Flooded at the Sink

Standing over the kitchen sink, dinner in the making. Waves and waves of thoughts flowing through her mind…does that reel ever stop? The memory of her little girl bouncing in, always wanting to help Momma. “What-chu making?”, was the question of the hour. Mom would answer, “Pos, food.” Giggles and rolling of the eyes would follow. Suddenly these precious memories are dampened by the memories of her own childhood.

For The RunawayJunior High doesn’t bring cherished memories, however, Home-ec class yielded some good results. Learning to make spaghetti sauce and cinnamon rolls was a tasty experience. Recipes that are still in practice today.

Ah, yes, the day she learned to make spaghetti sauce was a memorable one. She came home so excited, ready to share this amazing accomplishment (at least she thought so) with her mother. Let’s just say there were no pats-on-the-back or words of affirmation.

Somewhere along the way, mother, begrudgingly decided to let her make this “foreign cuisine”. Oh, how excited The Runaway was! She knew they would like it. Mother bought her all the necessary ingredients and off she went into full mode cooking gear. Mother’s frown and side looks could not dissuade her. However, even though Mother agreed to her cooking this meal, mother still made the regular dinner, cause “who would eat that porquería”.

Let’s just say Dad liked it, a lot. No, he wasn’t like A Father building his daughter up. But, after careful inspection, he scarfed-it down. And, as time went, he would ask Mother to buy the necessary ingredients for his daughter to make this foreign dish.

And so went the wave of memories. Always a mixture of emotions.

Dinner is finished…let’s go eat 🙂

Encouraging the Writer

The holiday buzz behind us, with the crazy schedules or no schedules at all. Routine is welcomed. Getting back to my scheduled reading and writing. In reading Natalie Goldberg’s book, “Writing Down the Bones”, I was encouraged to write everyday, even if it’s gibberish. She also encourages timed writing. I like the feel of pen and paper and letting my thoughts flow freely without the thought of “writing for someone”. It’s so invigorating.

Here’s some quotes to encourage the writer within:

“If you wish to be a writer, write.” – unknown

“The worst thing you write is better than the best thing you didn’t write.” – unknown

 

Binding Garments

Should my clothes be a comfortable piece of garment, simply used to cover myself or should they be torturous arsenals inflicting pain at every turn? I don’t know! I’d like to go with door number 1, please. Cause, hey, there is already enough torture without me inflicting it upon myself. Just sayin…

Have you seen some of the corsets used ages ago? Someone literally pulling strings while the person inside this horrid pieces of cloth is tightened, and tightened. I wonder how their eyes didn’t pop out. How did they eat? How did they move? Heck, how did they breathe? Remember Ms. Thang and her Death by Spanx? Yeah, pretty traumatic!

Maybe the new year and all the fitness resolutions being splattered all over the place that has my Inquiring Mind going.

How does one choose a sports bra? A comfortable, non-binding piece of garment…please! I know, I know, “more bounce to the ounce” is a catchy song lyric, and on the dance floor, it just might work. But, hey, it has no place on the gym floor. Jumping jacks without “support” is not a picture I want my eyes to behold. The need to keep them “girls” nicely in place is, well, needed. Especially as one gets older. Of course, this is a total reference to someone else 😉

Just to get into some of these contraptions is a workout in and of itself. Seriously! And, getting out of them…well, just pass the vaseline, please!

How do we solve this problem? How do we come up with a solution to this dilemma? I simply don’t know, my dear, Watson. It’s a continual unsolved mystery. One that I am sure, will yield much material for writing 😉

Scars

“A scar is an area of fibrous tissue that replaces normal skin after an injury. Scars result from the biological process of wound repair in the skin, as well as in other organs and tissues of the body. Thus, scarring is a natural part of the healing process” – Wikipedia

normal – injury – wound – repair – natural – healing

Some scars are seen, some unseen. Some are the result of playfulness, while others can be traumatic.

My husband has a scar on his chin, the result of a fall he had while in boot camp.

My son has scars on his face, the result of childhood antics. He imagined himself Superman and jumped off stairs. And, not just once.

My daughter had a scar on her back, which went from the curve of her neck to her tailbone. It was the result of mayor surgery. She had scoliosis (severe curvature of the spine).

Some scars are embarrassing and cause us to hide. While others are worn, almost as a badge of honor. Some cause people to flinch, while others draw their undivided attention.

There is a story behind every scar. Are we willing to share it? I’d say, share away.  It makes for very interesting conversations.

~ ~ ~ scars are part of LIVING ~ ~ ~

Continual Process

Morning ya’ll! It sure has been quiet around here, but man has my brain been in a frenzy. Thankfully it is not one of those “brain explosions” that lay me flat, unable to function. No, it has been a steady flow of pondering, meditation, a-ha moments and just plain rethinking. Geesh, you’d think at my age, I’d be done “thinking”. Yeah, not going to happen, not this side of heaven.

As my brain churns, I have found it difficult to “sit down” and put into words what is coming out. In fact, I haven’t even done my regular journal writing, which says so much, since writing is typically the way I sort things out. It’s like having a pile of dirty clothes, which is so overwhelming you don’t know where to start. So instead of doing anything…just one thing…I simply do nothing. And, it is so bugging the heck out of me!

There is also so much apprehension in putting things “out there”. I thought I was doing better, but I’m realizing that I am still “fearful” of speaking/writing whatever my mind is pondering, given that the process is still being worked out. Deep in my sub-conscience I desire to put forth a “finished product”, whatever that may be, instead of the “journey” and the processing with all its twists and turns and deep valleys and mountain highs. Once again, I gasp at this, because I don’t want to put forth a Porcelain Doll image.

I pulled out some of my notes from Natalie Goldber’s Book, “Writing Down The Bones”:

“…doubt is torture…” “If you are not afraid of the voices inside you, you will not fear the critics out side you.” “…be present, unafraid, open, let the situation give you the subject…” “Dive into absurdity and write. Take chances, be fearless of failure.”

DOUBT, FEAR, OPEN…fearless of failure…! How is it that one gets to the point of not caring what “critics” have to say, yet somehow one finds oneself right back in that funk, that paralyzing funk that threatens to shut ones voice! My therapist says I give people too much power over me. Ya think! It’s my life long story :-/

Questioning what I have to say has been an ongoing struggle (Love of WritingThe Runaway ) Also, thinking that I have to “fight” my way to be heard or having to explain myself over and over. My concept of “healthy” relationships is, well, really skewed. Working on it, though 🙂 I heard actress, Leah Remini say, “I thought I had to fight for everything.” Ok, this sent me into deep, deep thought…which, by the way, continues.

I believe we are always evolving, learning. The day we stop learning, then, we stop maturing and hearing others around us; being open to change and not rigid statutes. I remember a time when I thought 40 years of age was ancient. Let me tell you at 52, that mind set has really changed. There was also a time that I thought if I fulfilled that “proverbial checklist” ALL would go well in the camp. Yup, that magic checklist is non-existent. Hardship and pain are part of this life journey. The question is not avoidance, but how will we handle “it” when comes? And, are we willing to receive help and ask for help when needed? Being vulnerable, transparent, learning to trust.

As you can see, lots going on in this brain of mine. I desire to continue to listen deeply, and write freely. To allow my pen to be ready to write even when the process is messy and unfinished, not waiting until “it” is boxed up, tied neatly with a pretty little bow. Cause let’s face it, if I wait until then, this temporary vessel will be resting in peace (Gosh, I am so ready, but I’m accepting that it’s not time yet).

Seasons

Seasons come and seasons go. None stay for long. Each with its enchanting beauty or with its nightmarish toil. There was a time I had no concept of seasons. I’m sure I was taught about them in school, but I guess it wasn’t important enough for me to pay attention. The weather was either hot or cold, with nothing in between. I recall first being aware that “there was” different seasons, and that there was a “time” of the year in which they took place. I was mesmerized by this new found “lost” information. Why hadn’t anyone ever told me about them? Ha! Well, they had I was just not paying attention.

As life has continued, I’ve become “aware” of seasons in life. However, some life-seasons are as “predictable” as weather-seasons. Some life-seasons can linger far too long, while one aches under its oppressive load. Others, one wishes they had never ended…they were far too short.

Take winter for example. Some places have the beauty of snow, which makes for a winter wonderland. It’s what you see on post cards, on romantic movies. Those beautiful white Christmases. But what about when you are shoveling snow? Frost bite? Wet and frozen toes? Blizzards? You get my point. It also makes “everything” green die all around.

I live in California, so I am not in the midst of snow and such. But I remember a winter that lingered way too long. We had fruit trees in our back yard. Those trees ended up looking like horrid “bushes of dead sticks”. I was so over it. The sight was not one I was fond of looking at every day. I was ready to yank everything out and “start over”. Maybe it’s the “controlling person” in me or the “fixer”, but something had to be done. The gift of “waiting” was definitely not mine. My husband convinced me to wait, which was no easy task.

Come Spring, I was mesmerized by the beauty of “regrowth”. Each bud, each shoot, each sign of “new life” was breath taking. I was grateful I waiting, although not very patiently.

TODAY I’m up to my neck, and at times completely submerged in “snow”. I have “no-shovel”, and even if I had one, I have no strength to “shovel-myself-out”. My winter-season is brutal and frigid. And, at times it feels like it will last forever. However, TODAY, I am reminded of those horrid-dead-bushes in my old backyard. AND…I have HOPE!

~~~ Spring always follows Winter ~~~

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens” ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1