your self-aggrandizing actions will, in all probability, cause terrorists attacks to be perpetrated upon our soil in the near if not immediate future; innocent men, women, and children may be maimed or killed because you want to protest what was done to us. A way of life that so many Americans have had to rebuild in one way or another since that fateful day will be shattered.
I have news for you, Pastor Jones. The good citizens of America already protest that horrific event every day. We may not wail and weep and mourn loudly in the public eye for our nations' loss, and the loss of so many families' loved ones, but it is indelibly stamped within our hearts, souls, and psyche. For you to protest in a way that you have acknowledged will stir up radical elements is not only irresponsible but morally reprehensible. You are endangering the lives of our service men and women, and all Americans, around the globe. You are endangering the lives of your family, of those who attend the church right next to yours.
Two wrongs don't make a right, Pastor Jones. I can't figure out your motivation, or why you chose this time to protest. Why now - why not nine years ago? Why not have a Protest for Peace instead of deliberately, knowingly antagonizing terrorists? Why did you feel the need to involve the press in this? Why, when you are supposed to be a man of God, did you choose to intentionally do something so inflammatory that blood will run because of your actions?
I've heard you say that you and your flock are 'praying about it.' I would ask that you quit throwing your voice up to God so that you can listen to Him tell you not to do this incendiary thing.
"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." Do you remember that part of the Bible?
Do you not see the big picture? Please, don't do this.
Signed,
Catherine Thorne
Raleigh, NC
Pastor Terry Jones
Dove World Outreach Church
Gainesville, FL
Dear Pastor Jones,
Did your mother not teach you that two wrongs do not make a right? Your decision to continue with the burning of Qurans to protest the September 11, 2001 attack by al Qaeda will not 'fix' what happened. Nothing can make that 'right,' Pastor Jones, and your actions will send the wrong message to the terrorists. Do you really believe they will peacefully acknowledge your protest and think, 'Gosh, I'm sorry I hurt your great nation?" In case you haven't noticed, al-Qaeda acts like a bully. Your action will cause an 'I'll do you one-better' action on their part. You are handing terrorists a built-in excuse to punish our innocent citizens, citizens who have nothing to do with your misguided protest.
Your self-aggrandizing actions will, in all probability, cause terrorists attacks to be perpetrated upon our soil in the near if not immediate future; innocent men, women, and children may be maimed or killed because you want to protest what was done to us. A way of life that so many Americans have had to rebuild in one way or another since that fateful day will be shattered.
I have news for you, Pastor Jones. The good citizens of America already protest that horrific event every day. We may not wail and weep and mourn loudly in the public eye for our nations' loss, and the loss of so many families' loved ones, but it is indelibly stamped within our hearts, souls, and psyche. For you to protest in a way that you have acknowledged will stir up radical elements is not only irresponsible but morally reprehensible. You are endangering the lives of our service men and women, and all Americans, around the globe. You are endangering the lives of your family, of those who attend the church right next to yours.
Two wrongs don't make a right, Pastor Jones. I can't figure out your motivation, or why you chose this time to protest. Why now - why not nine years ago? Why not have a Protest for Peace instead of deliberately, knowingly antagonizing terrorists? Why did you feel the need to involve the press in this? Why, when you are supposed to be a man of God, did you choose to intentionally do something so inflammatory that blood will run because of your actions?
I've heard you say that you and your flock are 'praying about it.' I would ask that you quit throwing your voice up to God so that you can listen to Him tell you not to do this incendiary thing.
"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." Do you remember that part of the Bible?
Do you not see the big picture? Please, don't do this.
Signed,
Catherine Thorne
Raleigh, NC
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Inspiration from an Unlikely Source
I love food. I love to cook, I love the way fresh food smells and tastes. I love all aspects of food, even grocery shopping. A pile of fresh vegetables at our Farmer's Market here in Raleigh is a work of art to me: the colors are so intense and all the hues blend so naturally. I haven't seen any two vegetables that clash when they are placed side by side. However, I'm not going to rhapsodize about food (I'll save that for another day :'D). I thought I'd share how I was inspired to re-work a series of print articles I have been working on for some time now.
While I was sitting at my desk thinking about the Farmer's Market and how I'd like to go this weekend to stock up on fresh veggies and herbs, it dawned on me that I need to spice up my original articles' concept. Something just wasn't quite right about them but I couldn't figure out what that 'off' thing was. I knew they had good bones but really needed a dash of something before I pitched them for publication in my targeted markets.
I am going to keep my original concept but work it from a food angle. This is the 'umph' that was missing.
Food is fun. It's love in a bowl. It's comfort, it's sexy, it's nostalgic and a promise of the future. It reflects societal notions and economic conditions. It is inherently plain but beautiful when prepared to one's liking.
Whoda thunk it? I'm back at work on my articles with a fresh outlook and a huge dollop of inspiration from a pile of vegetables.
Until next time,
"Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean." ~ Christopher Reeve
While I was sitting at my desk thinking about the Farmer's Market and how I'd like to go this weekend to stock up on fresh veggies and herbs, it dawned on me that I need to spice up my original articles' concept. Something just wasn't quite right about them but I couldn't figure out what that 'off' thing was. I knew they had good bones but really needed a dash of something before I pitched them for publication in my targeted markets.
I am going to keep my original concept but work it from a food angle. This is the 'umph' that was missing.
Food is fun. It's love in a bowl. It's comfort, it's sexy, it's nostalgic and a promise of the future. It reflects societal notions and economic conditions. It is inherently plain but beautiful when prepared to one's liking.
Whoda thunk it? I'm back at work on my articles with a fresh outlook and a huge dollop of inspiration from a pile of vegetables.
Until next time,
"Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean." ~ Christopher Reeve
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
MERMAID
This piece, transferred from my old blog, is still a favorite of mine. I hope you enjoy it.
She is an ocean woman who gets homesick for its briny scent even though she’s never lived by the sea. She is drawn to its shore when she is soul-weary or heart-sore; the ocean woman pays homage to her essence when she returns to share her joy or when she’s simply seeking solace in the silence of her thoughts. She returns to clear the city’s miasma from her brain so she can once again see clearly, and remember: always remember.
The ocean air upon her cheeks is a homecoming gift; she runs from the boardwalk to the edge of the wet to inhale the wildly whirling winds that seem to be welcoming her back, back, back to her home, back to her place, back to her one true love. Her hair whips behind her back in a dark tattoo like forgotten beach towels snapping in a pre-storm wind and straining for release from where they were carelessly pegged to a clothesline. She throws her arms to the sky and with utter abandon, she dances on the shore, a water ballerina laughing at the seductive sea as it teasingly sucks the sand out from under her feet. Like the kelp waltzing in the surf, bobbing up and down, up and down, the woman’s body sways in perfect time with each note of the ocean’s roar that forever plays in her ear. She’s elemental in her joy; she’s primal in her passion for the sea. She revels in its lure. She knows the mystery of its darkly buoyant secrets. Her body has slid through summer’s sparkly surf. She’s played in its murky depths with her sisters and prayed in the shallows for her lover’s return. She knows the dichotomy of the sea: like a woman, it’s soft and giving, playfully sharing its bounty and gently sheltering life one moment and then, seemingly out of the blue – there heaves from its bosom a storm of relentless and unyielding strength…of passionate anger that washes over shore, cleansing and refreshing all that it touches. She watches a pod of dolphins and remembers the hours of innocent indulgence spent cavorting with them just beyond the breakers. The woman walks and moves and absorbs the rhythm of the waves for hours.
It’s getting dark, Luna’s light is lapping the now calm sea in a softly sensuous silver swath. She hears the clapper of a distant buoy clanging its ancient warning to mariners and remembers. She remembers the ones who wanted to be saved; she remembers the ones who chose to stay with her and her sisters.
The ocean woman yearns as she stands on the doorstep of her heart’s home. She still hears the calling of her sisters and misses them so. She still remembers the weightless freedom of the water.
Weightless.
She draws her simple sun dress over her head and holding it by one finger, lifts her arms and stretches her nude body as if to touch the moon.
Freedom.
With a smile, she watches as the salty sea breeze sucks the gauzy garment from her fingertip and spits it across the night sky. Shimmering in the crystalline moonlight, it swoops and sails and climbs higher, higher, higher before it trembles and tumbles into the silver sea.
She was once a mermaid, and she remembers all. The ocean woman rises on the balls of her feet and dives into an incoming wave. She’s a mermaid again, and all remember her.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
She is an ocean woman who gets homesick for its briny scent even though she’s never lived by the sea. She is drawn to its shore when she is soul-weary or heart-sore; the ocean woman pays homage to her essence when she returns to share her joy or when she’s simply seeking solace in the silence of her thoughts. She returns to clear the city’s miasma from her brain so she can once again see clearly, and remember: always remember.
The ocean air upon her cheeks is a homecoming gift; she runs from the boardwalk to the edge of the wet to inhale the wildly whirling winds that seem to be welcoming her back, back, back to her home, back to her place, back to her one true love. Her hair whips behind her back in a dark tattoo like forgotten beach towels snapping in a pre-storm wind and straining for release from where they were carelessly pegged to a clothesline. She throws her arms to the sky and with utter abandon, she dances on the shore, a water ballerina laughing at the seductive sea as it teasingly sucks the sand out from under her feet. Like the kelp waltzing in the surf, bobbing up and down, up and down, the woman’s body sways in perfect time with each note of the ocean’s roar that forever plays in her ear. She’s elemental in her joy; she’s primal in her passion for the sea. She revels in its lure. She knows the mystery of its darkly buoyant secrets. Her body has slid through summer’s sparkly surf. She’s played in its murky depths with her sisters and prayed in the shallows for her lover’s return. She knows the dichotomy of the sea: like a woman, it’s soft and giving, playfully sharing its bounty and gently sheltering life one moment and then, seemingly out of the blue – there heaves from its bosom a storm of relentless and unyielding strength…of passionate anger that washes over shore, cleansing and refreshing all that it touches. She watches a pod of dolphins and remembers the hours of innocent indulgence spent cavorting with them just beyond the breakers. The woman walks and moves and absorbs the rhythm of the waves for hours.
It’s getting dark, Luna’s light is lapping the now calm sea in a softly sensuous silver swath. She hears the clapper of a distant buoy clanging its ancient warning to mariners and remembers. She remembers the ones who wanted to be saved; she remembers the ones who chose to stay with her and her sisters.
The ocean woman yearns as she stands on the doorstep of her heart’s home. She still hears the calling of her sisters and misses them so. She still remembers the weightless freedom of the water.
Weightless.
She draws her simple sun dress over her head and holding it by one finger, lifts her arms and stretches her nude body as if to touch the moon.
Freedom.
With a smile, she watches as the salty sea breeze sucks the gauzy garment from her fingertip and spits it across the night sky. Shimmering in the crystalline moonlight, it swoops and sails and climbs higher, higher, higher before it trembles and tumbles into the silver sea.
She was once a mermaid, and she remembers all. The ocean woman rises on the balls of her feet and dives into an incoming wave. She’s a mermaid again, and all remember her.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
SHUG
I've moved several old blog items to my new site. This is the opening to a novel entitled "Shug."
SHUG
Shug – this girl knew her way to hell. Lawsy, Lawsy, the girl done tried her best to make it all work. She pushed and she pulled against the yoke her menfolk was always droppin over her head and shoulders like she was the queen of nothing. That poor child worried over gettin her life the same way you always come from gettin a tooth pulled: you just can’t help pokin at the empty spot like you know somethin should be there but it jus ain’t. But all the same she keeps right on explorin the dark spot in her smile, hopin she finds the light she so sorely needs. She’s a fighter, that girl. Leastwise, she was. Up until the very second she won’t no more.
We was in high school together, Western Wynn High School in Goldsboro, North Carolina, class of 1969. We was swear-to-God best friends, even though she got about as much sense a turkey in the rain and I’ve always been the practical one.
“Ivey Lee” my momma said, “yous gonna be okay sister girl. You gots that know how, that common sense and it’s gonna carry you girl.” She said this every Saturday night as I laid out all four of my sister’s neatly pressed dresses for Sunday mornin while she tugged and yanked on the poor girls heads till they had tears in their eyes. I still to this day can’t smell a hot hair iron without thinkin of her her doin my sisters’ hair, one week curlin us up and the next week braiding so tight our eyes just about crossed and making us sleep in those cotton drawers so we’d look good for God and all the church women the next mornin. We didn’t look good to Mamma until the church ladies told her how good we looked and how well behaved we were in church that mornin. “Oh Mabel, your girls be such little angels.” We hoped Opal Lou would be in church every Sunday because she always told Mamma this same thing whenever she was there. She always said, “Not a peep outta your girls during Reverend Father James’s sermon and they always closed their eyes during prayer.” She always says this with a big grin and little wink at me and I used to wonder how come she saw us when her eyes were s’posed to be closed too. But Lawsy, what a good day that was when someone said we was good girls during church – Momma would fry us up chicken and make us a heap of mashed potatoes and warm up some collard greens that she had canned last fall and we’d wash it down with gallons of tea – that Southern staple, that icy pale brown sweet drink that almost had a flavor other than sugar water to it. Hot grease, vinegar, melted sugar and burnt hair – that’s what Momma’s house always smelled like. My mouth still waters when I think of whoever’s turn it was to say Grace rushing through the words so we could pass that chicken around while it was still greasy hot. I love it so much better ‘n than when Momma made chicken and gravy or chicken and pastry like she normally would on Sunday afternoon after church.
I never did understand why we had to do dishes on Sunday. My G-ma always said God made the world Monday through Saturday and on Sunday, he just had to sit and rest a spell. She always preached, and Lord knows I mean preached, that God didn’t and still don’t like no one to do no work or make no plans come a Sunday ‘less they say “God Willin’ and the Creek Don’t Rise,” and I’m sure to this day that I will burn in hell if I iron on Sundays and ‘specially if I have to iron my church clothes on Sunday morning right before I go to the Lord’s House cause I was too lazy to get ready for Him on Saturday. It was sin to do anything other’n go to church pressed so crisp you was afraid to move for fear of breaking that stiff church dress which meant momma was goin to beat the tar out’n you when you finally got home for fidgetin in church (“I raised you better ‘n that”); it was a sin to do any kind of work (‘cept cooking for the menfolk, I s’pose) and raising up your voice and your heart and your eyes to God. Shug was always lookin up, lookin up to the heavens for help, for hope, for the salvation that even at sixteen, ‘specially at sixteen, she knew was never gonna come to her. I think I liked that dreamy part of Shug first. Oh – Shug? That was her name. Well, that’s what we always called her. Her full name was Lucy Estelle Sugar Stevens but only her mama called her that and only when Shug was really in trouble was all her names called at once.
Please feel free to post a comment about the opening of my new novel; constructive feedback is always appreciated.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
SHUG
Shug – this girl knew her way to hell. Lawsy, Lawsy, the girl done tried her best to make it all work. She pushed and she pulled against the yoke her menfolk was always droppin over her head and shoulders like she was the queen of nothing. That poor child worried over gettin her life the same way you always come from gettin a tooth pulled: you just can’t help pokin at the empty spot like you know somethin should be there but it jus ain’t. But all the same she keeps right on explorin the dark spot in her smile, hopin she finds the light she so sorely needs. She’s a fighter, that girl. Leastwise, she was. Up until the very second she won’t no more.
We was in high school together, Western Wynn High School in Goldsboro, North Carolina, class of 1969. We was swear-to-God best friends, even though she got about as much sense a turkey in the rain and I’ve always been the practical one.
“Ivey Lee” my momma said, “yous gonna be okay sister girl. You gots that know how, that common sense and it’s gonna carry you girl.” She said this every Saturday night as I laid out all four of my sister’s neatly pressed dresses for Sunday mornin while she tugged and yanked on the poor girls heads till they had tears in their eyes. I still to this day can’t smell a hot hair iron without thinkin of her her doin my sisters’ hair, one week curlin us up and the next week braiding so tight our eyes just about crossed and making us sleep in those cotton drawers so we’d look good for God and all the church women the next mornin. We didn’t look good to Mamma until the church ladies told her how good we looked and how well behaved we were in church that mornin. “Oh Mabel, your girls be such little angels.” We hoped Opal Lou would be in church every Sunday because she always told Mamma this same thing whenever she was there. She always said, “Not a peep outta your girls during Reverend Father James’s sermon and they always closed their eyes during prayer.” She always says this with a big grin and little wink at me and I used to wonder how come she saw us when her eyes were s’posed to be closed too. But Lawsy, what a good day that was when someone said we was good girls during church – Momma would fry us up chicken and make us a heap of mashed potatoes and warm up some collard greens that she had canned last fall and we’d wash it down with gallons of tea – that Southern staple, that icy pale brown sweet drink that almost had a flavor other than sugar water to it. Hot grease, vinegar, melted sugar and burnt hair – that’s what Momma’s house always smelled like. My mouth still waters when I think of whoever’s turn it was to say Grace rushing through the words so we could pass that chicken around while it was still greasy hot. I love it so much better ‘n than when Momma made chicken and gravy or chicken and pastry like she normally would on Sunday afternoon after church.
I never did understand why we had to do dishes on Sunday. My G-ma always said God made the world Monday through Saturday and on Sunday, he just had to sit and rest a spell. She always preached, and Lord knows I mean preached, that God didn’t and still don’t like no one to do no work or make no plans come a Sunday ‘less they say “God Willin’ and the Creek Don’t Rise,” and I’m sure to this day that I will burn in hell if I iron on Sundays and ‘specially if I have to iron my church clothes on Sunday morning right before I go to the Lord’s House cause I was too lazy to get ready for Him on Saturday. It was sin to do anything other’n go to church pressed so crisp you was afraid to move for fear of breaking that stiff church dress which meant momma was goin to beat the tar out’n you when you finally got home for fidgetin in church (“I raised you better ‘n that”); it was a sin to do any kind of work (‘cept cooking for the menfolk, I s’pose) and raising up your voice and your heart and your eyes to God. Shug was always lookin up, lookin up to the heavens for help, for hope, for the salvation that even at sixteen, ‘specially at sixteen, she knew was never gonna come to her. I think I liked that dreamy part of Shug first. Oh – Shug? That was her name. Well, that’s what we always called her. Her full name was Lucy Estelle Sugar Stevens but only her mama called her that and only when Shug was really in trouble was all her names called at once.
Please feel free to post a comment about the opening of my new novel; constructive feedback is always appreciated.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Moving Day is Looming
Moving day is drawing close upon me; my lease is up at the end of this month.
I have no help to move which leaves me no choice but to do it by myself. I can’t afford movers so I have to physically get all my furniture on a truck by myself and then unload it by myself. My new apartment is on the third floor with no elevator. I laid awake last night thinking of how I can get a washer and dryer up three flights of stairs by myself. I don’t know where to buy those mover’s strap thingies that are made for appliances. I’ll have to look that up online.
Self pity (formerly my favorite place to live) would be a nice place to wallow in about now but I no longer have the luxury or the desire to waste all that precious time and energy. It doesn’t get anything done. Instead, I choose to turn what could be a devastating negative into a proud positive.
This move has helped me to realize some soul things that require serious, immediate attention.
First: I realized I have no place to put this worry, this stress over moving, so it has become literally and figuratively lodged in my throat. In thinking about it, however, I realized that what I thought was worry, was really fear. Fear that was unrelated to the move. I realized I am really scared of living on my own. I have existed for the past two years but I haven’t really lived. I don’t know how to do it. I had never really acknowledged to myself just how frightening it is that I have to depend upon myself. There is no knight in shining armor to rescue me. There is no shoulder I can lean upon. There is only me and in the past, “…and in the past…” See? I refuse to go any further with that thought. I almost slipped back into that tired old refrain I blogged about just a few days ago; it wants to revive its former glory and suck me back into a negative thought pattern. I won’t let it. So, now I will depend on myself to get done whatever I need to get done. I will move my washer and dryer. Somehow. I’ll find a way and when I do, I’ll be proud of what I accomplished on my own. By myself.
Second: I am surprised to find I’m very angry both with someone long gone from my life and with myself. I’m angry about what happened all those years ago and I’m angry that I kept myself a victim for all these years. Double anger – wow, that’s pretty potent stuff. Thinking like a victim is what led me to the fearful state I was in until just recently. I am no longer helpless. I am not a victim of anything, anymore, ever again from here on out.
Third: People change. Friends come and go. Relationships aren’t guaranteed to last. Nothing, except spirit, is forever. For all my impulsivity, I find I tend to take things, people, and relationships for granted – like their lives and needs are just as static as mine were. I was always surprised when things changed because I used to never see change happening to, in front of, and around me. I’m evolving into a much more aware person since dropping the veil of victimization.
Today’s blog is simply the awareness, the acknowledgement of my truth: recognizing what has kept me from living a full and happy life is incredibly liberating. I’m now free to choose my path.
Will I continue to trudge along the bricks of self-pity or will I sail upon a sea of personal strength? Will I continue to hide in self-doubt or will I glow with assurance? Will I continue to swallow my words, or will I allow my voice to flow freely through my novels?
Yes, moving day is looming. Pack up and keep the good stuff, throw out the broken and worthless junk. I think I’ll set aside one box and label it “Junk from the Past.” As I’m packing and come across something that triggers a negative emotion, I’ll write down what the emotion/memory is and why the object makes me feel like that. I’ll drop each one of those written negative thoughts in the box and when I’m done packing, I’ll have a ceremonial burning. Hmmmm, I'm actually looking forward to this part of moving!
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
I have no help to move which leaves me no choice but to do it by myself. I can’t afford movers so I have to physically get all my furniture on a truck by myself and then unload it by myself. My new apartment is on the third floor with no elevator. I laid awake last night thinking of how I can get a washer and dryer up three flights of stairs by myself. I don’t know where to buy those mover’s strap thingies that are made for appliances. I’ll have to look that up online.
Self pity (formerly my favorite place to live) would be a nice place to wallow in about now but I no longer have the luxury or the desire to waste all that precious time and energy. It doesn’t get anything done. Instead, I choose to turn what could be a devastating negative into a proud positive.
This move has helped me to realize some soul things that require serious, immediate attention.
First: I realized I have no place to put this worry, this stress over moving, so it has become literally and figuratively lodged in my throat. In thinking about it, however, I realized that what I thought was worry, was really fear. Fear that was unrelated to the move. I realized I am really scared of living on my own. I have existed for the past two years but I haven’t really lived. I don’t know how to do it. I had never really acknowledged to myself just how frightening it is that I have to depend upon myself. There is no knight in shining armor to rescue me. There is no shoulder I can lean upon. There is only me and in the past, “…and in the past…” See? I refuse to go any further with that thought. I almost slipped back into that tired old refrain I blogged about just a few days ago; it wants to revive its former glory and suck me back into a negative thought pattern. I won’t let it. So, now I will depend on myself to get done whatever I need to get done. I will move my washer and dryer. Somehow. I’ll find a way and when I do, I’ll be proud of what I accomplished on my own. By myself.
Second: I am surprised to find I’m very angry both with someone long gone from my life and with myself. I’m angry about what happened all those years ago and I’m angry that I kept myself a victim for all these years. Double anger – wow, that’s pretty potent stuff. Thinking like a victim is what led me to the fearful state I was in until just recently. I am no longer helpless. I am not a victim of anything, anymore, ever again from here on out.
Third: People change. Friends come and go. Relationships aren’t guaranteed to last. Nothing, except spirit, is forever. For all my impulsivity, I find I tend to take things, people, and relationships for granted – like their lives and needs are just as static as mine were. I was always surprised when things changed because I used to never see change happening to, in front of, and around me. I’m evolving into a much more aware person since dropping the veil of victimization.
Today’s blog is simply the awareness, the acknowledgement of my truth: recognizing what has kept me from living a full and happy life is incredibly liberating. I’m now free to choose my path.
Will I continue to trudge along the bricks of self-pity or will I sail upon a sea of personal strength? Will I continue to hide in self-doubt or will I glow with assurance? Will I continue to swallow my words, or will I allow my voice to flow freely through my novels?
Yes, moving day is looming. Pack up and keep the good stuff, throw out the broken and worthless junk. I think I’ll set aside one box and label it “Junk from the Past.” As I’m packing and come across something that triggers a negative emotion, I’ll write down what the emotion/memory is and why the object makes me feel like that. I’ll drop each one of those written negative thoughts in the box and when I’m done packing, I’ll have a ceremonial burning. Hmmmm, I'm actually looking forward to this part of moving!
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Grudges or Gratefulness: The Travelling Tale
If you esteem that your present sentimental situation is not entirely satisfactory, profit by this favorable astral ambience to improve it; in any case, remember that to love is to give much more than to receive. You may have the desire to avenge somebody for an insult; try to dispel this desire otherwise you'd only nurse your wounds and make yourself unhappy.
How do they do it? How do the ubiquitous 'they' know these things? That was my horoscope for today and it was right on the money. I did have the desire, actually for a short while it was a raging need, to avenge somebody for an insult. A ludicrous situation came to light today that I almost let get the best of me; while I refuse to lend credence to one particularly odious group of women by enumerating details of today’s ridiculous event, I will say that their mask of civility has slipped. They’ve revealed their true selves and it’s not pretty.
When the fallout from this event hit my little world, I realized that I was standing at a crossroad in my personal growth. There was no umbrella, no safety net in sight. I had to make a choice of how I was going to deal with what felt like another betrayal (not long ago a friend decided she didn’t need me anymore). I could do the following:
a) Grieve over the injustice done to me and several other women and fall back into my old ‘victim’ persona (which I’ve worked very hard to shed, thank you very much) and nurse my wounds by continuing to analyze and agonize over it. Or…
b) Be just as nasty to them as they were to me. I could crush them with words. Send hateful e-mails. Call them and scream into their answering machines (okay – I’d never do that last one to anyone). But for one split second, I wanted revenge. I wanted them to feel as badly about their actions as I had allowed them to make me feel about my self.
c) Be grateful.
In all honesty, the first choice was really calling me but this approach was just a little too comfortable, a little too familiar. It was scary when I realized just how easy it would be to slip back into the old, negative thinking patterns I had lived with for so many years.
I’ve been on a spiritual quest and a minister just recently spoke about how a grudge is simply a story you tell over and over and over. So, did I want to add this sorry novella to all my other tales of woe and carry them with me every where I go from here on out? Did I want this paragraph in my life’s tale to be the one I kept close to my heart?
No. I chose c). Gratitude. Final Answer, Regis.
It sounds crazy to me even as I write this but I’m honestly grateful for the event – not happy about it, of course, but I am appreciative of the opportunity I was given to rise above it. I had been provided a legitimate, built in excuse to carry around a grudge against this group of women and I chose not to use it. If I want to change how I think and how things happen around and to me, I have to change the story I tell. It’s that simple. I chose to be conscious of and grateful for the true friends I do have. I chose not to sully my energy by indulging in negative emotions.
Today, I almost let this situation get the best of me. Joaquin Mariel Espinosa said, “Authentic treachery is found when we abandon ourselves, becoming deaf to the whispers of our spirits and blind to the powerful potential therein.”
Today, I am filled with gratitude; my heart heard the whisper, my soul saw its strength and I was aware enough to recognize and celebrate.
Today, I have a new tale, a positive story, to carry with me wherever I go.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
How do they do it? How do the ubiquitous 'they' know these things? That was my horoscope for today and it was right on the money. I did have the desire, actually for a short while it was a raging need, to avenge somebody for an insult. A ludicrous situation came to light today that I almost let get the best of me; while I refuse to lend credence to one particularly odious group of women by enumerating details of today’s ridiculous event, I will say that their mask of civility has slipped. They’ve revealed their true selves and it’s not pretty.
When the fallout from this event hit my little world, I realized that I was standing at a crossroad in my personal growth. There was no umbrella, no safety net in sight. I had to make a choice of how I was going to deal with what felt like another betrayal (not long ago a friend decided she didn’t need me anymore). I could do the following:
a) Grieve over the injustice done to me and several other women and fall back into my old ‘victim’ persona (which I’ve worked very hard to shed, thank you very much) and nurse my wounds by continuing to analyze and agonize over it. Or…
b) Be just as nasty to them as they were to me. I could crush them with words. Send hateful e-mails. Call them and scream into their answering machines (okay – I’d never do that last one to anyone). But for one split second, I wanted revenge. I wanted them to feel as badly about their actions as I had allowed them to make me feel about my self.
c) Be grateful.
In all honesty, the first choice was really calling me but this approach was just a little too comfortable, a little too familiar. It was scary when I realized just how easy it would be to slip back into the old, negative thinking patterns I had lived with for so many years.
I’ve been on a spiritual quest and a minister just recently spoke about how a grudge is simply a story you tell over and over and over. So, did I want to add this sorry novella to all my other tales of woe and carry them with me every where I go from here on out? Did I want this paragraph in my life’s tale to be the one I kept close to my heart?
No. I chose c). Gratitude. Final Answer, Regis.
It sounds crazy to me even as I write this but I’m honestly grateful for the event – not happy about it, of course, but I am appreciative of the opportunity I was given to rise above it. I had been provided a legitimate, built in excuse to carry around a grudge against this group of women and I chose not to use it. If I want to change how I think and how things happen around and to me, I have to change the story I tell. It’s that simple. I chose to be conscious of and grateful for the true friends I do have. I chose not to sully my energy by indulging in negative emotions.
Today, I almost let this situation get the best of me. Joaquin Mariel Espinosa said, “Authentic treachery is found when we abandon ourselves, becoming deaf to the whispers of our spirits and blind to the powerful potential therein.”
Today, I am filled with gratitude; my heart heard the whisper, my soul saw its strength and I was aware enough to recognize and celebrate.
Today, I have a new tale, a positive story, to carry with me wherever I go.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Overload (Or ....The Joy of Organizing)
I happened to stumble yesterday upon a story for which I had written a workably decent first chapter; I had several key scenes mapped out and I could feel the creative juices simmering as I re-read the rather surprisingly coherent bits and pieces of my work-in-progress (WIP). That’s when I remembered that I had written a detailed character list for this book. The character names are key to the murder mystery and I didn’t want to start without my who’s who roadmap. Without this character listing, I’d be re-writing Scotland’s history by attributing the long ago deed to the wrong Clan LOL. Anyway, finding this one document turned out to be a nightmare!
My electronic filing system is so disorganized that I had to look in just about every folder on my desktop just to make sure I didn’t miss it. It wasn’t there (although I did find the bones of another story I had started about three years ago) so I looked on an old memory stick and found more bits and pieces of various other WIPs. Of course, I had to open and then read each document. I had forgotten about some of the things I had written but upon re-reading the ideas and bits and blurbs that every writer has filed away somewhere as a ‘someday maybe’ thing, I realized I wanted to revisit these ‘potentials’ at a later date and hoped I'd remember where they were when I wanted them. Alas, my character list wasn’t on that memory stick.
Finally, after digging out my second memory stick (I fill them up quickly with my writings) and going through each document in each folder, I found the character list along amidst the carelessly jumbled flotsam and jetsam of six other books.
Aside #1: Hmmmm, I just noticed that I use the words ‘book, novel, story’ interchangeably.
Aside #2: Isn’t it a HUGE grammatical error to end a sentence with an –ly word? I suppose I should have said, “…just noticed that I interchangeably use the words ‘book,’ ‘novel’ and ‘story.’
After spending hours trying to find the character notes I’d so carefully written out along with my detailed location notes and descriptions of various B&Bs I’d stayed in while in Scotland, I figured it was time to use my writing mojo. Time to get back to “An Oak Tree Proper” – the mystery WIP mentioned above, right? Wrong! I was so flustered by my inability to immediately find what I needed that I had to fix it right away. I had to get organized. I just had to fix my e-filing system so I went back to my desktop files and both memory sticks and moved files around so everything was in one of two locations: one memory stick for my five mysteries and the other stick for everything (one fiction novel, various fiction pieces, ideas, instructional assists, etc.). So…now, finally, at last – I can get back to “An Oak Tree Proper” and write. Right?
Wrong! No…I can’t go halfway with this. Oh no. Not moi. What if I were to lose one or god forbid *shudder* both memory sticks? Then what? Nothing would do but that I opened up each and every document and printed it out. I had to have each individual sheet of paper in its own pristine folder, with the folder properly labeled with the name of that particular novel in the right color ink to correspond with the title. I put all the folders in a pretty tote along with a writing pad, pens and pencils and hi-lighters. It’s now kept close at hand so when the spirit moves me, I’ll be organized and ready to write.
Speaking of the spirit moving me, I went back to “An Oak Tree Proper” to do a little writing. I pulled the folder labeled “An Oak Tree Proper” from my pretty little tote and positioned it close to hand on my now-clean desk (you guessed it - that was bothering me too). I opened the now-quick-to-locate e-file and pulled up the correct document. To prevent losing even one shred of the genius work I knew would follow forthwith, I immediately saved that document adding the proper version number and date. I was ready to revise. I was ready to write.
Then I sat there.
And stared.
At the bane of every writers’ existence.
T h e. B l a n k. P a g e.
Aw, come on!!!! Where’s my mojo muse? Where’s the creative juice I felt thrumming through my veins a short six hours ago?
Nothing’s happening.
I fixed my e-filing system. I used two and half reams of paper printing everything out. I’m organized. Let’s roll, baby!
Still nothing.
I’m reduced to theatrical whining:
The Pulitzer Prize Committee is just waiting for me to put pen to paper so they can bestow upon me with proper brou-ha-ha my so richly deserved rewards.
Not even an echo of my previous inspiration.
I’m ready now. I got all this organizing stuff done so I could write.
There’s nothing worse than a silent brain.
I’m ready. It’s time to write, damn it! Right?
Yoo Hoo!!!! Rrrrriiiiiight!!!!!!??????
Wrong! I had successfully organized myself out of any semblance of creativity.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
My electronic filing system is so disorganized that I had to look in just about every folder on my desktop just to make sure I didn’t miss it. It wasn’t there (although I did find the bones of another story I had started about three years ago) so I looked on an old memory stick and found more bits and pieces of various other WIPs. Of course, I had to open and then read each document. I had forgotten about some of the things I had written but upon re-reading the ideas and bits and blurbs that every writer has filed away somewhere as a ‘someday maybe’ thing, I realized I wanted to revisit these ‘potentials’ at a later date and hoped I'd remember where they were when I wanted them. Alas, my character list wasn’t on that memory stick.
Finally, after digging out my second memory stick (I fill them up quickly with my writings) and going through each document in each folder, I found the character list along amidst the carelessly jumbled flotsam and jetsam of six other books.
Aside #1: Hmmmm, I just noticed that I use the words ‘book, novel, story’ interchangeably.
Aside #2: Isn’t it a HUGE grammatical error to end a sentence with an –ly word? I suppose I should have said, “…just noticed that I interchangeably use the words ‘book,’ ‘novel’ and ‘story.’
After spending hours trying to find the character notes I’d so carefully written out along with my detailed location notes and descriptions of various B&Bs I’d stayed in while in Scotland, I figured it was time to use my writing mojo. Time to get back to “An Oak Tree Proper” – the mystery WIP mentioned above, right? Wrong! I was so flustered by my inability to immediately find what I needed that I had to fix it right away. I had to get organized. I just had to fix my e-filing system so I went back to my desktop files and both memory sticks and moved files around so everything was in one of two locations: one memory stick for my five mysteries and the other stick for everything (one fiction novel, various fiction pieces, ideas, instructional assists, etc.). So…now, finally, at last – I can get back to “An Oak Tree Proper” and write. Right?
Wrong! No…I can’t go halfway with this. Oh no. Not moi. What if I were to lose one or god forbid *shudder* both memory sticks? Then what? Nothing would do but that I opened up each and every document and printed it out. I had to have each individual sheet of paper in its own pristine folder, with the folder properly labeled with the name of that particular novel in the right color ink to correspond with the title. I put all the folders in a pretty tote along with a writing pad, pens and pencils and hi-lighters. It’s now kept close at hand so when the spirit moves me, I’ll be organized and ready to write.
Speaking of the spirit moving me, I went back to “An Oak Tree Proper” to do a little writing. I pulled the folder labeled “An Oak Tree Proper” from my pretty little tote and positioned it close to hand on my now-clean desk (you guessed it - that was bothering me too). I opened the now-quick-to-locate e-file and pulled up the correct document. To prevent losing even one shred of the genius work I knew would follow forthwith, I immediately saved that document adding the proper version number and date. I was ready to revise. I was ready to write.
Then I sat there.
And stared.
At the bane of every writers’ existence.
T h e. B l a n k. P a g e.
Aw, come on!!!! Where’s my mojo muse? Where’s the creative juice I felt thrumming through my veins a short six hours ago?
Nothing’s happening.
I fixed my e-filing system. I used two and half reams of paper printing everything out. I’m organized. Let’s roll, baby!
Still nothing.
I’m reduced to theatrical whining:
The Pulitzer Prize Committee is just waiting for me to put pen to paper so they can bestow upon me with proper brou-ha-ha my so richly deserved rewards.
Not even an echo of my previous inspiration.
I’m ready now. I got all this organizing stuff done so I could write.
There’s nothing worse than a silent brain.
I’m ready. It’s time to write, damn it! Right?
Yoo Hoo!!!! Rrrrriiiiiight!!!!!!??????
Wrong! I had successfully organized myself out of any semblance of creativity.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
Monday, July 12, 2010
Quandary
I'm in a quandary. A writer’s quandary.
I have blogs: notice the plural. I’m really good at starting blogs then I abandon them. No, not out of laziness or apathy. It’s actually more of a rebellion against a self-imposed writing box. You see, the title of my blog defines what I should be writing about. However, that very same definition strangles my creativity. I have wonderful things I write about, snippets I’ve captured and want to record for posterity so I can review, from time to time, my growth as a writer. Then I have to stop and think, Hmmm, this isn’t really about my mystery writing so it wouldn’t go in The Zen of Murder. It’s not about herbs or cooking so it wouldn’t go in Herbs, Spices and Tales from My Tiny Kitchen. It’s not ‘serious’ so it wouldn’t go in A Room of Her Own. From time to time I miss my old friends, the blogs I’ve abandoned. It’s not their fault that I’m so fickle and to honor where I’ve been in the past, as well as where I’m going in the future, I’ll link this new blog to them.
So where does it go? That’s my quandary. Where do I put all this stuff rolling around in my head that doesn’t fit in with the limiting titles I created for the aforementioned blogs? Thinking about this led me to realize that I have to acknowledge and work within my own style. That created another set of thinking exercises because I had to figure out what my style was so I could work within it. All I knew for sure to start with was that I write how I’m feeling at any given moment. I’m a pantster. I was looking for an answer and the words ‘mercurial’ and ‘whimsical’ immediately came to mind, as did the chorus from Blowin’ In The Wind.
I decided to simply ‘go with the flow’ and continue to free-associate (OK - doodle words on a blank piece of scrap paper) until I found something that resonated and then free-associate with that thought. ‘Mercurial’ made me think of the weather: probably because to the reference to mercury and it’s really, really hot outside these days. After pondering that for a bit I realized I was getting close to the crux of my style. Weather. Long, lazy days of summer; violent storms with thunder that reverberates inside your spinal cord and bolts of ozone thrown across the sky like neon javelins; a cold shoulder on a warm evening; rain as gentle tears of gratitude; the fogginess of uncertainty…my writing is a reflection of the weather in my soul. But that’s still not quite, well, it. Not quite my style as I perceive it. I’m tossing out whimsical because it’s a descriptor of my style depending on my mood, but it’s definitely not a constant.
Close, so close. Even now more and more of what I’m searching for is becoming clear because I’m writing it out. Hmmm, maybe that should be the title of this blog. Writing It Out. Naaaawwww. That has way too juvenile of a sound to me.
So, to pick back up on my original line of thought. The Weathervane is an all inclusive title. Its circular whirl keeps up with me when I spinning like a top and points strong and true when I’m calm like the eye of a hurricane. ‘The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.’ Like a weathervane, I can move in any direction and still, will always be home. Ahhhh, there it is. The truth. Direction. I’m in search of my writing ‘home;’ my voice, my truth, my story.
I don’t know about you, but these ‘Ah ha’ moments always leave me emotionally sated and mentally tired.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
I have blogs: notice the plural. I’m really good at starting blogs then I abandon them. No, not out of laziness or apathy. It’s actually more of a rebellion against a self-imposed writing box. You see, the title of my blog defines what I should be writing about. However, that very same definition strangles my creativity. I have wonderful things I write about, snippets I’ve captured and want to record for posterity so I can review, from time to time, my growth as a writer. Then I have to stop and think, Hmmm, this isn’t really about my mystery writing so it wouldn’t go in The Zen of Murder. It’s not about herbs or cooking so it wouldn’t go in Herbs, Spices and Tales from My Tiny Kitchen. It’s not ‘serious’ so it wouldn’t go in A Room of Her Own. From time to time I miss my old friends, the blogs I’ve abandoned. It’s not their fault that I’m so fickle and to honor where I’ve been in the past, as well as where I’m going in the future, I’ll link this new blog to them.
So where does it go? That’s my quandary. Where do I put all this stuff rolling around in my head that doesn’t fit in with the limiting titles I created for the aforementioned blogs? Thinking about this led me to realize that I have to acknowledge and work within my own style. That created another set of thinking exercises because I had to figure out what my style was so I could work within it. All I knew for sure to start with was that I write how I’m feeling at any given moment. I’m a pantster. I was looking for an answer and the words ‘mercurial’ and ‘whimsical’ immediately came to mind, as did the chorus from Blowin’ In The Wind.
I decided to simply ‘go with the flow’ and continue to free-associate (OK - doodle words on a blank piece of scrap paper) until I found something that resonated and then free-associate with that thought. ‘Mercurial’ made me think of the weather: probably because to the reference to mercury and it’s really, really hot outside these days. After pondering that for a bit I realized I was getting close to the crux of my style. Weather. Long, lazy days of summer; violent storms with thunder that reverberates inside your spinal cord and bolts of ozone thrown across the sky like neon javelins; a cold shoulder on a warm evening; rain as gentle tears of gratitude; the fogginess of uncertainty…my writing is a reflection of the weather in my soul. But that’s still not quite, well, it. Not quite my style as I perceive it. I’m tossing out whimsical because it’s a descriptor of my style depending on my mood, but it’s definitely not a constant.
Close, so close. Even now more and more of what I’m searching for is becoming clear because I’m writing it out. Hmmm, maybe that should be the title of this blog. Writing It Out. Naaaawwww. That has way too juvenile of a sound to me.
So, to pick back up on my original line of thought. The Weathervane is an all inclusive title. Its circular whirl keeps up with me when I spinning like a top and points strong and true when I’m calm like the eye of a hurricane. ‘The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.’ Like a weathervane, I can move in any direction and still, will always be home. Ahhhh, there it is. The truth. Direction. I’m in search of my writing ‘home;’ my voice, my truth, my story.
I don’t know about you, but these ‘Ah ha’ moments always leave me emotionally sated and mentally tired.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
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