We were planting seeds of change, the fruit of which we might never see. We had to be patient.
Croning My Way Through Life
Sunday evening I decided to take a walk through time, back to some of the stories I started but never finished years ago.
What an odd sort of feeling.
I wonder if other writers see an evolution of sorts as they grow older, semi-wiser, and (hopefully) more confident and carefree.
I started my first novel, Corn and Shadows, waaaay back in 2003.
Holy shit. I just reread what I just typed. 2003. Two years short of 20 years ago.
But I digress.
I’ve been done with my first novel for years now, sending it out now and then to publishers but planning on offering it for free on Amazon or something.
THAT novel sounded like me. It still does.
I wrote the follow up novel, Time and Shadows, back in 2006. That one is finished too, although I keep peeking at it now and then to “tidy” it up.
I wrote a third novel, A Gentleman’s Shadows, telling the story of Time and Shadows from a 1895 male’s point of view, at the beginning of 2019. What a time jump. That book was fun. That was creative and curliqued as I tried to write as a turn of the century man would.
I’m happy with all three.
I’ve been thinking about the one I started back in 2007 about Emerald Le Roque and her following an Elven man through a cornfield to another world. I liked the idea — still do — but I think I got stuck on where to go once she got there. I think it was supposed to be super sexy but I ran out of super sex juice or something.
So I opened the dusty document and started reading it again, and I began to wonder — who wrote this? It isn’t the same style, the same cadence, the same feel as my previous works.
I know every painting is different. Every vase and cup is different. Depending on the time of day, water quality, temperature, atmospheric pressure, lifestyle and mood, every creation is its own entity.
So it is with different writings from different periods.
I wrote my latest novel about my “trip” to Paris in 2020. The second one is a work in progress, 2021. This style, too, is different, but in a much more positive way. It’s more upbeat, fun, and a tad more loopy than my other serious writings.
But that middle one about Emerald …
I don’t think I’m going to try and resurrect that one. Good idea for the time — but the times are a changin’. ~I~ am a changin’.
It’s more like my writing attitude has changed. I’m not as sour with my point-of-view as I was back then. I am still an escapist, a fantasy writer, but I’m not as bitter with the world as my main character was/is. I can still write about loneliness and magic and relationships, and even make my main character a crab at first and a delight at the end.
But there’s something about that world way back then that doesn’t feel right anymore. No need to fix something that’s broke — it really is more like leaving her on her own to deal with the Elves in her own way.
Are you ever less-than-satisfied with projects you once started and thought about finishing?
Do you finish it anyway? Or move on to something different?
I have been fretting for some time about WordPress blocking access to Classic Editor.
I’m old fashioned. I’m technically challenged. I’m lazy.
I like Word Press just the way it is. I don’t need nor want fancy new blocks and all that go with it. I’ve been around my block enough to know that I want to stay on my own one-way street.
So this morning I set up a little chat with the Word Press Support Group. This is how it went: (I’m red)
Is WordPress totally getting rid of classic editor? I know many who are moving away because of the change.
There are no current plans to fully remove the Classic editor as of now. The Classic Block will be in the editor for many years to come and we do still allow you to use the full classic editor for your site.
Thank you. I much prefer the “old” way and have talked to other bloggers planning on leaving wp because of the change.
Sure, that’s understandable! Many users really like the way the classic editor works and we wouldn’t want to just remove that from you.
How long will classic editor be available
I don’t have a date that I’d be able to provide as the WordPress community works on making those changes together, but as far as I know, there won’t be any changes to that for the next few years.
I will pass along the word. Thank you.
So there you have it.
To WordPress Support: you have great support people. Please don’t stop giving us a choice.
To those of you who follow this blog and have backed away from your own because you are confused as to how to get back to classic editor: come back.
We all have our ways to get into Classic Editor. I’m sure there’s a legit, sensible way. But you know me. I’m hardly ever sensible.
I create a document in block; I type one word in the title then save the blog. I hit the “back” button and go to my left sidebar to “all posts.” I find the one I just created (the one with only one word), and click on Classic Editor.
Voila! I’m back in the Dark Ages! Where I like it just fine.
If you have a different way of getting to C.E., let us know. If you love the new blocks, Hoo Ha! I am proud of you.
Keep blogging. No matter how confused you may feel. Creativity is our life line.
We can overcome and hold on to Classic Editor — at least for a couple a’more years.
How is your “Today is the Day” going?
Last June, when the sun was high and the breeze was warm and the windchimes twinkled in the trees, I wrote a blog called Today is the Day about making a day to finally do something you’ve put off, forgotten about, or waited to do.
Often Today comes and goes and we haven’t done one thing to better ourselves. Well, it is now 2021, and it’s time to start making Today the Day. Are you ready?
I have made some forward movement towards a few of my Todays. I decided that while I was stuck inside (Covid and winter) I’d start a craft project. And I did. I’ve made dozens of Angel Tears, and have contacted two craft fairs to see if I can get in. It’s a start. I also have come up with an idea for a second novel to follow my book about my “trip” to Paris. I love writing, and have missed the bug biting me every time I turn around, so I’ve started my research.
I also had vowed to clean out my refrigerator big time. And my medicine cabinet. And my dining room buffet. Last weekend and this weekend were the days. The cabinet is shiny clean, I can see the glass shelves in my breakfront, and we are getting a new frig tomorrow, but that is neither here nor there. I made these days THE days.
A lot of the time I’d rather be a vegetable than do anything productive, but fortunately my curiosity and A.D.D. won’t let me sit around for long.
Sometimes moving forward is awkward. Hard. Slow. It’s easier to put off until tomorrow what can be done today. But it feels so darn good once we start moving forward, doesn’t it?
I believe in encouraging others to move forward, too. I know how they will feel once they get the procrastination monkey off their back. Moving forward allows for new ideas, new chances for discovery and growth. That feels so darn good, too.
Take baby steps if need be. Do one thing today, a second step tomorrow. Keep track of your progress. Show yourself you really can move forward towards what you want. Make a list of what you’d like to accomplish. Don’t make any task too daunting. Just make it doable.
You will feel so good when you can check something off your list.
My medicine cabinet hasn’t shined like this since I put it in 15 years ago! Woot Woot!
After a weekend of beautiful weather, beautiful thoughts, and a few picture Art Galleries, I often like to start off my Monday blogs talking directly to you.
I always think about asking how your weekend was — if you even had a weekend. This blog is not like a chat room; I don’t get a lot of feedback from readers as to what they’ve done or what they think or what they feel. Which is just fine. Not many want to “emote” online.
Except for our President.
But I digress.
The face of the Internet has changed in the past twenty years. Like everything else around us, change is often necessary, not always popular, and scary. Maybe not while you’re going through change, but looking forward as change tries to zoom past you.
I truly believe in order to keep your sanity — and your edge — you need to find a way to work creativity into your life. Once a day if possible. You need to do something, try something, read something you’ve never done/tried/read before.
With a full work schedule, kids, grandkids, cleaning, homework, errands, and more, it’s not always easy. Nor, should I say, on the top of your list.
But we all have to find a way to make it so. (sounds like Captain Picard!) Only when we peek into the imaginations of others can we get a better grasp of our own abilities.
Some minds are waaaaay out there. I just did a little research on Aleister Crowley, an English occultist, ceremonial magician, poet, painter, novelist, and mountaineer, for a possible Art Gallery blog. Ummmmm, he is definitely waaaaay out there. Putting a hold on that idea.
On the other hand, I’m finishing reading the book Shōgun which has given me insights into the world of the Japanese in the 1500s, their art and their beliefs.
There is always something you can glean from things around you.
I also truly believe that you should learn one new thing a day. Doesn’t matter what. Look at something new, listen to something new, experience something new. And I don’t mean watch a new TV show.
With all of us being confined to our houses because of Covid, that’s easier said than done. I don’t always trust what I learn on TV or in a movie. After all, watching the movie “The Hunt for Red October” I thought there really was a caterpillar drive – “a ‘magneto-hydrodynamic’ propulsion system that renders the submarine silent by mimicking seismic anomalies.”
But it certainly was a creative mind that created one.
I’m going to start testing my Angel Tears this week (sparkles on a fishing line), and maybe … MAYBE … consider a sequel to my book “I Dreamed I Was in Paris.”
What creative, imaginative, outside-the-box things are you up to this week?
Within a couple of months I will officially be retired.
No more worrying about driving to work in snow and slop. No more worrying about punching in late because I cant get my tired butt moving fast enough in the morning. No more scraping off my windows or driving to and from work in the dark. No more getting up at 6 a.m. and force-feeding a shower whether I need it or not.
I should be ecstatic. But somehow, I’m not 100% with that yet.
For there will also be no more beautiful sunrises to see on my way to work. I don’t usually come to my work town, so no more slow rides through the beautiful countryside that inspired two novels and a short story. No more pot lucks and sharing moaning groaning work stories with co-workers. No more chances to actually turn my job into something I love.
Of course, this transition comes to us all. I have worked 50 years to get to this point in my life. It should be — and will be — another turning point. A chance to do the things I really have wanted to do but have never had time to do.
Time to start making Angel Tears™ for art fairs. (more about that another day). More time to write. More time to see my grandkids. More time to actually organize my home. I want to start taking free classes at the University in my hometown. I also want to start freelancing proofreading and editing on the side. I want to sleep in, stay up until 2 am, and not fear turning off the alarm and falling back asleep.
Yet I can’t help look back at all the years I’ve spent working for someone else. Except for a 7 year stint as a B&B owner, I’ve owed my soul — and paycheck — to the “man.” I try not to look back too much, for it’s easy to see the trials and fails I’ve had. The steps backwards I took to get where I am today.
It’s easy to see the dreams I once had of having a successful career. The steps I took and the steps I should have taken.
But there is no going back. No chance to change decisions, directions, or choices. That’s the payment for a life well lived.
The good thing is that I really believe I have another 20-30-40 years to make a difference. That’s a lot of time. I can encourage my grandkids to be proud of who they are and the contributions they will make to making the world a better place. I can make sparkly things that make people smile when they look out the window. I can contribute to the world in a different way than filing and updating computer records and making beds for visitors.
I can finally find out who I am.
There will be an adjustment period, no doubt. But that is something worth wading through — something worth dancing through.
For there is always a party on the other side.
A funny thing happened on the way to writing my third book.
I’ve had book One and Two done for like ever — the first one for 15 years, the second for maybe 8. I’m not published; I’ve sent the ideas out to a few publishers and agents during my years, but I was always busy doing other things like working full time and fooling around with my kids and grandkids.
I would whine (I’m a lovely whiner) that I wasn’t published. I hadn’t even sent it to friends to read. The second book was more my favorite than the first. Wouldn’t touch it for the world.
Then I started book three.
And since book three has taken a life of it’s own, I’m going to have to do some changes to book Two now.
Does your life ever work out like that?
Just when you think you know where you’re going something comes along and changes you all around helter skelter?
Why change it all?
Because you have changed.
Something somehow has changed your direction, your thoughts, your interpretations. And it will bug you till the end of your days if you don’t change the things around you (if you can).
Changing your wardrobe to fit your new attitude. Changing the music you listen to. Your job. Getting rid of toxic friends. Life is always a change.
And you must change along with it.
You can’t hold onto the past just because it’s there. It fits like your grandfather’s coat. Big and bulky and totally out of style. Even if you’re a retro kinda person.
I hate change. I love change. Being creative I love and hate everything. But I am smart enough to go along with it when I can see how it can benefit me.
I went to a concert last night to listen to the High Kings for St. Pattie’s Day. They are an Irish tenor kind of group. They sang all these Irish songs that I love. And somewhere between “Finnigan’s Wake” and “Wild Mountain Thyme” I realized my main character in all my books is Irish, and this third book is about him. Not my heroine’s interpretation of him, not the narrator’s interpretation — it’s about him and his Irish roots. Why he is like he is.
And it makes me want to put a musical experience in the book.
Which would change him and his lady and the reader.
And since it’s based on the same experience from the second book but from his point of view, I will now have to rewrite the second book so they “match”.
They say there is no rest for a writer. I’m sure that’s true of a poet, a painter, or a potter. I think that’s a good thing. I want this story to be the right story. Not my version of the right story. But his.
If you have to change, change. Don’t big deal it. Change that shirt, that purse, the color of your hair. Make your painting pink instead of blue if that’s what the cosmos tells you. Don’t sweat the logical stuff.
It’s all you in the end, anyway…..
Dare I whisper — Spring is (almost) here in Wisconsin!
With my luck, a snowstorm of epic proportions will fall on me for saying that, but what-the-hey — I think the medicinal qualities of semi-warm air is worth the test of a last, lone snowstorm.
I’ve been reading blogs and Facebook entries saying that Spring has already popped in some Southern venues. I’ve seen pictures of flowers and birds all around the Net. Well, I can tell mine is coming, too, for it’s Mud City outside my front door.
People in Wisconsin don’t have the same kind of Springs that other people have. Oh, we have flowers peeking up through the ground and birds singing their little hearts out…but we also have grills popping with bratwurst and people shopping in their shorts and sweatshirts.
My grandson and I practiced our first “don’t tell mom” episode over the weekend…he was riding his Hot Wheels down the hill/driveway, trying to make a sharp right turn at the bottom. There was only one tip-over in the mudsnow…he was getting the hang of it. Alas, he couldn’t continue down the straight part and turn left and downhill to splash in the huge puddle in the middle of the driveway, for he couldn’t get enough traction to speed through the mud.
That will come next week.
Why do we do such wild things the first day the sun shines and we don’t have to wear gloves? We wear a sweater instead of a coat, seeing as even though it’s 29 degrees in the morning it will be 48 by the time we get out of work. 48 degrees. That’s Popsicle weather for most folks. We drive with our windows down, turning on the heat only out of necessity. We sing Beach Boys and Bon Jovi songs at the top of our lungs, the cool…er, cold… wind barely tossing our hair. (It is fresh air, you see..) The snow isn’t even melted yet and yet we’re planning barbeques, Fests, and trips to the zoo. We are eating more fruit and veggies, hoping to take a pound or two off before we put on that bathing suit, and cleaning and oiling our lawnmowers — just in case.
I’m sure every area has its quirks when it comes to Springtime. Most of us have woken up in the dark and come home from work in the dark for so long that any ray of sunshine is a ray of hope for humanity. So any ritual to bring Gaia to her feet is welcome.
I think part of it is that we are celebrating another year of life. Another year of being alive. Another chance to make it right. When I drive with the windows open and smell Mother Nature’s scent, I thank Her for allowing me one more year of puddles and flowers, of sunsets and crickets, of bonfires and marshmallows.
So the second you sense Spring in the air, GO FOR IT! Walk out on the porch in your underwear or ride your motorcycle or go buy bulbs and seeds or bring out the barbie and cue something juicy. Embrace the change of seasons — and of life. And just say thanks. Again.
After all, you never know if they’ll have grills and brats in heaven…
Every year since I started this blog I have honored those who lost their lives on this day in 2001.
Two of those planes, American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175, were crashed into the North and South towers, respectively, of the World Trade Center complex in New York City. A third plane, American Airlines Flight 77, was crashed into the Pentagon, leading to a partial collapse in its western side. The fourth plane, United Airlines Flight 93, was targeted at Washington, D.C., but crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, after its passengers tried to overcome the hijackers.
In total, almost 3,000 people died in the attacks, including the 227 civilians and 19 hijackers aboard the four planes. We also lost 343 firefighters and 72 law enforcement officers, the deadliest incident for their fields in the history of the United States. Some managed to call home and tell their loved ones they loved them one last time. Some despaired and jumped; others never knew what hit them. We will never know what they thought, how they felt. That is a world sacred to those who have gone before us.
We will always ask, “Where were you when you heard?” Our hearts will always hurt when we watch the Towers crumble. And we will always be ashamed of those who called themselves human beings and did such a thing.
We also will never find the words to thank those who put their lives on the line to save what they could. We will always be amazed that Mother Nature reclaimed her wounded ground in Pennsylvania so peacefully, and that her human counterparts did the same with the Pentagon and Ground Zero.
I will never forget. And as long as I have a blog, I will never let you forget, either.
statistics from Wikipedia
Life has been in transition lately. Good, mediocre, up, down, cloudy, grey, with a hint of sunshine now and then. Spring in Wisconsin. But I have to tell you, I’m so glad I’m here to be good, mediocre, up, down, cloudy, and grey with a hint of sunshine.
For about six months ago I took a tumble unlike anything I have ever experienced. I am here to tell you that I’m alive and well. As for the story…it was one of those things that could happen to anyone. A slick spot, a little curve, and before you know it you’re tumbling down the embankment on the side of the road. How instantly your life can change…in a flash, in one long, drawn out moment.
There is no doubt a faerie’s touch saved my derriere that morning. Driving one way, sliding, turning around, and double tumbling down the little slope took less than 30 seconds. The memories of that moment in time are fuzzy now…all I remember is thinking, “I’m rolling. Okay. I’m rolling over.” There was no panic; no real fear. I think I was too stupid to realize how dangerous the moment really was. When I stopped rolling, landing on the tires, all I could think was, “My husband is going to kill me.”
Funny what thoughts come across your mind when you’re probably in shock and don’t know it.
My husband was neither mad nor murderous. It wasn’t until I had the car towed home that I realized what I was had done was dance with the devil. I literally walked away from disaster. From paralysis and death and worse. Afterwards people told me stories of some who weren’t so lucky. I don’t know if they meant to make me feel better or not.
Funny what thoughts come across other’s minds when they don’t know what to say.
My life has not drastically changed since that dance, but every morning I say an extra thank you prayer. I call my kids and grandbaby more often. I always say something nice to someone — to their face, not behind their back. I know what’s important in my life. And I strive to be a better person. To my family, to my friends, and especially to myself. I smell the roses and and the green grass and keep an eye on the sunrise and the sunset.
And I take a leap of faith and think that I was saved for a bigger purpose in life. Like keeping us all entertained.
Shall we dance?
I have always enjoyed the feel of this blog…I try to make it light, witty, and, if I’m lucky, life-affirming. This is one side of me. Like all of you, there are many facets to my diamond. I read a very warm, articulate piece by my fellow blogger ittymac (http://ittymac.wordpress.com/) which made me think about all my other writing facets.
I’m going out on a limb this evening and posting one of my favorite stories. It’s about 1,036 words long, so it shouldn’t take you too long to read it. It is a tribute (in a way) to my father. I hope it touches you like it touched me.
Home on the Farm
He woke up before the crowing of the rooster, something he hadn’t done in a long time. There was only one rooster left now, a strutting white leghorn with tan wings and black spots on his chest. The old man stretched carefully, surprised to find the shooting pains in his legs gone. Remarkable. Last night the pain had been so bad he had to double his medication just to make it to his bed. Now — now his legs felt sturdy and strong.
Sitting up in bed, his watery eyes looked out the window towards the coming sunrise. The light sparkled like a million crystal chips shimmering at the edge of his vision, stretching the morning clouds into ribbons of pink and gold. Someone once told him that the sunrises were brighter these days because of all the pollution in the air, but he didn’t agree. John had witnessed many a sunrise on his farm, many a sunrise and sunset since his father plowed the land when he was a boy. Maybe they all didn’t sparkle like this one, but they were all unique, all beautiful.
Climbing out of bed and into the bathroom, John savored the fact that his bodily functions were once again running smoothly. What an enjoyable respite from the dribbling and splashing he had been going through lately! Looking into the mirror, his large blue eyes were the clearest he had seen them in a while, the age splotches on his face nearly non-existent. His hands didn’t tremble as he shaved, nor did he need his glasses to comb his hair. It was about time.
Donning his flannel and overalls, John called his hound to come join him on a morning walk. The 84-year-old had not wandered through his farmland in ages, and his legs felt so great, so strong, he couldn’t resist the urge to revisit fields that had seen better days. Bouncer didn’t come running, though, but merely slept in the puddle of sunlight that fell in front of the living room sofa. Fine, John thought. Sleep the morning away.
Opening the back door, the chill of the morning air danced around him, invigorating his senses. The scent of hay and grass filled his nostrils, along with the earthy sweat of horses and cows. John looked down at his legs and for a moment worried they wouldn’t carry him across the porch and down the stairs to the old barn. He hadn’t been able to make that trek in quite some time, his body having grown more useless as the years passed. But this morning — this morning was different. There wasn’t a cloud hanging over his thoughts anymore. No depression, no drugs to slow him down. He could do it.
He cautiously moved down the stairs and followed the dirt path that led to the empty red barn. Vivid memories of his father and mother and brothers bombarded him as he neared the dilapidated structure. His parents had moved to Wisconsin from Poland, hoping to find freedom and a new life in the rural countryside that looked so much like their native land. His father tended 25 cows in his day; John almost 40 during his middle years. Adding chickens and a couple of bulls to the mix, he made a decent living, enough to support a wife and three children in the heyday of the 50’s.
But the kids grew up and moved to the big city, and his wife took on a bout of cancer about ten years back and never recovered, leaving the farm and livestock to run wild with abandonment. John finally allowed the neighbor to plant corn in his empty fields, providing a small but decent return that, combined with his small pension, afforded him a comfortable retirement.
The past was the past, and now all John could visualize was the barn full of cows and the chickens raising a ruckus in their pen somewhere behind the milk cans and the ’52 Ford pickup that was down a quart of oil. His footsteps were lighter than air, quick and sure, walking the path they had carved into the earth for the past 80 years. He saw horses in the pasture and hay bales stacked up in the loft and barrels full of cracked corn.
It was incredible how good it felt to be alive, to feel the earth and the farm under his feet, the sunshine on his weathered face, to hear his children laugh and scream and chase the dogs around the front yard. John fleetingly wondered about his newfound energy, the firmness of his limbs, the accuracy of his eyesight. There were no hints of arthritis or pneumonia; there were no more regrets about the past or thoughts of suicide. It was as if he had always been this way.
Past the farm equipment, through the barn and out the double doors on the other side, John spotted his wife sitting on the picnic table under the huge oak tree at the bottom of the hill, laughing and talking to his mother and father. Margaret took on a subtle glow as she beckoned him to join her under the overgrown tree. His father sat in the wooden chair that used to sit by the fireplace, and his mother stretched out on a blanket at the base of the tree. The kids squealed in the background, the dogs barked and the crows threatened from their perches atop the trees.
The sun crested above the distant pines and the rooster crowed, cracking the morning with its triumphant sound. At that moment John heard a jumbling of sounds: a phone ringing, a dog howling, voices and noises and the shattering of glass. But it must have been the wind playing tricks, carrying nonsense through the open fields from the farms down the way. He hesitated as a thought, a rationalization, tried to take form in his mind. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. The world was full of enchanting sounds and scents, and it all belonged to him. He turned, and smiling, went into the arms of his beautiful wife.
The reunion had begun. John was home. Home on the farm.
On this glorious Memorial Day I am reposting one of my most “memorial” posts from yesteryear. I hope you enjoy it! Oh — and while you’re at it — take time and give a nod and blow a kiss to those whom we honor for their service to our country — today and EVERY DAY!
What does it mean to be middle-aged? Is there a line drawn across the cosmic playfield that says on this side, you are old, on this side, young? If you love Big Band and Glen Miller, are you old? If you like Rhianna or Jay-Z are you young? If you like InSync or Boy George, are you just … weird?
The older I get, the fuzzier the line gets. I have friends on the 40/70-year-old line that lead fairly “normal” lives: Dancing with the Stars, American Idol, Oprah. Then there are those who are a little more wild: The Shield, Sons of Anarchy, AC/DC. Where do most of us fit? How do we know where the line is between antique and hip hop? Between dancing and throwing our back out?
The trigger mechanism tonight was Paint Your Wagon, a musical made 40 years ago. Imagine: Clint Eastwood singing. Lee Marvin dancing and singing about beans. This movie is 40 years old; twice as old as my youngest son. Yet there are some of us who sit around, laughing and singing the songs as if they were still on the top of the charts. When I watch musicals like Brigadoon and Sound of Music and Camelot, my kid looks at me like I’ve grown a second nose. Musicals give most teenagers the willies. If it’s not High School Musical or Glee, it’s not a musical. He shakes his head and goes to watch movies where people get their limbs cut off or that showcase breasts that hang out like watermelons in the summer sun or guys sitting around smoking weed and talking about getting laid. It’s at these times that I feel so disconnected. So…old.
I know that every generation has to evolve. What was fascinating, entertaining or daring to one group is not necessarily to the next. I find myself cringing at songs like Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini and The Bird is the Word. And those were from the generation right before me. I’m sure that same generation shivered at songs like Transylvania 6500 and Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree. Even my parent’s generation had dissenters: I have a song in my collection called If Swing Goes I Go Too by Fred Astaire, singing about “some old fogey wants to ration swing.” Imagine! Our parents being rebels!
Of course, there are many other reflections of generation gaps, many other blank looks from both sides of the fence when music and movies and clothes come to the forefront. I am not the first to discover that there are a number of meanings for the same word, and not everyone is on the same page of the dictionary. My son is fond of chillin’ and hangin’; I can imagine what that would mean to my grandfather’s generation. While I try not to use phrases that date me like groovy and far-out, I can’t help but fall back on standbys like cool and hunky dory, words that dance on the edge of fogey-ism.
I think alot about the generation gap. Not so much how I am on one side or another, but how I can bridge that gap. Sooner or later everything revolves back onto itself. Not back to exactly the same spot; not to the same beat (eight-to-the-bar, jive, waltz), nor to the same words (commie, greaser, beatnik), but to explanations for the same situations that haunt all human beings. As much as underwear sticking out from atop blue jeans and skull caps shake our interpretation of fashion, I imagine mini-skirts and go-go boots did the same for those who wore spats and garters.
All generations wander through the fog; some with purpose, others just along for the ride. All generations start out with a dream, a hope that they will somehow make a difference in their world. One way or another everyone wants to be noticed; everyone wants to be remembered. Some make slasher movies; others cures for diseases. Some climb Mt. Everest, others walk the track for Breast Cancer. For some of us the best we can do is pass along our lasagna or apple pie receipe. We all contribute in our own way.
But back to the over-the-top musical from 1969. Listen to the words to the title song:
Where am I goin? I don’t know
Where am I headin’? I ain’t certain
All I know is I am on my way…
When will I be there? I don’t know
When will I get there? I ain’t certain
All I know is I am on my way
We are all wanderin’, we are all goin’ somewhere. And few of us know when we’ll get there. And yes, we are all chillin’ and hangin’. We are all part of the same cycle, mixing and blending and blurring the lines of old AND new. Amazing what happens when all generations fall into the same pot — we become one amazingly flavorful stew.
So many things make us happy; so many things make us sad. So many times we wished we had turned left instead of right; so many times we are soooo glad we did turn right instead of left. Sometimes I get really sad that I’m soon going to turn 60 — where has my life gone? Other times I look back and am sorry my mother never made 54. I’m sad that I had breast cancer; other times I’m so glad they found it when they did.
Life is packed with highs and lows, yellow and blacks, snow and scorching heat. That’s what it’s all about. That’s what it’s always been about. For us, for our grandparents, for George Washington and Kublai Khan and St. Joseph. I’m sure they all had a hundred things they wanted to do at one time, too. Just like us. We all want to be appreciated for what we’ve done. What we’ve become. We all would like to think that our time here on Earth has been for the Greater Good.
This is not a confessional blog; this isn’t a tell-all or a bad news bomb. I’m sitting on my sofa this cold Sunday afternoon, looking at the bare treetops in my front yard. Of course, you know me — I’m also watching football, eating lunch, doing laundry, getting ready to write some in my latest novel, wondering what I’m gonna wear to work tomorrow. I’m also thinking about the fun I had with my grandbaby this weekend, thinking of taking some drugs for my achy legs, and feeling guilty I haven’t played fetchie with my dog today.
That’s really what this blog is about. Sometimes I feel I should be pushing this blog harder, trying to share the Word with more readers. Other times I think I’ve run this horse to the finish line, and should start a new creative venture. Yet more often I think I’ve let my writing simmer on the back burner for so long it’s started to dry up and stick to the pan.
How do you know if you’ve succeeded at what you tried to do? What is the measure of success? Big paychecks often are an indicator; good health, always. Waking up every morning is a success all on its own. Family? Kids? Making the perfect apple pie? All of the above are successes if never done it before. Success has always been measured from the heart first, from the masses second. And often it takes on a meaning more cosmic than one thinks. I think I make the best spaghetti sauce this side of the Mississippi. If you don’t agree, does that mean it’s not good? Of course not. All it means is that I can eat it all myself.
Writing is the same thing for me. What is being a successful writer? Have I ever been published? A short story here or there in the past 10 years. Have I won awards for my creativity? No. Have I ever I gotten a call or email from a publisher? No. Do I think I’m a successful writer? Yes. Definitely. I’ve had people say positive things about my stories; I’ve brought smiles and tears to readers. I’ve written 4 novels, 1 novella, 32 short stories, 42 poems, 84 blogs, and 3 novels in-progress. I think that’s being successful. Why? Because Ive continued to do what I love, no matter what the result. I’ve had fun making friends, creating worlds, and trying things that make me uncomfortable. I encouraged people to believe in themselves, given life to middle-age heroines, and never killed off the main character.
There are still so many paths to follow, worlds to explore. And that’s only after I play with my grandbaby, fetch my dogs, pet my cats, cuddle my husband, go to work 40 hours a week, clean my house, grocery shop, get together with family and/or friends, and dozens of other responsibilities. Life has only so many hours, and I’m still struggling on squeezing a few more out of every week.
So what this all boils down to is that I’ve driven the Humoring the Goddess train long enough. Hopefully I’ve encouraged you to believe in yourself, have fun with your life, and laugh as much as you can. There are so many things you can’t change, so why not toss your hands up and laugh and move on? You’ll know the things you CAN change..that little voice in your heart/head/soul is always there to remind you. Your job is to listen.
I have enjoyed entertaining you all these years more than you know. I have learned so much from you. I might try another blog, or finish one of my novels, or sit and spew poetry until I feel nauseated. I’m sure I’ll be back and visit sometime. If I start something new I’ll post it. I will look foward to hearing from you and YOUR projects. You will always find me at my email world… firstname.lastname@example.org.
There is always a path ahead of you. Always. It’s up to you which one you take, or how often you turn left or right. In the end, none of that matters — the only thing that matters is that you keep walking.
Keep Humoring the Goddess…and Loving your Life…
Time to remodel. Those words strike terror in some, delight in others. Probably most of our abodes could use a refresher course in Martha Stewart 101. Shampooing carpets, washing windows, and rearranging the pantry are all fine and dandy, but sooner or later you get to the point where you just can’t stand the grease marks behind the stove or the coffee stains on the rug any longer.
I was perfectly happy with my little hideaway in the country. I’ve spent many a day playing with kids, petting dogs, cooking for family and friends, and dancing in front of the speakers between these walls. The décor was right for the time: a unicorn plate here, a deer head there. I felt I had the best of both worlds.
But lately strange apparitions began to appear. A lot more spots had appeared on said wall, and the rugs looked more like a Dalmatian rug. My kitchen cabinets were stuffed fuller than rummage sale bins, and those birdcages atop the cabinets started to have a fuzzy edge to them. I can’t see the living room over the counter top because of the three beta bowls, various potteries, an air freshener, and a stack of newspapers that eventually will wind up in the kitty litter box. I couldn’t find anything, I couldn’t reach anything.
Yes, I needed a change. A shot of the ‘ol adrenalin in our living space. Once I (we) gave the OK, my mind began running like a mad dog after a cheeseburger. Colors, textures, flooring all screamed at me. “Pick me! Pick me!” Echoing right behind those screams were those of my husband. “Cheap! Cheap!”
Being a Sagittarius, I embrace change. The bigger up front, the better. Of course, Sagittarians are also notorious for not finishing their projects, but that’s fodder for another story. The roller coaster ride began. How about black and white and wrought iron? Too gothic. How about a tropical look – cantaloupe and soft turquoise? No, my mother’s frig was turquoise. Scarred me for life. Boring! Blasé! Old World! I forced myself to center. Slow down. But so many colors to choose from! Honey! Mint Green! Butterscotch! Red and White! Why didn’t I have a plan before I started?
My husband maps out the future one bullet point at a time. Why couldn’t I? He had the responsibility of picking out new flooring. No problem. Oak laminate was on sale. It wasn’t that easy for me. I needed to create atmosphere. Ambience. A binding swirl from kitchen to dining room to living room to hallway and back. Didn’t he see that that wasn’t something to be taken lightly? My in-laws already did the North Woods look, and I used to have black and white checked in a house we lived in many moons ago. Even though I have a thing for unicorns and faeries, I’m not sure their place is in the kitchen beside polish sausage and sauerkraut.
I wanted this second go around to be different. This terrified my husband. He has a hard time imagining anything outside four ivory walls and a couple of mounted fish. He had nervous flashbacks. Like the time I painted the bottom half of a bedroom wall burgundy, or painted a landscape complete with brick walls, urns, and a giant wrought iron gate in my back hallway, or stenciled vines winding from one room to the next. Now that I’m older and less inclined to care about what others think, perhaps he feared the worst. Like I would paint a graveyard scene or an Andy Warhol tribute. Not so. Not so.
Besides ― I didn’t have much money other than for flooring, some paint, and splash tiles. Anything I came up with had to come from the garage sale stack in the mudroom or my local second hand store. So what do you do when you have champagne taste on a lemonade budget? Why, you do what any creative sprite would do ― you call in another Muse! I was sure Michelangelo or Rembrandt has a few faes they could send my way. After all, inspiration is all around us. In us. We are not only sales clerks, graphic designers, insurance transcriptionists, or day care workers ― we are musicians, artists, landscapers, psychologists and miracle workers. All I needed to do was open my eyes and look around.
I didn’t want my rooms to look like Picasso came to visit, or something only Bobby Flay could cook in. I picked out some sand stone-ish tiles and a paint called pearls and lace. That was a start. Suddenly the rooms began to metamorphous. I didn’t have to walk into the wind chimes on my way out the patio door, or bump my knee on the table jutting out into the living room. Exchanging sheers for the dusty antique lace ones downstairs gave my dining room a much different feel. A few gargoyles atop the cabinets, a few pieces of pottery, and voila! A new me!
All this angst about nothing made me think that it should be just as easy to remodel your inner temple. Clean out the dust bunnies, read a book, go for a walk, play at a new playground. You know who you are ― have some fun with yourself. Drop the drama that dogs your heels every day. Learn to wipe off your inner counters more often, and let the real you shine through.
My mother kept the same drapes and rug and wall colors for 30 years. My mother-in-law too. I never got to ask them if those were really their decorating dreams or someone else’s. If their inner temple ever slipped out to meet their outer one. If they even knew they had an inner temple.
I haven’t quite gotten the green light as far as wall decorations and furniture removal, but the highest hurdle has been jumped. I move forward constantly, and respond to my husband’s “Cheap! Cheap!” with my own rebel yell: “Negotiate! Negotiate!”