Curling bannisters, balconies, frosted corbels and woodwork, porches and nooks... I love old houses. Obsessed with them, more like it. Years of yearning, while nesting in subdivision homes of cookie cutter redundance, has made me treasure the years my husband wrapped us in the house of my dreams in a little town of Reedsburg Wi. The coziness of its fortress-like hug, is but a memory, or more like a hangover, not leaving my heart ever quite the same. Like having the perfect husband, who is long gone, new ones just don't compare.
I grew up with a Dad who had wanderlust in his blood...or soul, I can't divine the two. He had "Big Ideas" always. Fortunately, for us, he had the carpentry skills and the diligence to build and remodel. Never once did he fail to provide a home made with imagination and excitement. I grew up with the smell of paint in my nose, the dust of wood cut carefully to fit together like Lincoln Logs, and a layer of his hard work muting the colors of our clothing until we dusted off before bed and bath.
As soon as one house was completed to satisfaction, my dad would move us to another Big Idea and started over from scratch again. My dad was a River Rat, having grown up on the Kawkawlin River with the mouth of the Saginaw Bay within a short walk from his home shore. He remained a River Rat, pretty consistently, with every move we made... moving about 3 miles from his original childhood nest. I attended four elementary schools in the Bangor School District, which, to me was a plus. By the time I got into the Jr. High, I had accumulated friends from previous years in each school, helping my popularity a bit. But each "new" home was soon gutted, painted, added onto, and otherwise "touched" by my dad's artwork. I loved it. I breathed enough sawdust that I guess I didn't need fresh air anymore. I "caught" my dad's wanderlust.
My mother's blood, was made of simpler and more consistent stuff. She must have loved my father very much to have made him her life. She did not transition easily. It did not help that my Dad often did not give us any warning, but walked in the door with a couple of boxes in hand. I did not sense, from my mother, the spark of excitement that I felt. I will never know if my parents planned together or made decisions to uproot together. My mom never seemed surprised, but never gave us her own warning either. I just saw her gritted teeth, and her mechanical distribution of orders, directed at my older sister and me. My brother and sister, because they were so much younger than us, were off the hook. My job was to keep them out of the way and entertained....not to bother any of the adults doing the "important" work of packing.
It wasn't until recently, that I have sought internal peace and understanding of my soul. Nobody in my family has moved more than I have. I don't say that as a braggart nor do I say that as a degradation, but just a statistic. I have ever yearned for the big old homes of by-gone eras, that I've read about in stories. I have always wanted to be a "Little Women" type growing up in Victorian charm. And a "Cheaper by the Dozen" family surrounding me with life and fun sliding down the bannisters of a 1920's mansion, well-worn with family...
Realizing, all of a sudden, that my children will never experience the memory filled home of their childhood, stable and never-changing, I recognize my Father. I have moved my boys from place to place, while trying to find my footing in a world fraught with change. Nothing is stable for them, for us. The closest I have gotten to my dream was after I found my sweet husband, Chris. I have ever searched for "home" in houses, in communities, in apartments and in farms. When Chris purchased our first Big Old Charming House in Wisconsin, just for me.... oh, I rolled in every corner and nook like a pig happy in the mud. Seth was able to slide down the stairs in a box, and he had a clubhouse deep in the secret closet under those stairs. Good memories were made and my heart was satisfied. I thought it was because the house was charming.
Too few years we had in that home. We found ourselves having to make a move to better assure our family an income. We sold our home with heavy hearts.... I felt like I was saying goodbye to my dream. We purchased a cookie-cutter house in a cookie-cutter neighborhood in a state that stifled my spirit. I threw myself into the remodeling of this new, sterile house. Trying to make it something it could never be. We lived there for eight years, to allow my youngest to solidify his education. We made the best of it. But I no longer could touch my dream, and I mourned it.
My husband recognized my dream, and held it close, even when I was trying so hard to let it go. Quietly, he determined that he would get that dream back to me, without realizing exactly what that dream was. The time came, after our youngest graduated high school, to let go of cookie-cutter. We followed our boys to New England... where houses were charming and towns were exciting and warm. We bought our charming old house. I wallowed, at first. When my youngest left for college, shortly after we unpacked our boxes... I became aware of the quiet. The dust. The broken doorknobs. The shifty cupboards. The stained floors. The stairs.... so ....many...stairs.
I am 61 years old. My children are their own people. I am not the most evident in their lives at this point. Sitting down abruptly, in the middle of this charming Doris Day house, I cried. I sobbed, and I broke.
What I finally realized, in this journey of mine, was that I had the wanderlust of my father, but the dreams of my mother's soul ...of history and of family and of stability...... I had disregarded as dust to be waved away in annoyance. I chose the wanderlust as my venue to seek the stability. Talk about an oxymoron. What I realize, with intrigue, is that I have been living my dream on OTHER people's history in their homes.... the dings in the woodwork, the worn spots on the bannister.... were made by people I will never know. My children do not see this as "home".... no matter how old, how charming a place is.... it can never truly be our home.
My husband has been gone this week. He drove my son to a new college in a different state....2,000 miles away. Looking forward to him coming home.... it appears I may have misunderstood what "home" really was. We are empty nesters, in a too-large nest, filled with antiques of other people's histories. We are living in borrowed charm. And it will never become "home." My husband is coming "home" to me. We are each other's "home." Wherever we are, if we are together, we are truly "home." That is something good to wallow in.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Monster in my Belly, Part 2
After wallowing in my Momma's rejection, my thoughts gave way to memories. Growing up in the early 60's and 70's, was a treat for those of us experiencing such and we didn't even know it. I believe our generation was the "F"bomb of the times.... gaining attention by questioning and rebelling from the conservative world of picket fences and high heels.
I remember wearing little white gloves to church on Sunday. They had a little pearly button that gently and perfectly kept them closed. The gloves encased my little hands, and hid the flaws of my nature. My nails were bitten down to the nubs, sometimes holding a bit of the earth around the quick from my last minute play in the garden while I waited for the family to get into the car. The little white spotless gloves covered my "all-to-real" skin of my hands.
That epitomizes the 50's and 60's to me. Being taught to "cover" anything real and precious, and not to make waves by shedding the beautiful covers of dress that our mothers put us in. "Misbehaving" meant simply doing or saying anything that questioned the strict norms of every day routine. So exactly portrayed in the black and white portion of the movie, "Pleasantville"...
I remember some of the things I learned from my momma. I learned to tie my shoes, at first with the Butterfly method, and then later perfecting the more grown-up version...... I learned to ice skate, with my mom's arm wrapped firmly around my waist as I tried to balance on my double blades strapped to my boots. Looking back with great respect, I am remembering how my mom single-handedly shoveled a huge ice skating rink for us to use, in front of my house on the Kawkawlin River. I'm sure I learned something from watching her struggle with the piles of snow making our rink the smoothest and safest in the neighborhood. She was so tiny, and the piles of snow were so large.
She taught me how to read, while cuddled up next to her with our Book-of-the-month selection all fresh and new from the mailbox. I could read before entering kindergarten, so I could concentrate on other things...like learning to open the icky cartons of milk they made us drink. Learning to read was the best lesson... I have practiced much and because of it, I experienced many many worlds and characters that otherwise I would not know or understand.
Then I started thinking about the "conversation" that prompted such anger in both of us. Where did I learn to start thinking for myself? When did I take those little white gloves off? Early on, I'm remembering. I was a natural rebel.... and I realize that taking off those gloves, refusing to put on the dresses that were so itchy and confining was the beginning of the volatile relationship that defined us. I started asking why, and demanding some reason to base the behavior expected of me from her. It began then.
She taught me shame. She is the one who caught me picking my nose. She did teach me not to. I rarely pick my nose to this day. She taught me shame for my body... not to touch it, not to bring attention to it, and certainly not to share it. I couldn't look at myself, as I grew up, and grew breasts, and changed shape, without feeling a bit of shame for it. Betrayal. It happened in spite of my attempt to "behave."
I was ugly with my rebellion. That's what she called me, often. (I was often rebellious....) and I internally substituted the word "ugly" for "rebelling. " There was nothing stopping the fire in my belly, from growing. I was often in dispute with her on something, and everything. She chased me around my bedroom with a stick when I was getting bigger than her..... the visual makes me laugh, today, but I remember the day I stopped running. I turned and faced her, and demanded she hit me. She spit in my face saying "you.....lit..tle....shit." but she did not hit me. That day I discovered the fire made it up to my heart. I won something that day, but I realized in some way that innocence was lost. I found the beginning of my power. I stopped accepting the shame. So, I guess in a roundabout way, that day...my mom taught me that, too.
That day I stopped going to church. I stopped wearing the clothes my mom required of me. I stopped "behaving."
That free'd me to start gaining. I learned how much I liked to apply myself for good grades. I actually LIKED making my body strong and fast and muscular. I learned that I wanted to jump off the earth and fly. That was the day I started to BE.
I can look back on the other day, on our devastating phone conversation and realize that my mother does not get to "feel" ashamed of me and she doesn't GET to feel embarrassed by me...I am not HERS. I think I understand now, that she hasn't figured that out yet, and maybe she is afraid to let go of "me." And with that, she has taught me a huge lesson that I will never forget and always appreciate. With my own children... I send them off without restraints that I personally put upon them...they are not MINE, anymore... I taught them what I could, some things good, some things not so good...but they are their own persons now and there is nothing they can do that will embarrass me or shame me... they will continue to intrigue me, and to interest me and to feel pride in, but I will never feel ashamed of them. And that, I learned the hard way.
I remember wearing little white gloves to church on Sunday. They had a little pearly button that gently and perfectly kept them closed. The gloves encased my little hands, and hid the flaws of my nature. My nails were bitten down to the nubs, sometimes holding a bit of the earth around the quick from my last minute play in the garden while I waited for the family to get into the car. The little white spotless gloves covered my "all-to-real" skin of my hands.
That epitomizes the 50's and 60's to me. Being taught to "cover" anything real and precious, and not to make waves by shedding the beautiful covers of dress that our mothers put us in. "Misbehaving" meant simply doing or saying anything that questioned the strict norms of every day routine. So exactly portrayed in the black and white portion of the movie, "Pleasantville"...
I remember some of the things I learned from my momma. I learned to tie my shoes, at first with the Butterfly method, and then later perfecting the more grown-up version...... I learned to ice skate, with my mom's arm wrapped firmly around my waist as I tried to balance on my double blades strapped to my boots. Looking back with great respect, I am remembering how my mom single-handedly shoveled a huge ice skating rink for us to use, in front of my house on the Kawkawlin River. I'm sure I learned something from watching her struggle with the piles of snow making our rink the smoothest and safest in the neighborhood. She was so tiny, and the piles of snow were so large.
She taught me how to read, while cuddled up next to her with our Book-of-the-month selection all fresh and new from the mailbox. I could read before entering kindergarten, so I could concentrate on other things...like learning to open the icky cartons of milk they made us drink. Learning to read was the best lesson... I have practiced much and because of it, I experienced many many worlds and characters that otherwise I would not know or understand.
Then I started thinking about the "conversation" that prompted such anger in both of us. Where did I learn to start thinking for myself? When did I take those little white gloves off? Early on, I'm remembering. I was a natural rebel.... and I realize that taking off those gloves, refusing to put on the dresses that were so itchy and confining was the beginning of the volatile relationship that defined us. I started asking why, and demanding some reason to base the behavior expected of me from her. It began then.
She taught me shame. She is the one who caught me picking my nose. She did teach me not to. I rarely pick my nose to this day. She taught me shame for my body... not to touch it, not to bring attention to it, and certainly not to share it. I couldn't look at myself, as I grew up, and grew breasts, and changed shape, without feeling a bit of shame for it. Betrayal. It happened in spite of my attempt to "behave."
I was ugly with my rebellion. That's what she called me, often. (I was often rebellious....) and I internally substituted the word "ugly" for "rebelling. " There was nothing stopping the fire in my belly, from growing. I was often in dispute with her on something, and everything. She chased me around my bedroom with a stick when I was getting bigger than her..... the visual makes me laugh, today, but I remember the day I stopped running. I turned and faced her, and demanded she hit me. She spit in my face saying "you.....lit..tle....shit." but she did not hit me. That day I discovered the fire made it up to my heart. I won something that day, but I realized in some way that innocence was lost. I found the beginning of my power. I stopped accepting the shame. So, I guess in a roundabout way, that day...my mom taught me that, too.
That day I stopped going to church. I stopped wearing the clothes my mom required of me. I stopped "behaving."
That free'd me to start gaining. I learned how much I liked to apply myself for good grades. I actually LIKED making my body strong and fast and muscular. I learned that I wanted to jump off the earth and fly. That was the day I started to BE.
I can look back on the other day, on our devastating phone conversation and realize that my mother does not get to "feel" ashamed of me and she doesn't GET to feel embarrassed by me...I am not HERS. I think I understand now, that she hasn't figured that out yet, and maybe she is afraid to let go of "me." And with that, she has taught me a huge lesson that I will never forget and always appreciate. With my own children... I send them off without restraints that I personally put upon them...they are not MINE, anymore... I taught them what I could, some things good, some things not so good...but they are their own persons now and there is nothing they can do that will embarrass me or shame me... they will continue to intrigue me, and to interest me and to feel pride in, but I will never feel ashamed of them. And that, I learned the hard way.
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
The Monster in my Belly
I thought I was finished with blogging. But then.... the 2016 Presidential campaign ..happened. The results were shocking to me. The Electoral College put a Devil into the White House.
This changed things a bit, to my voice. To my existence, as a peaceful warrior for life and humanity. Something grew in my own belly that was not sweet. It started with a seed, wrapped around a fire so hot that it could consume its surrounding shell and grow into a flame that spreads without control.
This isn't a "side job" that we are talking about.... it is the President of the United States. Donald J. Trump, failed businessman, wealthy only by birth and unethical dealings, thin skinned, and of reality show celebrity fame..... will soon become the most powerful person in control of our country. I doubt he has even looked at the Constitution of the US since he was in sixth grade. But that is who the Electoral College gave us...not the majority of voters, but the whim of Republican gerrymandering and manipulation. And we have since discovered by way of our esteemed Intelligence community, he gained office through a treasonous venue via Russia.
In my opinion, we are fairly doomed. The Democratic Party is no longer viable as a check and balance. We have quietly become a one-party system... making our way to Dictatorship. I say "quietly" despite the noise of "the people" out in the streets protesting, or on facebook trying to present real news to take over the ever-growing Fake News permeating social media...and Trump's mouth.
I see our country breaking apart.... there is no redeeming situation that will unify the heart of our beautiful Democracy. Trump is working hard to silence the voices of reason and truth, as they proclaim...voice by voice... transparency is getting clouded by the day. The media is in disarray and confusing in its floundering to make themselves heard and read above the noise of the Republican party's booming assertions.
Well. War is imminent, being blasted across neighboring fences like children taunting their enemies ...Our own children being the weapon of choice to throw directly at the Middle East, Korea, China...whatever country is showing disrespect to the great Orange Leader .... blood by blood, our country will be depleted of its strength, its intelligence, its imagination....and its hope.
Brother fighting brother, longtime friends battling on issue and fear... it begins all over again. Too reminiscent of the historical rise of the Nazi Party and Hitler's horrendous massacres. Step by step, closer to repeating history with the processes of marking, registering and corralling masses of humanity.
And, personally:
I lost my mom last night. Not to death, but to Fox News hypocrisy and to Trump. She called to scold me and told me she was so ashamed of the things I have been saying on facebook. Note, she is NOT on facebook. I looked at my friends list after that phone call and blocked most of my family members on the list. She told me I was a traitor to our country.
Of course, I am heartbroken. But I tell myself that even Jesus himself was disrespected by his childhood friends and community. Besides, anytime I can invoke the name of "Jesus" to my mom the better my argument becomes. She is really upset that I don't claim christianity as American. Not even the fact that I don't believe in god, but that I don't think it is in the Constitution.
So. Yeah. I am doing some thinking this morning and may have to come up with a more organic and elegant resisting method than what I've been doing.
I know I learned some important things from my mom. Not all of them good. Some things that I learned, I learned by observing and digesting and making it a commitment NOT to be like her. She taught me to read, to dance, and to speak. But the fire in my belly came from life. I will use it to power good things and not let it go out from the wet dampness of discouragement. I can let go of the things that are not working for me. But the fire stays.
This changed things a bit, to my voice. To my existence, as a peaceful warrior for life and humanity. Something grew in my own belly that was not sweet. It started with a seed, wrapped around a fire so hot that it could consume its surrounding shell and grow into a flame that spreads without control.
This isn't a "side job" that we are talking about.... it is the President of the United States. Donald J. Trump, failed businessman, wealthy only by birth and unethical dealings, thin skinned, and of reality show celebrity fame..... will soon become the most powerful person in control of our country. I doubt he has even looked at the Constitution of the US since he was in sixth grade. But that is who the Electoral College gave us...not the majority of voters, but the whim of Republican gerrymandering and manipulation. And we have since discovered by way of our esteemed Intelligence community, he gained office through a treasonous venue via Russia.
In my opinion, we are fairly doomed. The Democratic Party is no longer viable as a check and balance. We have quietly become a one-party system... making our way to Dictatorship. I say "quietly" despite the noise of "the people" out in the streets protesting, or on facebook trying to present real news to take over the ever-growing Fake News permeating social media...and Trump's mouth.
I see our country breaking apart.... there is no redeeming situation that will unify the heart of our beautiful Democracy. Trump is working hard to silence the voices of reason and truth, as they proclaim...voice by voice... transparency is getting clouded by the day. The media is in disarray and confusing in its floundering to make themselves heard and read above the noise of the Republican party's booming assertions.
Well. War is imminent, being blasted across neighboring fences like children taunting their enemies ...Our own children being the weapon of choice to throw directly at the Middle East, Korea, China...whatever country is showing disrespect to the great Orange Leader .... blood by blood, our country will be depleted of its strength, its intelligence, its imagination....and its hope.
Brother fighting brother, longtime friends battling on issue and fear... it begins all over again. Too reminiscent of the historical rise of the Nazi Party and Hitler's horrendous massacres. Step by step, closer to repeating history with the processes of marking, registering and corralling masses of humanity.
And, personally:
I lost my mom last night. Not to death, but to Fox News hypocrisy and to Trump. She called to scold me and told me she was so ashamed of the things I have been saying on facebook. Note, she is NOT on facebook. I looked at my friends list after that phone call and blocked most of my family members on the list. She told me I was a traitor to our country.
Of course, I am heartbroken. But I tell myself that even Jesus himself was disrespected by his childhood friends and community. Besides, anytime I can invoke the name of "Jesus" to my mom the better my argument becomes. She is really upset that I don't claim christianity as American. Not even the fact that I don't believe in god, but that I don't think it is in the Constitution.
So. Yeah. I am doing some thinking this morning and may have to come up with a more organic and elegant resisting method than what I've been doing.
I know I learned some important things from my mom. Not all of them good. Some things that I learned, I learned by observing and digesting and making it a commitment NOT to be like her. She taught me to read, to dance, and to speak. But the fire in my belly came from life. I will use it to power good things and not let it go out from the wet dampness of discouragement. I can let go of the things that are not working for me. But the fire stays.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Maiden, Mother, Crone....
This skin that holds me together, and defines me by texture and color and smell, has been changing so slowly and constantly that it evaded my notice. Where did the smoothness go and the sleek sheen of my golden tan? The long soft fullness of the hair on my head has broken and dulled and needs care. I am like the Autumn now. The brightness, fading into a knowing and deeper shade of wisdom. I am becoming more like the blending of the earth as the dying leaves make a blanket on its edge. I am becoming less of the sunlight and more of the shadow. The in-between age, before coming into the glowing stage of the moon. This is middle age.
Women, mostly, tend to become invisible in middle age. Not so much "the unseen" but more like "the overlooked." It is an easy thing to have happen. Men are still quite vibrant and present, in their jobs and their lives...with people depending upon their sharpness and honed skills from years of practise. Holding up the world with their bare hands right up until the time of transfer to their sons.... but women....oh, women. Women flitter and bend and are constantly moving until they become thin like the air. Without them, men could not stay so solid, yet the more we flutter, the more we lose of our covering. We flitter away all that previously defined us, so people don't recognize us without our skins...and all we have left is our soul. Right out there bare naked. It is a drawn-out process, and takes a long time to peel away, flake away, fall away.... but when it does.... well. Boom. That's when we find our power. That is when we become the Moon.
I am looking forward to being a light again. Not like when I was young, and I was warm and bright like the sun. No, I will be cool and blue and glowing and will hold up the oceans and the seas and swim in the ebb and the flow of the moon's power. I will be gliding and streaming and skimming on the stars with my bodiless soul... leaving a trail of shimmering womenly light.... ageless.... so old that age won't matter and I will become real. I watch my mother shrivel into a perfect beauty that will soon shine through her layers of years and time and skin....and understand that her path is my path...and on it goes.
I sit in the home I have made cozy, with all my thoughts of my family and loved ones wrapped within....cleaning and straightening and dusting.... seemingly with no purpose but to enfold us all together for this short season in time.... and know that my skin is starting to fall off.... to wrinkle and shrink...to change. It is my time to let it go, so I will be able to feel my soul emerging and growing. My moonlight is nigh. All is well.
Women, mostly, tend to become invisible in middle age. Not so much "the unseen" but more like "the overlooked." It is an easy thing to have happen. Men are still quite vibrant and present, in their jobs and their lives...with people depending upon their sharpness and honed skills from years of practise. Holding up the world with their bare hands right up until the time of transfer to their sons.... but women....oh, women. Women flitter and bend and are constantly moving until they become thin like the air. Without them, men could not stay so solid, yet the more we flutter, the more we lose of our covering. We flitter away all that previously defined us, so people don't recognize us without our skins...and all we have left is our soul. Right out there bare naked. It is a drawn-out process, and takes a long time to peel away, flake away, fall away.... but when it does.... well. Boom. That's when we find our power. That is when we become the Moon.
I am looking forward to being a light again. Not like when I was young, and I was warm and bright like the sun. No, I will be cool and blue and glowing and will hold up the oceans and the seas and swim in the ebb and the flow of the moon's power. I will be gliding and streaming and skimming on the stars with my bodiless soul... leaving a trail of shimmering womenly light.... ageless.... so old that age won't matter and I will become real. I watch my mother shrivel into a perfect beauty that will soon shine through her layers of years and time and skin....and understand that her path is my path...and on it goes.
I sit in the home I have made cozy, with all my thoughts of my family and loved ones wrapped within....cleaning and straightening and dusting.... seemingly with no purpose but to enfold us all together for this short season in time.... and know that my skin is starting to fall off.... to wrinkle and shrink...to change. It is my time to let it go, so I will be able to feel my soul emerging and growing. My moonlight is nigh. All is well.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Losing oneself is the easy thing....finding it, well, that's another story. I lost myself, or the perception of myself, one day. It changed me... that little fall through whatever veil allows our soul to be seen, and I may never really be the same again.
The day started out like any other, in my middle-aged daily maneuver of "getting things done." The highlight in my morning was a shopping trip to a local crafting store, where I have spent copious hours previously, perusing its bits and pieces of glory and gifts unfolding in each aisle. Reading labels of glue bottles, making decisions over every tedious word, as to the success of its stickiness...and feeling the textures of the printed fabrics folded in little squares, offering their neatness to the artists of quilts and cleverness.
I have a crafty little business that I am playing with, called "Crafty Classics" (It's a "Novel" idea)...creating purses from second-hand and well-loved hardcover books... embellishing them with whatever unique and fanciful elements I can find. Flea markets, estate sales, junking shops, and arts & craft stores are my happy domain whenever I get a free moment to spare in pursuit of crafty fun.
CraftyClassics via facebook.... This particular day, I planned on a treasure hunting trip for new creations.
After a few cups of good morning coffee, I was excited to drive to my crafting store to pick up a few elements needed for some of my orders. I was going to try and make labels for my bags and needed to explore the options. I parked my cute blue car in a parking slot near the door, and waited the five minutes, for the store to unlock its doors.
I love stepping into a freshly unlocked store... it makes me feel like a part of that new-day-bustle electrifying the air as employees all rush about with the smell of shampoo and soap in their wake. I meandered about, poking at this or that, as I made my way to the label making kits.
The display was that of a slotted magazine-ish rack, and I was glad to find it. I had to read the directions of the kits, trying to find the easiest labels for me to make. That was when I saw those familiar "lights" blocking my reading view from my sight... I call them the "blinky blinks" having experienced this before, many times. I have always blamed too much caffeine on those flashies. Often it occurs at the big hardware store with my husband, and I cannot see my feet or anything within inches of me. It doesn't last long, and it helps if I squint my eyes shut, opening them quickly to catch a glimpse of where I should put my feet, or words that I try to read. I end up blinking a few times, clearing my vision of the flashes, and they go away. Alas, this time they did not go away. I fell down to my knees, trying to read the display through the flashing, and then time just disappeared.
I have no idea where I went at that moment. I just didn't exist anymore...until I found myself pushing a shopping cart in an unfamiliar world. I don't remember getting a cart. I don't remember standing up. I just "was."
There "I" was... no identity. I tried so hard to get my bearings, but had no idea where I was. "I" was just a bodiless conversation in my head...words telling my body where to go, what to pick up to identify... without being able to. "I" had feelings...annoyance and frustration that I could not recognize things or places. "I" told myself to maintain composure, feeling that it would be very impolite to appear crazy. Somehow "I" knew that it was craziness to look lost. I saw faces floating towards me, then by me, not seeing any distress. Seeing one come in from a door, I thought I would take my chances to get "out" of this insanity... I felt confined, and needed to get my bearings in the air.
Stepping foot on the sidewalk at the entrance was a relief...for a second. Nope. I still didn't know where "I" was. Trying not to panic, I searched all around me hoping to find my way to clarity. Noticing I had car keys... I knew they were "mine." So, I must have a car. All I wanted was to sit down in my car. My eyes sought the parking lot filled with vehicles. None of them looked familiar. My car was out there someplace. I pushed the "panic" button on the back of my keypad. Hearing the beeping of a car, like the sound of a foghorn to a ship, I stepped out into the vast car-filled lot tentatively, following the sound calling to me.
As I stood in front of the car that was beeping, I realized that I did not recognize this car. Turning the panic button off, then on again, assuring myself that the button belonged to this car, I reached out and opened the door. Thinking the whole time, "I am sure gonna get into trouble ...sitting in someone else's car..." but the urgent need to sit down was strong and I scooted in behind the wheel. It felt safe to be seated within the bubble of the car. Exploring my purse, I pulled out a phone... I knew "Chris." The name seemed like a friendly and welcoming life preserver. Yup...there was his name.... two phone numbers that I did not recognize.... but as I pushed the first one, hearing his voice telling me he could not get to the phone right now made me so happy. I pushed the second number.... and the minute he answered things started coming back in a gush. As did the tears. I was finding myself again.
So... losing myself was very easy... like sliding down a hill when your shoes turn into skis ... and I learned a new perspective that day.
People are fragile. Reality is fragile, and also a matter of perspective. I contemplated, since that day, what it would be like to have that dreaded disease Alzheimer's, or Dementia?... If you lose your own memories, do you still exist? Or do you become a whole different person?
Lots of questions have come up for me since this day... but I have found some remarkable and solid things to be sure of as well. Through this, I found that I could count on my husband to be in my psyche as well as my heart, in a good way...as my rock, as my anchor. He will always be here for me, even when parts of me disappear for times and places I may never know.
I have friends who care for me and worry with me and for me that I never quite felt sure of before. And the rest of my family, even though I may go to places that I don't know their names, will love me until I come back and then some. Of that I am sure. It is true, what that song says, "All you need is love."
I will remember that. Wherever I am.
There is a hard part to the aftermath of losing oneself. I have to be more careful from now on, and because I should not drive or be alone too much, I lose a huge chunk of my precious freedom. That is hard to take. And I have to ask for help. That is harder to take. But I think it is all part of the journey that is Me. And I can only hope that if I disappear again, it won't be for long, and it will leave me stronger for the next adventure along the path.
The day started out like any other, in my middle-aged daily maneuver of "getting things done." The highlight in my morning was a shopping trip to a local crafting store, where I have spent copious hours previously, perusing its bits and pieces of glory and gifts unfolding in each aisle. Reading labels of glue bottles, making decisions over every tedious word, as to the success of its stickiness...and feeling the textures of the printed fabrics folded in little squares, offering their neatness to the artists of quilts and cleverness.
I have a crafty little business that I am playing with, called "Crafty Classics" (It's a "Novel" idea)...creating purses from second-hand and well-loved hardcover books... embellishing them with whatever unique and fanciful elements I can find. Flea markets, estate sales, junking shops, and arts & craft stores are my happy domain whenever I get a free moment to spare in pursuit of crafty fun.
CraftyClassics via facebook.... This particular day, I planned on a treasure hunting trip for new creations.
After a few cups of good morning coffee, I was excited to drive to my crafting store to pick up a few elements needed for some of my orders. I was going to try and make labels for my bags and needed to explore the options. I parked my cute blue car in a parking slot near the door, and waited the five minutes, for the store to unlock its doors.
I love stepping into a freshly unlocked store... it makes me feel like a part of that new-day-bustle electrifying the air as employees all rush about with the smell of shampoo and soap in their wake. I meandered about, poking at this or that, as I made my way to the label making kits.
The display was that of a slotted magazine-ish rack, and I was glad to find it. I had to read the directions of the kits, trying to find the easiest labels for me to make. That was when I saw those familiar "lights" blocking my reading view from my sight... I call them the "blinky blinks" having experienced this before, many times. I have always blamed too much caffeine on those flashies. Often it occurs at the big hardware store with my husband, and I cannot see my feet or anything within inches of me. It doesn't last long, and it helps if I squint my eyes shut, opening them quickly to catch a glimpse of where I should put my feet, or words that I try to read. I end up blinking a few times, clearing my vision of the flashes, and they go away. Alas, this time they did not go away. I fell down to my knees, trying to read the display through the flashing, and then time just disappeared.
I have no idea where I went at that moment. I just didn't exist anymore...until I found myself pushing a shopping cart in an unfamiliar world. I don't remember getting a cart. I don't remember standing up. I just "was."
There "I" was... no identity. I tried so hard to get my bearings, but had no idea where I was. "I" was just a bodiless conversation in my head...words telling my body where to go, what to pick up to identify... without being able to. "I" had feelings...annoyance and frustration that I could not recognize things or places. "I" told myself to maintain composure, feeling that it would be very impolite to appear crazy. Somehow "I" knew that it was craziness to look lost. I saw faces floating towards me, then by me, not seeing any distress. Seeing one come in from a door, I thought I would take my chances to get "out" of this insanity... I felt confined, and needed to get my bearings in the air.
Stepping foot on the sidewalk at the entrance was a relief...for a second. Nope. I still didn't know where "I" was. Trying not to panic, I searched all around me hoping to find my way to clarity. Noticing I had car keys... I knew they were "mine." So, I must have a car. All I wanted was to sit down in my car. My eyes sought the parking lot filled with vehicles. None of them looked familiar. My car was out there someplace. I pushed the "panic" button on the back of my keypad. Hearing the beeping of a car, like the sound of a foghorn to a ship, I stepped out into the vast car-filled lot tentatively, following the sound calling to me.
As I stood in front of the car that was beeping, I realized that I did not recognize this car. Turning the panic button off, then on again, assuring myself that the button belonged to this car, I reached out and opened the door. Thinking the whole time, "I am sure gonna get into trouble ...sitting in someone else's car..." but the urgent need to sit down was strong and I scooted in behind the wheel. It felt safe to be seated within the bubble of the car. Exploring my purse, I pulled out a phone... I knew "Chris." The name seemed like a friendly and welcoming life preserver. Yup...there was his name.... two phone numbers that I did not recognize.... but as I pushed the first one, hearing his voice telling me he could not get to the phone right now made me so happy. I pushed the second number.... and the minute he answered things started coming back in a gush. As did the tears. I was finding myself again.
So... losing myself was very easy... like sliding down a hill when your shoes turn into skis ... and I learned a new perspective that day.
People are fragile. Reality is fragile, and also a matter of perspective. I contemplated, since that day, what it would be like to have that dreaded disease Alzheimer's, or Dementia?... If you lose your own memories, do you still exist? Or do you become a whole different person?
Lots of questions have come up for me since this day... but I have found some remarkable and solid things to be sure of as well. Through this, I found that I could count on my husband to be in my psyche as well as my heart, in a good way...as my rock, as my anchor. He will always be here for me, even when parts of me disappear for times and places I may never know.
I have friends who care for me and worry with me and for me that I never quite felt sure of before. And the rest of my family, even though I may go to places that I don't know their names, will love me until I come back and then some. Of that I am sure. It is true, what that song says, "All you need is love."
I will remember that. Wherever I am.
There is a hard part to the aftermath of losing oneself. I have to be more careful from now on, and because I should not drive or be alone too much, I lose a huge chunk of my precious freedom. That is hard to take. And I have to ask for help. That is harder to take. But I think it is all part of the journey that is Me. And I can only hope that if I disappear again, it won't be for long, and it will leave me stronger for the next adventure along the path.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
What fuels YOU?
Starting up a running routine again, after years of avoidance, has been interesting. After training for a marathon when I was in my forties, I seemed to have lost the "joy" of the Run. I've missed it, the Joy, not the Run...but couldn't seem to pursue it as I've aged. Now, at nearly 58 years young, I have found my desire to seek my joy again.
The last couple of years have been hard on my body, making it clear that I am well ensconced in the middle of that tide, pulling me ever to my winter years. Struggling to learn about my "new" old body, with thyroid disease, Hashimoto's (an auto-immune disease), and just plain simple aging processes, it has not been fun. Watching my old high school chums turn into grandparents and seeing the reactions of young people all around me deferring to my age, I knew I had to get serious. Having had a child late in life (I was 42 when giving birth to my youngest) drives me to vindicate myself, to drive myself into staying fit and healthy so I can be the best mom I can be while he is young.... It was a big motivator. Staying alive. I mean, really alive... not just living. There are things we want to do as a family, things we want to see and places we want to go. I don't want to be unable to climb mountains and forge valleys as needed....So, my journey began in earnest.
I faithfully maintain a wonderful Boot Camp class... doubling up this month so I am Boot Camping every day except Sunday. Isotolp Fitness has been such good medicine for my body, but more importantly, for my spirit. I have become strong...not just strong-er, but really strong. I have become confident... well, more confident... still working on that. But the work-out has really taken my aging body, and is putting life back into it that I never thought I would see again. I am very very careful, these days, what I put into my mouth. There is no magic pill. It takes a mountain of will power to keep those corn chips, Celtic Nachos, bread, and cheese from entering my body. It isn't always fun. But it is always worth it. And... believe it or not, I am finding my long-lost Joy.
Everyone in my Boot Camp has inspired me. Yes, they are all much younger than I am. But I am just as strong. I am just as alive. It is a wonderful feeling. They have gotten on this "obstacle-mad run-challenge-yourself" crazy train of Spartan races. And, it pulled me. I said I would never run again (bad knees, old age...ya da ya da).... Well, never say never. I signed up for a Spartan Sprint in March. Taking a deep breath, I donned my running shoes, so I could start preparing. I know I tell people, "I am doing this just to 'finish' ..just to have fun" but I know me. I want to do well. I don't even think about how old I am, unless it can inspire me.
I started running at near-by Lake Pine. It is a very civilized path, hugging the pretty man-made lake. Paved, of course. People run it, but mostly people stroll. With baby carriages, and lots of dogs on leashes. I have not, as yet, felt the need to upgrade to the National Forest paths that are ruggedly advanced and wild. Well, okay, I am starting to feel the need to upgrade, but I am deathly afraid of getting lost on the trails. Hahaha. I will have to overcome that soon. But running at Lake Pine has been the first step to my discipline. And to finding my joy. That isn't saying that it has been FUN though. Nope.
I hated the first day out there. To put it mildly. I couldn't breathe right; my jogging bra felt too tight and was not letting enough oxygen into my lungs... my knees were starting to give me pains. And the people.... oh, my Lord. The people. My fuel was "pure annoyance." To this day, I can use the very same annoyance to fuel my runs. Thank goodness for people.
The path is only so wide. You would think it wide enough, to look at it, to aptly provide for numbers of people to use it. But that is not the case. Too many people, obviously NOT runners (ever), meander in groups of three or more... gaggles of people....spread out across the path so as to easily chat while they meander... apparently unaware that there is a whole world of other people using the path also. And this happens mostly while on an upward incline, if you can imagine trying to maintain a speed going uphill while having to change direction to go around and off the path into territory uncharted for poor old wobbly ankles. That would not be such an annoyance if said gaggles would honor the sweaty runners' plea of "to the left, coming to the left" while maybe moving out of a lane with a simple step to the side....but no. Many people stand their ground, while looking you in the face as if daring you to "steal" their little piece of path. "I was here first" is not the way to think of public walkways....Boom... there is some fuel for me to speed strongly past them, getting me to my goal much quicker. Thank you for providing that passionate push for me....
Another "fueling device" is to post my goal on facebook, for all the world to see. When I feel like slowing down, or walking, I picture the words OUT LOUD that I so proudly posted... and Boom.... more fuel. I cannot go back on my words, and there is the added spirit of motivation.
Visualizing the goal's end in victory... boom, that is another bit of fuel. I can use that whenever I need it and as often as I need it...sometimes it is needed more than others, but it always works for me. In my head, I imagine coming into the finish line, BIG, with arms spread wide and crowds cheering... even if I "only" ran two miles.... hey! It's MY imagination... and whatever works, right? I might look like I am limping, sweaty, and a mass of old lady tears with pee running down my leg and ready to collapse...but in my head I am a champion.
Yesterday I completed a 6.6 mile run averaging 9.7 minute miles.... this is just a beginning now. I am almost 58 years old and I am a runner. What fuels YOU?
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Of "Jumping" Times...
Jumping. How fun is that really? Jumping rope. Jumping for joy. Just plain jumping. If you are a child, the word jumping fairly calls obligation for you to do it. Jumping. Oh, inner child....just wait.
Jumping overboard. Jumping Ship. Jumping to conclusions. Jumping takes a fair amount of trust in ourselves as adults. Trust in ourselves and in the security of our environment. Trust that we will land square footedly, without injury to our aging bones. These days, jumping isn't much fun. As I have gotten older, ahem...wiser?, my trust in myself and my world has gotten weaker. It takes more courage to "just jump"....
I remember, as a young girl, springing from the roofs and balconies of homes and cottages out at the beach where I grew up. Climbing...I was a climber...and prideful of the heights I could reach. But climbing meant inevitably, jumping... and oh how I loved to jump. Springing up and off, spreading my arms like wings and landing...always landing.... on my feet, knees bent and letting my body roll with the earth and the sand ...Taadah! Jumping up with the whole joy of the flight and the edginess of solid earth, as something to be counted on, knowing I wouldn't fall farther than Mother Earth's bed.
Memories now. "Jumping" has become something respected, and even feared. NOT jumping has become my aim. Because nowadays, if I jump, it is usually not on purpose and becomes known as "falling".... Falling ends up with a painful landing, not controlled nor desired.
Now the worst jumping I do to myself is "jumping to conclusions." Which can be horribly disabling, and should be considered dangerous. The latest "jumping to conclusions" has ruined quite a few days in a row for me, ending in nightmares in which I am suffering and out of control...jumping to conclusions is not doing a damn bit of good for me and I must find a way to stop.
I have spent the last year and a half struggling to maintain the beautiful and fortunate good health I have enjoyed previously for so many years. My body is falling to pieces. Between thyroid and old broken bones and knees that ache, and eyesight that is failing...now the beautiful golden skin I have been growing on my body since before birth is betraying me. Everyone said it would. Skin is the largest organ of the human body. It is a lovely thing to have, indeed. Skin covers all the gruesome mechanics and oils and blood and guts, making life pleasurable to ourselves and to everyone else who doesn't want to see the mess underneath.
I have become aware of how horrid we could look without our skin, by watching a series called "The Walking Dead" in which lovely human people, attractive in their own right, lose bits and pieces of their skin, becoming patchworks of gore. It doesn't seem to bother them, however, since they are in fact "dead" and only the "walking" part of them seems to be alive. Oh yeah, and the part where they get hungry to eat living people, also. But I am digressing. Skin. Beautiful skin. Skin that can have cute freckles, to accentuate innocence, skin that is white and pale and fragile enough to see the pretty blue vein that reminds us of the delicacy of life, skin that is tough as leather and strong and worthy of warriors. My skin is sort of olive, especially in the summers after the sunshine warms it as I play. Dark skins, light skins... skin that can measure health by changing colors if we become ill. Skin that holds temperatures of our soul in place... hot, cold, making us aware of life itself.
Well. As I have enjoyed my skin heartily, through all of my 57 years... starting at a young age appreciating all of its benefits... especially as a teenager when it became apparent that I could actually change my color all by myself by exposing it to the amazing warmth of the sunshine. Oh, I used the clean smelling baby oil that my mom used for rubbing on my baby brother and sister...I loved the smell. And when the sun heated it up, I was in heaven. It gave me a golden color that I got complimented for, over and over again. My girlfriends and I would have "tanning contests" seeing which of us lucky girls could get the darkest and prettiest tans during our Michigan summers before school started up in the fall. I added iodine (yes, I did... thought it was a great trick that I learned from fashion magazines) to make my tan deeper and darker. I basked. I think I read about a thousand or more books every summer while I "worked" on my tan. I was a lovely thing.
As you can probably see where this is going... yup. Addiction. I felt healthier with my tan, skinnier, prettier.... wearing white and feeling really happy when neon clothing became popular... wow. Looking at some of my old pictures, I can't help but think I looked like a negative of myself. My eyebrows and my hair fairly glowed in the dark with the lightness of the sunshine while my skin contrasted like a roasted shadow of youth. Like a coffee bean with hair. Pretty attractive stuff, eh? (I laugh, in jest of youthful ideas...)
I have been lucky as I have grown up, with my skin. I exercise a lot. I eat right, most of the time. I take care of myself as well as the next person. I don't smoke (never did, never will) and rarely drink alcohol. I am consistent with my dentist appointments, and my ever-increasing doctor appointments, to maintain the health that I've enjoyed. So what's the problem?
On my last visit to get my yearly skin check by the dermatologist, there were a few "spots" that concerned me. Especially with my history and relationship to Mr. Sol... and it proved to be worthy of concern. I have an area above my right breast that will be burned out due to a cancer. Luckily THAT spot is "just" a basel cell type, which is fairly superficial, and in early stages. But it is just the beginning. Here is where the "jumping to conclusion" comes in.
I am not sleeping. I worry all the time now. I feel desperate to "do" something but am turning circles in my mind as to what and how and when. It is making me crazy. And frightened. I frantically pulled my hair back from my head to see what I would look like bald and even snipped some of my hair off in my impulse to do what Susan Surandon did when she sheared her hair marking a moment in time to reconnect with her soul in The Banger Sisters. Yeah. That went badly for me; luckily I can cover the snipped part with the top longer hair that escaped my panic. But it better grow back fast.
I guess you could say that my "jumping to conclusions" didn't do any good for me. And makes my case that it is dangerous. But in writing this, I have discovered a new thing about myself. Maybe IT can be used to do good. Maybe I can get a hold of myself, in the "jumping to conclusions" and just jump. Maybe it is what I need to wake up and start LIVING again. Really living, not just doing laundry and cleaning my little world. I need to use this "jumping to conclusion," to actually JUMP. As in Jump for Joy. As in Jumping Rope...for fun.
I have been thinking about all the things I have wanted to teach my boyz, before I depart. All the things I want to tell them. Looking at my life, and realizing I haven't done anything near to the glorious adventures I planned for myself a quarter of a century ago. This is where the jump comes in. I have climbed to the top of the roof. I needn't think about the landing, because we are all gonna land somewhere, somehow.... I am going to reach down to my inner child and find that joy of flight, of jumping, and of controlling my fear to turn it into LIFE. I'm gonna Jump.
Jumping overboard. Jumping Ship. Jumping to conclusions. Jumping takes a fair amount of trust in ourselves as adults. Trust in ourselves and in the security of our environment. Trust that we will land square footedly, without injury to our aging bones. These days, jumping isn't much fun. As I have gotten older, ahem...wiser?, my trust in myself and my world has gotten weaker. It takes more courage to "just jump"....
I remember, as a young girl, springing from the roofs and balconies of homes and cottages out at the beach where I grew up. Climbing...I was a climber...and prideful of the heights I could reach. But climbing meant inevitably, jumping... and oh how I loved to jump. Springing up and off, spreading my arms like wings and landing...always landing.... on my feet, knees bent and letting my body roll with the earth and the sand ...Taadah! Jumping up with the whole joy of the flight and the edginess of solid earth, as something to be counted on, knowing I wouldn't fall farther than Mother Earth's bed.
Memories now. "Jumping" has become something respected, and even feared. NOT jumping has become my aim. Because nowadays, if I jump, it is usually not on purpose and becomes known as "falling".... Falling ends up with a painful landing, not controlled nor desired.
Now the worst jumping I do to myself is "jumping to conclusions." Which can be horribly disabling, and should be considered dangerous. The latest "jumping to conclusions" has ruined quite a few days in a row for me, ending in nightmares in which I am suffering and out of control...jumping to conclusions is not doing a damn bit of good for me and I must find a way to stop.
I have spent the last year and a half struggling to maintain the beautiful and fortunate good health I have enjoyed previously for so many years. My body is falling to pieces. Between thyroid and old broken bones and knees that ache, and eyesight that is failing...now the beautiful golden skin I have been growing on my body since before birth is betraying me. Everyone said it would. Skin is the largest organ of the human body. It is a lovely thing to have, indeed. Skin covers all the gruesome mechanics and oils and blood and guts, making life pleasurable to ourselves and to everyone else who doesn't want to see the mess underneath.
I have become aware of how horrid we could look without our skin, by watching a series called "The Walking Dead" in which lovely human people, attractive in their own right, lose bits and pieces of their skin, becoming patchworks of gore. It doesn't seem to bother them, however, since they are in fact "dead" and only the "walking" part of them seems to be alive. Oh yeah, and the part where they get hungry to eat living people, also. But I am digressing. Skin. Beautiful skin. Skin that can have cute freckles, to accentuate innocence, skin that is white and pale and fragile enough to see the pretty blue vein that reminds us of the delicacy of life, skin that is tough as leather and strong and worthy of warriors. My skin is sort of olive, especially in the summers after the sunshine warms it as I play. Dark skins, light skins... skin that can measure health by changing colors if we become ill. Skin that holds temperatures of our soul in place... hot, cold, making us aware of life itself.
Well. As I have enjoyed my skin heartily, through all of my 57 years... starting at a young age appreciating all of its benefits... especially as a teenager when it became apparent that I could actually change my color all by myself by exposing it to the amazing warmth of the sunshine. Oh, I used the clean smelling baby oil that my mom used for rubbing on my baby brother and sister...I loved the smell. And when the sun heated it up, I was in heaven. It gave me a golden color that I got complimented for, over and over again. My girlfriends and I would have "tanning contests" seeing which of us lucky girls could get the darkest and prettiest tans during our Michigan summers before school started up in the fall. I added iodine (yes, I did... thought it was a great trick that I learned from fashion magazines) to make my tan deeper and darker. I basked. I think I read about a thousand or more books every summer while I "worked" on my tan. I was a lovely thing.
As you can probably see where this is going... yup. Addiction. I felt healthier with my tan, skinnier, prettier.... wearing white and feeling really happy when neon clothing became popular... wow. Looking at some of my old pictures, I can't help but think I looked like a negative of myself. My eyebrows and my hair fairly glowed in the dark with the lightness of the sunshine while my skin contrasted like a roasted shadow of youth. Like a coffee bean with hair. Pretty attractive stuff, eh? (I laugh, in jest of youthful ideas...)
I have been lucky as I have grown up, with my skin. I exercise a lot. I eat right, most of the time. I take care of myself as well as the next person. I don't smoke (never did, never will) and rarely drink alcohol. I am consistent with my dentist appointments, and my ever-increasing doctor appointments, to maintain the health that I've enjoyed. So what's the problem?
On my last visit to get my yearly skin check by the dermatologist, there were a few "spots" that concerned me. Especially with my history and relationship to Mr. Sol... and it proved to be worthy of concern. I have an area above my right breast that will be burned out due to a cancer. Luckily THAT spot is "just" a basel cell type, which is fairly superficial, and in early stages. But it is just the beginning. Here is where the "jumping to conclusion" comes in.
I am not sleeping. I worry all the time now. I feel desperate to "do" something but am turning circles in my mind as to what and how and when. It is making me crazy. And frightened. I frantically pulled my hair back from my head to see what I would look like bald and even snipped some of my hair off in my impulse to do what Susan Surandon did when she sheared her hair marking a moment in time to reconnect with her soul in The Banger Sisters. Yeah. That went badly for me; luckily I can cover the snipped part with the top longer hair that escaped my panic. But it better grow back fast.
I guess you could say that my "jumping to conclusions" didn't do any good for me. And makes my case that it is dangerous. But in writing this, I have discovered a new thing about myself. Maybe IT can be used to do good. Maybe I can get a hold of myself, in the "jumping to conclusions" and just jump. Maybe it is what I need to wake up and start LIVING again. Really living, not just doing laundry and cleaning my little world. I need to use this "jumping to conclusion," to actually JUMP. As in Jump for Joy. As in Jumping Rope...for fun.
I have been thinking about all the things I have wanted to teach my boyz, before I depart. All the things I want to tell them. Looking at my life, and realizing I haven't done anything near to the glorious adventures I planned for myself a quarter of a century ago. This is where the jump comes in. I have climbed to the top of the roof. I needn't think about the landing, because we are all gonna land somewhere, somehow.... I am going to reach down to my inner child and find that joy of flight, of jumping, and of controlling my fear to turn it into LIFE. I'm gonna Jump.
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