Well I did it, and actually, I quite like it. I’ve been Facing the Book for a while now, blogging here and there, and Pinterest has been my bestie through thick and thin. But the Twitterverse has eluded me for some time. Fell into that “Oh don’t make me learn something new” category. I figure by the time I master it, there will be something new to tackle. Wish me luck! @scribbleglitch is where you can find me. I think it’s time to stalk YouTube videos…
I don’t believe that walking in the rain will cause you to catch a cold, but you can tell a storm is coming when the leaves turn over.
I used to think that Alaska was an island because it is always shown on a map as disconnected and floating.
A woman’s body is her own, unless she is wearing the wrong clothes.
Your dryer doesn’t eat the socks, the dog does.
I don’t believe in our government, or Monsanto, or big banks, but we do have to eat, pay taxes, and put our money somewhere.
Children shouldn’t spend all day playing video games. But when would I get my quiet time?
I believed a woman’s place was in the home, until I met my mother.
I don’t think ghosts are real, but does that then mean my loved ones in death didn’t go anywhere but in the ground?
I believe the world is flat and we need to shake things up once in a while.
I was once told that African American people have an extra ligament in their leg that makes them better sports players. I believed that for a long time.
Sex is bad, very, very bad, unless you like it, then it’s worse than bad.
Irregardless is a word, it just doesn’t mean what you think it does.
I thought my father knew everything, until he died from lung cancer in the middle of a bankruptcy and home foreclosure. He also smoked two packs a day for 50 years and investing his personal finances in a company he didn’t own, to try to keep it afloat.
Beware of strangers, until you get to know them, then keep them at arm’s length.
I believed in love, until my heart was broken. Now I know that love is just a lot of hard work.
Darwin was right. Or was he?
I was raised without faith, therefore I believed nothing, until I changed my mind.
We are all energy. We cannot be created or destroyed, but we can change.
Hot lemonade with whiskey and honey will cure almost anything.
I thought I was weak until within the space of three years I held the hand of my father, and then of my mother, while I fed them their full doses of morphine at exactly the prescribed interval until they took their last breaths.
Kindness fixes anything that a hot lemonade can’t.
I’ve been away for a while. I love blogging but this kind of felt like this was morphing into a poetry-only type of blog and I didn’t know what to do with it. I just didn’t have time to spend on writing poetry as often as I was wanting to and it was taking all of my limited time and creative energy away from writing the novel I hope to finish soon. I also had concerns about putting all of my poetry out there, and then not being able to publish it elsewhere. I was stuck. Ok, let’s be more honest here…I was ADDing all over the place. I have been writing, and I have been blogging over at a parenting site,(I know right?), and I’m just going to open this up to whatever the hell I feel like writing and when. I’m hoping that it stays interesting. For now, here is this beautiful picture of a sunset. Much Love!!
For years this grainy photo has held a memory of you and me. A snapped shot as we walked across the open meadow, late morning, hand in hand. The wind had just begun to stir enough to set the trees to gossiping as you let go and I stepped out on my own. You remained within my reach though, I didn’t want to loosen my hold. As I grounded on earth, the soft blades bent beneath my chubby bare feet. Often your attentions were not for me, so I absorbed the moment, took in every part of it to covet in my heart. Together alone, we wandered. We talked about the wildflowers and of streams, and even the bees grew hushed and listened. The whispering Whitebark pine peeked in and out of shadow, back when the trees weren’t sick, and neither were we. A brilliant blue Steller’s Jay reminded us to slow our pace and gracefully took wing. The echo was magnificent as his call bounced around the quiet wooded plateau. The overwhelming scent of pine still speaks of home in my soul. Rocks pushed up through the grass, or the meadow grew around them, I don’t know which, but when I pressed my cheek against their rough faces they received me with delicious warmth. A different kind of heat came from getting this close to the sun, and when it kissed the top of my head and wrapped me, it converged with my skin like a father’s embrace. I missed it dearly when it became clouded but I didn’t thunder, didn’t want to spoil that day. There were always clouds in the Sierra. Their shifting shapes of vapor played among the granite peaks and traced the passes below that we would reluctantly follow home. We walked to escape the pressures of this human life, you and me, or more simply put, we just walked. In my mind I have always pictured this day with you alone. In reality, just the photo remains of an uncommitted memory.
I’m not much of a DIY person, in fact, I freeze like a deer in headlights at the sight of power tools. Honestly, just the words electric and saw put together make my adrenaline start rushing. Directions for refinishing dressers and patterns for Roman Shades make me want to vomit from anxiety. And painting is something you always, always pay someone else to do. Home projects just aren’t my thing. I’m that “measure a hundred times and cut wrong” person you hear about in urban legends. But today, today was different. Today, I made my very own story board for the book I’m writing for about $20 (including pins)! I know it wasn’t refinishing a dresser, cutting wood, painting or making shades but I’m darn proud of myself. Sofa king proud you might say.
I have semi toyed with/committed to participating in NaNoWriMo but here I am, three days into November and I have nothing written…nothing! Such a slacker. I had a bit of a hairy weekend and that threw me all off my writing game for a couple of days but I’m back on track and, Hell, I’m going to commit right here and now. I will write a novel (albeit a poor novel) in thirty days and this board is going to help me do it! I seem to remember saying the same thing last year. I could really be productive if I could just get out of my own way…
I am using this blog to set my intention. I will write a book. I will also continue on my path of writing poetry. In fact, I have at least three books inside of me that need to be written. If I don’t follow this life-long dream of mine, who will, right? I have no experience other than a couple of college courses in writing more than ten years ago, I’ll admit that right off the bat. I am simply going to go through the process, finding my way as I go, into what has always been my unrealized passion. Mistakes, thoughts, roadblocks, what works, what doesn’t, challenges, ideas, and creativity will all be recorded here. May the grammar and punctuation gods smile upon me. Here goes
nothing something, wish me luck!!
To hear my mom wail hysterically and break down in powerless sobs from the bathroom the first time she saw herself in the mirror after her double mastectomy is something I will never get over. I will never, ever outlive the pain that resonated so clearly above the normal shower sounds we all take for granted. I will always have nightmares of the sound of her mourning her beauty, her health, and her womanhood. To bear witness to someone’s ultimate suffering, despair, and fear was soul consuming for me. I thought of my daughter, and what this meant for her future. I thought of my son, the brand new two-month-old grandson she had only just met for the first time. And I wondered if mom (and myself) would ever again be OK physically or emotionally. That was ten years ago.
Mom had always been the sort of woman who was neatly pulled together. She had her hair, nails, and makeup done every day, without fail. She was beautiful and even as a single parent, men couldn’t help but be interested in her. She was an impeccable dresser and her closet was neatly arranged to hold several full sections of clothes divided into work, evening, and casual attire. Her accessories were organized and selected to perfectly fit each outfit. What I remember most however, were her hands. Her beautiful-manicured twice weekly- hands. They were often bedecked with custom-made jewelry featuring unusual gold designs and stones, but even naked they were amazing. The product of years of tender care and regimen.
She was never one to ask for help but offered it freely to those who needed it (perhaps a little too often.) If something had to be done such as a home repair or yard work, she took care of that herself. The only things she seemed to stay away from were car repairs, which would mess her nails. Nothing else was off-limits though and I watched her learn the hard way through trial and error how to lay brick, redo plumbing and install flooring. This was all before you could simply sit down and watch a couple of YouTube videos to learn how to do stuff. She was proud and anything but a “helpless woman.”
Mom was the hardest worker I have ever known. She got up every morning at 5:30am to get herself pulled together for work at a great job at an important company. She had clawed her way up the ladder to success in a time when women just weren’t “successful.” Especially a divorcee with two unruly kids. She worked this nine to five job during the week, sold real estate on weekends, purchased and managed rental properties for extra income, and earned a college degree, all while raising us on her own. There were no limits to her energy.
That my mom was healthy was never in question. She understood nutrition and ate a healthy diet. She even made sure we had protein powder stirred into our orange juice and that our vitamins were on the counter every morning before school. She worked out at the gym daily, hiked often, played volleyball, and swam. Once she retired she religiously walked her dog every morning at the same time, on the same route, for the same number of miles. Her fitness was always a priority.
Mom kept her car clean and her home cleaner-everything in its place. Tuesdays the upstairs were cleaned and vacuumed, Thursdays it was the downstairs. She washed her car every week and taught us about taking care of what we had, which wasn’t always a lot. Her last home was the pinnacle of her success. It had everything she wanted. There was an amazing view out the back windows of her favorite rolling hills and oak trees. I will miss that view. She built a garden, put in the landscaping, and even constructed a covered swing, all by herself. She made her own food from the produce she collected; the real fruits of her hard work. Nothing gave her more delight than to harvest her own cherries and eat them straight off the tree.
After mom was diagnosed, she volunteered for years at a local breast cancer support organization that helped patients get to doctor appointments, provided in-home meals, fitted them for prosthetic bras, secured wigs, and provided moral and monetary support. After that, she volunteered and helped people in hospice care by reading to them, feeding them, and taking down their genealogy information so their stories wouldn’t die with them. She did all of this knowing she would someday experience the same downhill slide they were living. I watched my mom as she helped an elderly neighborhood couple by cleaning their home, providing repairs, and driving them to medical appointments two hours away because their vision was impaired. When I was young I remember her slipping a thousand dollars that she didn’t have into a coworker’s desk drawer because she knew this woman couldn’t afford her own cancer treatment. She connected with family she had never known and began caring for them as well.
I’m angry at breast cancer for making what remaining life my mom has left in her, so difficult. Small pleasures like walking her dog or going to the movies are now major chores and are often more trouble than they joy she can derive from them. I hate cancer for causing her bones to disintegrate, for causing her to take radiation and chemotherapy that she hates because they are toxins she vowed she would never let into her body, and for the excruciating pain she must live with daily that causes her so much discomfort. I detest cancer for making her clean out and sell her dream house, with her garden and view and swing, and trade it for a tiny one bedroom apartment with zero outdoor space. I will never forgive cancer for making my mom cry as she “dismantled a lifetime” and gave, sold, or threw away almost all of her possessions because they wouldn’t fit in that apartment. These were her words. I detest cancer for robbing my mom of her health, her dignity, and her independence. There is no pain on earth like a daughter being asked by such a proud woman to help shave her armpits because she can no longer reach them but still feels propelled to perform this most basic and intimate item of personal grooming. Cancer sucks but I have to let this hate go. I must focus on the gifts cancer has brought. The biggest gift is the precious awareness of living now. Experiencing each day while I can, with those I love. This is the only way I can get through watching a loved one suffer so.
I am deeply appreciative for all of the Breast Cancer Awareness organizations out there giving resources and spreading knowledge so that fewer wonderful souls have to walk the Hell my mom has walked. I am grateful to be able to sit down and really think about this powerful female role model that I was so blessed to learn from, and to be able to share her with my children. I am so lucky I have been reminded that her real legacy is her inner beauty and the light she spread in the many lives she touched. I am so filled with gratitude to know her soul will continue on and the love she shared here on earth will not die with her. She will live on in me and I am thankful today to be able to share her with you. In honor, I think of you, mom.