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Category Archives: Writer’s Block

Being Happy…


 

 

Sunshine through the blind

 

Today is a good day. It is a bright day outside and the sun shines into my bedroom and on my pillow. I wake slowly and blink a few times, seeing it is time to get up. I know my goals for today are only one.

 

Be Happy

Be Happy.

 

I am coming out of a down time, and it is good news. It is good news because I am starting to notice my downs and ups by myself. I am starting to know what triggers downs and ups. And this time, I was right. I didn’t need to panic, or change what I was doing. I just got to trust that I would come out of it, and I did. That’s the good news.

 

I get showered and dressed, get breakfast and get my daughter up. I realize that I did all of that, and in doing it at all, I am winning. Just another sign that I’m on the up and up. Later in the day, I am up and around my kitchen, puttering and sweeping. Then off to the store and back again. Yep, I’m winning. I’m happy to be living life again.

 

It’s funny that sometimes doing the mundane can bring a smile to my face as easy as watching a comedy, or something else that is made to be funny. Sometimes just being in life is fun, and Happy.

 

English: T-shirt in process of being tie-dyed ...

 

Hmmm. So some other happy things that happened today are that my son and his fiance came over. They came to visit when they could be off doing other things. They are still visiting, and it’s been 4 hours. In that time, the women-folk tie-dyed t-shirts, made some nacho’s for all of us, and watched TV. The men-folk worked in the wood shop, fixing a table and raising up my sofa’s. (They were just too low. I hated it.)

 

It’s been a busy-ish, social, and mundane day.  And I loved it all. As it is winding down I realize that I achieved my goal: Be Happy. Thank goodness that I could be happy today. Thank goodness I had the strength and attitude to get up out of bed. It’s how I know I am done with my down-ness.

 

Woot.

 

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Where The Hell Did I Put My Passion?


I have been in a Grey Spot in life lately. No ups, but no downs. And you know what?  That has been kind of crappy. I am used to battling ups that are too up, and downs that are too down. It’s what I’ve been used to, so life would revolve around that.  and everyone has ups and downs.  So I was busy doing life in what I thought everyone’s norm was. On my up days, I would write, and exercise, and eat what I wanted, and feel fantastic about myself. I could do no wrong! I was lucky and fortunate and amazing. Granted, I would not think of any consequences, either, and there were ALWAYS consequences. Now on my downs, it was a complete opposite. all in my head, i could do nothing right. I was too big, too short, too….everything. And yet, not enough. So I wanted to get off that roller coaster. And I have, for the most part.  It is better.

Except for The Grey-ness.

I miss the ups. Terribly.  The Amazing-ness. That was… Amazing. It is what made writing easy for me. And I miss the easy part of writing. Right now I am writing because I told myself to write just 15 minutes a day. And even this part is hard.  All of a sudden nothing I am writing about is important enough to put down.  But, I’m writing about it anyway. So I hate the grey of the in between ups and downs. Even though it is a safe zone. PSHAW. A safe zone. For others, as well as myself.  It makes me angry every time I think about it!  I don’t want to be out of control, at all, but I MISS MY PASSION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  my caring deeply for things. I just don’t have it like I used to, and yet I hear that I’m doing great. from a therapist. from a doctor, from my husband.  And they also say they don’t want me to feel grey. but here I am. grey and safe. and passionless.  HELP! how the hell do I find my passion without going over the line?

Is there a way to stay away from the extremes and find my passion, or is it something I just have to sacrifice to be acceptable to live with. If it was just me, I would almost want to go back to the way I was, but I have to think about my family and my friends, and what they have to put up with for me to live like that. They had to deal with the consequences. Not worth it.

What’s not worth it to me is being just meh.  I am mostly ok. really.  I am not out of control. And that has its own satisfaction.  I really only notice that I am passionless when I go to write. I think of opening the computer and, “Meh. What do I have to say that is important enough to write about? Will I care about it? Will others?”  That’s what I say.  And then I distract myself with other things. I am pretty sad about this. And I have been pretty stuck in this space.

As I write, I find the stirrings of …. something …. again. 🙂

Well, I guess that now I will write anyway. Not for anyone else, but for me. And maybe that is the start of finding my passion again. Maybe I get to build a passion. That may bring me peace in this area. Who knows?  I guess I will, here in a bit.

 

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How To Talk About The Untalkable…


TABOO: Excluded or forbidden from use, approach, or mention. IE: A Taboo Subject. A Taboo Culture.

Long_ear_hair.jpg

Many things are Taboo in life to me. Cannibalism, Long Ear Hair, and Walking Around Naked…Those are some taboo’s that I grew up just knowing about, long before I knew there was a word for me avoiding them.  It is simply a fact in life that I would not think to ….think…. of trying it. You see what I’m sayin? Now I own something taboo.  It’s called A Condition.

For me, Conditions are things that sometimes others have to deal with. Other people, got it? Not me. I don’t get conditions. I didn’t grow up in a family that had Conditions. My mom did not ever seem to get sick, my dad didn’t miss any work, and us kids had to go to school rain, shine, or tidal wave. Vitamins were just admitting weakness, so fresh air and an aspirin periodically was the remedy for everything from a sore tooth to a bellyache. I don’t think Conditions were “allowed”. Period. (My family only die of old age, in the 95-year-old range, for crying out loud!)  Conditions were just not a thing that I thought to think about.

So obviously, to me, A Condition now would ruin the “Healthy” badge of honor, and THAT doesn’t make me very happy. In fact, I have just spent the last 6 months of my life with my fingers in my ears, my eyes closed, singing a song that goes, “LA LA LA. LA LA LAAH.” (This was my way of letting it know that I was not interested.  Not a’tall.)  I don’t appreciate it. I don’t want to think about it, and I have assumed that if I ignore it, it will be mis-labeled and fall into a hole somewhere.

That’s not working. None of it is working. It’s time to admit that I should talk about the untalkable. My taboo.

So it’s called Bipolar 2.

What Is Bipolar II Disorder? (Boring medical definition to follow…)

Bipolar II disorder (pronounced “bipolar two”) is a form of mental illness. Bipolar II is similar to bipolar I disorder, with moods cycling between high and low over time.

However, in bipolar II disorder, the “up” moods never reach full-on mania. The less-intense elevated moods in bipolar II disorder are called hypomanic episodes, or hypomania.

A person affected by bipolar II disorder has had at least one hypomanic episode in life. Most people with bipolar II disorder also suffer from episodes of depression. This is where the term “manic depression” comes from.

In between episodes of hypomania and depression, many people with bipolar II disorder live normal lives.

 -Web MD (My go-to for boring medical definitions)

I got really ticked when I was diagnosed with this because what it meant to me is that my “Life Of The Party” personality was not based on my charm and charisma. That it was based on my condition being out of whack. And, when I had so much sadness going on, it wasn’t due to life being so, so, so overwhelming, it was simply that my condition was doing it’s best to let me know it was in charge.

Bummer.

Even worse to me was that I would need to get some medicine to help regulate my moods.  That was a kick in the shin.  How dare I be sick? How dare there be anything wrong with me? I mean, I thought to myself one night as I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, I don’t smoke or drink, I have been to church, and I look out for my neighbors. And this is how I am rewarded???

Waah.

So I figured I would “kick this thing” with vitamins and fresh air. (Around month 2 after being told I had this pesky … thing…)  I would smile when I wanted to cry, and be still when I wanted to be the life of the party.  That would do it, right? Nope. At month 3 I noticed that I didn’t need sleep at all, and it was perfectly normal for my skin to be all prickly.  At month 4, I noticed that things like Church, Family, and Appointments were not really important to me. And after 6 months of me having ups and downs, I finally realized for myself what was going on in my life.  It kind of sucked for my kids and husband. And myself.  So here I am, writing about it because… it’s real.  It’s not going away, and it’s time to take care of it.

I’m looking for input about this thing.  I spent 6 months being a non-believer and assuming it was a diagnosis for others.  Now I’m sure this is what is going on in my life, and has been a part of my life since I was a teen, at least. And… I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one that I interact with, that has it too.

So how to talk about the untalkable, the taboo, the condition?  I guess I just started. Now it’s up to me to find humor in my life, just like before, but without the editing. Life Is Not Tidy, but it can be amusing.  That’s what I’ll look for.

 

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The Piano Guys Did Battle


Gray Sphere, see

I didn’t realize how much I had simply gone….Gray. How I had frozen and forgotten to feel anything. Something sad set it off, but I pushed it away as not having time to feel about it and so it sat there, doing nothing but doing something, nonetheless. I didn’t have time to feel about it and so it let me go about my day or night, and when I woke up, I hurt deep down inside. My dreams were sad, sad, sad. My body ached about it, and my smile went away. I woke up and I was sad, but didn’t know how to let it go. I didn’t know how to let that go because it had nestled into my emotions, making a place along the hub-bub of my schedules and car rides and budget making. And then it spread its tendrils just a little at a time, unbeknownst to me. And it waited.It could afford to wait because I was too busy to see that my smile was going away, and I was getting short-tempered. “If I can just get this budget right, then I can take a break.” But I didn’t take a break, and something else talked louder than the heartache. The tendrils spread a bit more and I forgot to love on my kids, and then I forgot to use kind words, and then… and then I just was mad. (Mad is only covering up sad, you know. Mad is a flavor put hastily on to cover the hurt that is bubbling up.)

Until this morning. I felt gray and I kind of liked not feeling anything at all that was real. Until this morning.

Piano

A strange thing happened. It was called music. The music was called “The Piano Guys”. (Really, that’s their name.) They played something  beautiful, with a Cello and a Piano, and with heart. It sounded good and deep and it called to me. Music washed over me this morning, and little did I know that it would do battle with the sad something. They played a soothing, moving song. It let me remember that I could feel, and it melted and thawed the something that was holding me back.

The grayness started to melt, and it showed up as tears.

Great Battle

I sat there, in my bed, with kids coming back and forth, and schedules going on, and I cried. Hard. No holding back, with the music doing battle in the background. Kids and husband asked me why and what was wrong, and what did they do to set off mom, and I didn’t care enough to pull out of my battle with the gray. Not yet. I waved the loved ones off just long enough for the tears to wash away the sad something that had held on to my emotional self and I found me again.  I found my smile, and my animation, and the part that had been held hostage.  The music did that for me.  The tears did that for me. The notes washed the gray away.

Piano

I remembered what it felt like to love on my kids, and to get dressed in warm clothes, and to communicate kindly. With a smile. I remembered me.

Music is that strong.  It is that kind, and good, and powerful, and needed. For me, it is my shield against the gray. It keeps my emotions flowing, and even if that means I cry a bit more, I am grateful. Thank you, Piano Guys. I am loved because you love what you do, and you are talented at it. You do battle with The Gray.

 

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A Millionaire Asked Me To Marry Him… and other moments of falsified bliss.


California Department of Motor Vehicles headqu...

I went to the DMV today. With my son. To get his driving permit. It was bliss.

And if BLISS is what you call standing in a packed room, or sitting in uncomfortable chairs next to a coughing/hacking/wheezing woman for 4 hours then that’s exactly what it was.  (Did I mention the 3 screaming toddlers playing World Wide Wrestling in the isles while their moms chatted it up in a language unknown to me?)

That is not the bliss that I mean, actually.  The bliss came in the sliver of a laughing out loud moment while a crowd laughed with me. It came in between numbers 118 and 129, I think. (We were number 139, and had been there since number 85.) The bliss came after the harrumphing at “those out-of-control kids”, and the glaring at “those-irresponsible-moms”, but before Clovis the cougher admitted that she was getting sick. And it definitely came while we were getting a bit restless. And so was the group around us.  There was a temper or two lost, just seconds before I blurted out to my son, “Did I ever tell you that I have been proposed to by a millionaire?”

Cropped screenshot of Betty Grable in the trai...

Cropped screenshot of Betty Grable in the trailer for the film How to Marry a Millionaire (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My son, in the middle of a meaningful glare at the two kids that were pulling each others hair and wailing at the top of their lungs, pulled back a bit and said, “What?”  “Did I ever tell you-” I started again.  “I heard what you said, mom. I just don’t believe it.” And, of course I had to tell him that he could be filthy rich. So I did. I told him that not too many years ago, a millionaire became interested in me. It was very flattering, and he lavished his attentions on me and my boys, for about a month. He told me he was a pilot and was one of the original owners of… Fill In The

I pondered the possibilities of being married to a millionaire, and it felt GOOD.  No money problems at all. Companionship with all the wealth that came with it and…and…and… and then I was shown that he was not what he seemed. At all. (Imagine that. Imagine my surprise.) He was a student in a small town that, apparently, liked to spin a good yarn. And all it took was a mom and sister hiring a private detective to bring me to reality.BUT FOR THAT MOMENT, I told my son, I KNEW WHA

T IT WAS LIKE TO BE COURTED BY A MILLIONAIRE.”Was I ridiculous to fall for an internet story?”, I asked him. “Oh yeah.” He smirked. “Did I feel like an idiot?” I asked him. “Um, Dur.” He said. “But for that 1 moment in time, you knew what it was like to be woo-ed by a millionaire. And not many people can claim that.”  My son stared at me. He gaped at me. He had no idea, and could not believe that any millionaire wooed me. But he laughed hysterically when he found that I had been had. As well he should. It was funny. In fact, it was funny to a few people around me, as well.

The DMV numbers had moved from 118 to 121, and I didn’t even notice. I must be doing something right. The couple on the right of us, and baldy to the front had turned their chairs to face us, smiles getting large. (Lets do it again, shall we? This thought goes through my head, and so I do.)

The American professional tennis player Serena...This time, I poll the group and ask, “What moments have you had? The ones that you know are amazing and you love, even if it is only for a moment or two, before it goes sour?”  The crowd looked blank. I just kept blathering away. I figured if they were listening, it was their fault.

“Ok, how bout this. I HAVE BEEN ASKED BY A TENNIS STAR TO BECOME A TENNIS STAR IN THE MAKING.”

This perked up a few people, and a few others leaned closer (which wasn’t necessarily good because someone smelled a bit like a fart. Just sayin.)  I warmed up to telling my story, and it went like this:

“When I was 15, I went to the tennis courts to play tennis.  It is what I always did because at that time I ate, drank, and breathed tennis. ( I played mostly with boys because the girls didn’t like how competitively I spanked ’em.) And, tennis was the major activity in our small town. So I played . This particular day, I didn’t have anyone to meet at the court, so I went, hoping for a Pick-Up Game.  Which I got.

A man I had never seen before was also looking for a quick game until his opponent showed up. He agreed to play while he was unoccupied. I figured right off the bat that I could take him, because he looked a bit old. So I, in my cocky way, dHe whooped me.  He didn’t just whoop me, he pulverized me. After I amped it up, he just looked indulgent as he creamed me over and over. I felt ridiculous, and tired, and cramped up, but also I felt in awe. Who was this man who could be this good, and what was he doing here in small town tennis-ville…?

After his partner showed up, he gave me a card and let me know he was something called “a pro”. This obviously meant short for “Professional Tennis Player, Ranked and Successful”.  And that he would love to let me come to the city and  train with him.  And then I went home, and he went to play his new level of tennis that I had never seen.” (By this time, 10 or 15 people were standing/sitting/coughing around us, and all I felt was a bit of humor. Because of what I said next:)

“This man, whom I perceived to be a tennis star, a tennis pro on some tennis circuit that stopped in small town me-ville, had shown a singular interest in me. He had singled me out to be his prodigy, and I was on my way to making bank! Fame and Fortune were mine, as this had been the big break I had dreamed of.

I hummed the whole way home, fantasizing about how I would break the great news to my mom. She would be proud of me, and would even throw a party! (I forgot conveniently about how I had been wiped all over the court by this man.)

Sam Arnold - Touring Tennis Pro

At home, I relayed my version of my day, and my mom guffawed a bit. She let me know that this man was only called a pro by his profession. PROfession, maybe. (Guffaw) And that we would have to pay HIM for lessons. He was a teacher, not a star. My heart broke. (Guffaw and snort. Then back to her dishes)

There would be no recognition for my skill. There was no singling me out. There was just me being taken in by the possibility of fame and fortune. I felt ridiculous.   BUT FOR THAT MOMENT IN TIME, I WAS ON MY WAY TO BEING FAMOUS!  I knew that feeling, and not many people did. (I haven’t played tennis for about 20 years, by the way.)There were guffaws there at the DMV as well. I know, because I did one, thinking back to my arrogance. And circumstance. The numbers crept up, and the audience got a bit bigger. I didn’t mind because my son was asking for another story. I asked him for one first, but I knew he wouldn’t have one. He hadn’t had life happen to him yet. So I thought a minute, and immediately launched into the normal stuff. Like:

Hitting it big at the craps table, making everyone else there wealthy; only to find that I had misunderstood the rules, had lost my 30 bucks at the same time, and got the stink eye from the other crap-ees. The girl on the left actually asked me to leave the table. I did.

A quick-pick ticket with two sets of numbers f...

How bout buying the scratch ticket that had 28,000 dollars on it, and I had just scratched it. I checked the rules 3 times, and I HAD WON!  Being absolutely high on life as I fantasized about what bills I would pay off, and what gifts I would give to my family as a surprise, and it only cost me 3 dollars.  Only to find that I had misread the rules on the scratch ticket and my dreams were shattered by the gas station attendant, Lilly. She laughed quietly, and behind her long hair, but FOR THAT MOMENT IN TIME, I WAS THE ONE PERSON IN A BILLION THAT GOT SOMETHING FOR ALMOST NOTHING!

The rest of the time at the DMV went slowly, but when I looked around, people were shaking their heads and smiling at me. Sure they didn’t share what their amazing moments were. Of course they were smirking at me, but my son… he told me that was the best part of the day. Only to be topped by getting his driving permit.  I’ll take it.

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  • At home, I relayed my version of my day, and my mom guffawed a bit. She let me know that this man was only called a pro by his profession. PROfession, maybe. (Guffaw) And that we would have to pay HIM for lessons. He was a teacher, not a star. My heart broke. (Guffaw and snort. Then back to her dishes)

    There would be no recognition for my skill. There was no singling me out. There was just me being taken in by the possibility of fame and fortune. I felt ridiculous.   BUT FOR THAT MOMENT IN TIME, I WAS ON MY WAY TO BEING FAMOUS!  I knew that feeling, and not many people did. (I haven’t played tennis for about 20 years, by the way.)There were guffaws there at the DMV as well. I know, because I did one, thinking back to my arrogance. And circumstance. The numbers crept up, and the audience got a bit bigger. I didn’t mind because my son was asking for another story. I asked him for one first, but I knew he wouldn’t have one. He hadn’t had life happen to him yet. So I thought a minute, and immediately launched into the normal stuff. Like:

    Hitting it big at the craps table, making everyone else there wealthy; only to find that I had misunderstood the rules, had lost my 30 bucks at the same time, and got the stink eye from the other crap-ees. The girl on the left actually asked me to leave the table. I did.

    A quick-pick ticket with two sets of numbers f...

    How bout buying the scratch ticket that had 28,000 dollars on it, and I had just scratched it. I checked the rules 3 times, and I HAD WON!  Being absolutely high on life as I fantasized about what bills I would pay off, and what gifts I would give to my family as a surprise, and it only cost me 3 dollars.  Only to find that I had misread the rules on the scratch ticket and my dreams were shattered by the gas station attendant, Lilly. She laughed quietly, and behind her long hair, but FOR THAT MOMENT IN TIME, I WAS THE ONE PERSON IN A BILLION THAT GOT SOMETHING FOR ALMOST NOTHING!

    The rest of the time at the DMV went slowly, but when I looked around, people were shaking their heads and smiling at me. Sure they didn’t share what their amazing moments were. Of course they were smirking at me, but my son… he told me that was the best part of the day. Only to be topped by getting his driving permit.  I’ll take it.

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Dear Bike, My Bum Will Not Be Able To Make It Today….


Because my tailbone is temporarily out of business. And here’s why.

As I was bringing my laundry downstairs, I slipped on a sock.  A rolled up sock. A dirty, child-size, turned inside-out in a careless fashion sock. It didn’t mind that my big toe snagged it, and that my heel kept it from moving. It didn’t mind that I lost my balance and whoomped right onto my bum, sliding down 3 stairs before coming to a stop on the 1st stair from the bottom, still holding my laundry, and heaving the air in and out of my lungs. 

Stupid Sock. I just added it into the pile of laundry and was glad no one saw the grown-up fall. That was 3 weeks ago. And that sock has stayed with me every day since then, with my bum and back area getting worse and more sore each and every day. (I choose to blame that dag-blasted sock, and not the hard edge of the stairs. Go figure.)

So I now have a sore tailbone and bum, in general.  The doctor let me know I couldn’t wrap it up. (There is no cast for a bum, apparently. I asked.)  And no reason to get an x-ray because, lets face it, it would just be a pic of my bum with a sore tailbone. And nobody needs to see that.

An xray of a person with a intestinal volvulus.

The prognosis is officially, “strained tailbone and surrounding muscles.” A strained tailbone.  I would call it, however, “A pain in my …” Just sayin. So, recumbent bicycle that lets me sweat at 24 hr fitness…You will have to wait. 

I did try using you, if you will remember, just last week. Just 2 weeks after this happened. And, if you will remember, it looked like this:

A. Swagger into 24 hour fitness because, hey, I have a membership and that is what people do. They swagger everywhere in the building that they go. They swagger as they move from machine to machine. They swagger as they take a sip of loofah-enhanced energy drink. And, they swagger as they put in their secret number that allows them into the building in the first place.  So there was a swagger. A purpose. A meaning.

B. Look around hopelessly for a recumbent bicycle. This consisted of walking up and down the endless isles, again with purpose and swagger. (Heaven forbid people don’t know what to do, or where to go.) So looking around and walking with purpose ensued until, looking like a shiny, secret nugget of metal, there stood the bike of my dreams at that time. And that was you, bike. You were in a corner. Unoccupied. And no one was near you for at least 3 bikes away. (granted, the person using that bike was about 17 years old, looked like a model, and was pedaling at hyper-speed.) I took you gratefully.

Gym at Work 2

Gym at Work 2 (Photo credit: The Killer Biscuit)

C. Looked at the you, bike, and then at the mandatory wipes, sitting 12 feet out of reach, and then back at you. Then at the wipes again, knowing that the minute I hoof it over to the magic wipes, someone will snag this prime property. But I must have wipes. You know, the wipes that are used to wipe away the previous person’s disgusting, hideous, copious amounts of sweat. At least, that is how it is portrayed. Those wipes sitting at every corner, except the one that is close to the machine you are using.  I run with a purpose to those wipes, bring back 4, and get back to the you, bike, just as Bertha, the 88-year-old work out queen zero’s in on my prize. I give her my “Back Off, ….” look and start to wipe you down.

D. Put in the paraphernalia that is a must for any gym rat: Cell phone with headphones. Enormous Jug of Water that just so happens to fit in the water bottle holder provided at the top of the machine. Car keys. Busy-Bug calorie counter (supposed to be on my arm 24hours/day but I get sweaty just thinking about the thing.) Half of a Kit-Kat.

iPod 2G Photo by Jared C. Benedict minus Backg...

Do you remember all those things? Well, it may be hazy because it is what every gym rat does. Or every aspiring gym rat does. (True gym rats don’t bring anything but their perky butt, their flat abs, and a book that they read as they use the machines for 4 hours straight.)

I got on you, bike, and started with my 5 minute warm up. I gingerly sat on you and started pedaling, and that was when I started feeling your betrayal. You asked me for my weight. Right out in the open. Blatantly asking how large I was so you could adjust accordingly.  I put my true weight in, but looked around to see if anyone was hovering over my shoulder with a clipboard or a youtube camera. Then I kept pedaling. And my bum started to hurt. “Push through the pain”, I thought.  It’s what you do at a gym.

I saw that people push through the pain by looking up at the 13 screens that are blaring every program from the Home Improvement Channel to Court TV. All blaring silently. I was supposed to plug my headphones into you, bike, and you would let me change the channel to the one TV channel that would let me forget that my thighs were burning, right along with my butt.  I opted to listen to my audio book instead.  

This listening of the book was what let me zone out for a bit, seeing nothing but the screens and gym bunnies that wandered around.

Arnold Schwarzenegger in July 2003

Gym bunnies…Women who carefully apply makeup and hair and nails in such a way that when they walk into the gym, their job is to turn the heads of the sweat-soaked men that they are interested in. Never do they do real reps or cardio. Never do they cause a bead of sweat to mar their makeup. Their job is to go from station to station, looking like they came from the station before and just happen to run into the buff man straining his pecs and looking like an early Arnold Schwarzenegger.

This was all entertaining until I felt a sharp pain in my bum and realized it was you. I was sitting on your hard seat, and you were not yielding in any way whatsoever. I glanced at the clock, by the way, to see how many hours I had sat on you, as I was sweaty and disgusting. Your clock said exactly 7 minutes and 13 seconds.

Traitor.

So I stopped this agony, picked up my plethora of items, and kicked you by the pedal. That was me. The one that kicked you and walked away, with the next torturee grabbing for the wipes that would save them from my neglect and wetness.

I’ll see you in about 4 weeks.

-Sharon, beginner gym bunny. (I’m not wearing makeup to the gym, no matter what the gym bunny rules state.)

 

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What’s Up With Finding One’s Purpose, Anyway?


Trumpet Solo

 

 

I just knew, at the age of 9, that I would be a Trumpet Player. The best in the entire town. At 10, that turned into the rush of knowing I  would be the best trumpet player on the planet. At 12, I knew my purpose was song writing. 5 months later, I just had to become the most passionate baritone horn-ist in all of Small-Town, USA. At 15, my purpose turned back to songwriting, but this time from the seat of the piano. I was a girl with purpose.

My trumpet days are behind me, for the most part, left at my high school graduation. That baritone horn keeps it company.  I do have horns next to the piano in my home, but they have a bit of dust on them, and that’s okay.

 

I’m 38 now, and today I had no purpose. In fact, I felt a bit disconsolate about it. Especially because I have been asked in the last week, “Oh, and what are you up to NOWADAYS? What do you DO?”

Harrumph.

 

 

an colourful image than a 617.LT Side-by-Side ...

I am a mom of 5, and run a home 24 hours a day. My kitchen is a revolving island of comfort and conversation, messiness and mopping up. I have kids in High school and Elementary, and 1 that is a welder, and out of school completely, on his way to his own life. I cheer my husband when he has a bad day, and I balance the budget. I make all the appointments and phone calls, take those that need to, to appointments and back again, and sooth them into going there in the first place.  I take and pick up kids from school and work, I take them to get clothes and shoes, and I listen to hubby relay his day, every day.

 

I have spent time in the work-field, but am currently raising a family full-time. And I couldn’t answer the question of “What Do I Do?” definitively.  I felt keenly empty.  Why was that?

 

Well, I would say it is because I lost my purpose.   I forgot that it takes passion to make one count to oneself.

 

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It doesn’t matter what we are doing currently in life, as long as we do it with purpose.  I was not doing anything with purpose today. And that stank.  I did look at Facebook about 270 times today.  I did play online scrabble on my phone.  I did wait for someone to call and need me (which didn’t happen), and I did go to the gym only to do such a bland routine that I watched the seconds on the machines go by, one at a time.  I did forget to love being me.

 

How silly, to forget to love ones self.  How silly, to need to be needed to the exclusion of finding the adventure in the day.

 

Well.

 

It is 9:06 PM, and I just got out of my hot tub, watered the flowers on my patio, and schlumped onto my bed.  However, I did these last 3 things with purpose, and they felt great. Tomorrow, no matter what, I will use purpose in whatever I do. It will push back the whiny, needy, insignificant feelings that eat at our lives when we cannot always tell people in one sentence what we do with ourselves, “Nowadays”. And my purpose, whether I pick up my trumpet, or pick up my kids, will be what defines me. Not the physical action itself.

 

 

Rose Sanderson Women's suffragists demonstrate...

 

I think that trumpet is going to win out, tomorrow, though.  And I’ll play it loudly, and with passion. The neighbors can ask themselves what THEY are doing with themselves, lately, that they are listening to a 38-year-old woman try to play “Blue Bells Of Scotland” well.  And doing a fair job of it.  I don’t mind in the least.

 

 

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