Jan. 18, 2011
I touched him three times that morning. The first was accidental, my hand brushing his knuckles as I reached for my coffee. The second I think I just wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, know that he was really sitting there and this was really happening. The third was to make sure he wouldn’t forget me.
Not that I was really worried that he would forget me. I was pretty confident he wouldn’t. After all, he’d known me most of his life. That wasn’t the reason I made an impression that particular morning. It was more than that. It was like suddenly realizing what we'd spent the past ten years missing out on.
Of course neither one of us realized it with that much clarity that morning. All we knew is that we were two old high school friends meeting up for coffee and to catch up. Two damaged, divorced single parents just looking for old pals to maybe connect with. It wasn’t an intentional date. It wasn’t supposed to be destiny.
Three hours went by in a blink. I studied his eyes, his hands, his smile, surreptitiously, as we sipped coffee slowly. He’d changed a lot since high school, since the last time I’d seen him. Gone was the slim, clean-shaven boy with the light in his dreamy, smiling eyes. In his place was a man, one with broad shoulders and a five o’clock shadow and something else. The past ten years played across his face as he talked, turning his cup absently. I saw heartbreak and experience. His eyes now showed a man who had seen too much but managed to keep a handle on himself despite something inside screaming against injustice and hurt.
I wondered as I played with my own coffee cup, shredding the liner and a napkin in my distraction, what he was thinking looking at the changes in me. An older, somewhat thicker version of the girl he must have imagined. A woman now, with dark hair replacing the natural blonde, and a smile tinged with regrets. Blue eyes darkened by the loss of innocence and the passage of time.
As two new old friends we talked for hours and left wondering what had just happened. Later we compared notes from that morning and realized that despite ourselves we spent the next few days thinking about the other, about what they were doing and thinking and feeling. Later he told me that he realized immediately that his life would never be the same.
I was slower in figuring things out. Newly single, I was enjoying the dating life. I wasn’t looking to get involved and it was still so strange to me, to be thinking in any real terms of romance with my old high school friend. A friend I never quite connected with enough in the past, that much was certain. I couldn’t get enough of him in some way-- I wanted to talk to him on the phone, to text and email and hear what he had to say about everything and tell him all my deepest secrets. On other levels I was completely cold to him, locked in frozen confusion as to what it all meant.
I’m sure those first few weeks and months were frustrating to him, especially being so much further along in the progression of feelings than I. Me with my rules, my unbreakable rules, rules meant to protect me from repeating past mistakes. Rules like no military guys, no cops, no guys with young children, no recently divorced men-- a funny one because I myself was recently divorced. He fell into every category in some way. And yet, despite all my infallible methods of protection, he managed to become necessary to me. Inescapable.
Once he put an end to it all. He got some bad news, unrelated to whatever was happening between us but with my resistance to anything beyond friendship, he had had enough. After all, he deserved to protect himself from heartbreak too, and he had enough other problems without adding unrequited love to the list. He was agitated, upset, and decided that with all the other issues, pursuing someone not interested in him wasn’t on his to do list. He called for radio silence.
This silence lasted nearly ten minutes. Ten minutes of a cease fire of communication that had been constant since that morning coffee. We hadn’t stopped talking or texting since we’d reconnected, and that silence nearly killed me. I felt like I had lost a limb. I think then I knew, on some level, if not in my head, that I would never exist without him. Not just live-- one can live without something they love, like a diabetic giving up chocolate or an alcoholic who’s taken his last drink. But to me he wasn’t an addiction, he was a need. It was like asking me to live without oxygen, without water, without food or light or heat.
And heat, as it turned out, was my final undoing. After all the weeks of my resistance I returned from a week-long trip to find myself wanting to spend time with him in person. In the flesh, in real life, with no electronic barriers of phones and emails and safe miles between us. If he was my oxygen, I wanted to know it.
The first time he kissed me I felt the heat. It spread over my entire body as soon as our lips met, warming me to my core. I felt numb and alive all at the same time, shocked into disarming cardiac arrhythmia. He was gentle, undemanding, but there was something so sensual and compelling about his kiss. I wanted more-- I couldn’t stop myself from falling into his arms.
The first kiss was like the first time seeing the ocean. The marvel of size and vastness and sheer depth-- it changed everything for me forever. From that moment on, even though it wasn’t until a few days later that I told him, I was his. Mind, body, and soul, I knew he was the last man I would ever kiss, the only man I have ever loved. It sounds like comical hyperbole to say that, to throw words around that are used so commonly in the language of romance. Words like soul mate, forever, til death.
I don’t think I ever really believed in soul mates, not really. To me it was a concept created by Hallmark to suck in gullible saps. Nothing a jaded divorcee would be capable of believing in, at any rate. I knew without a doubt that in this life and any before or after, he and I were sealed and connected in a way that perhaps God had intended, and in a bond that no human could break.
Maybe I’m an extremist or a romantic. Maybe the world has sucked the meaning out of love, until it’s cold and dark and common. I don’t know. One thing I do know is that forever love, the kind I have with my soul mate, doesn’t happen for everyone. It’s a rare and precious thing, and one I will always treasure and never take for granted. Yep, I used the word never. And forever.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
To the man I love, Happy Birthday
Every mom has a birth story, the one about the day their baby was born. Justin’s mom isn’t here to tell his, and she’s the only one who really could tell it in detail, recounting the feelings of the moment, 32 years ago, when her first baby was born.
But I’ve seen his baby book. I’ve read her journal from the year that he was born. And one thing I know for sure-- he was a miracle to her. She loved him so much. No matter what happened the day after or the week after or for the rest of his life, on this day 32 years ago he was the most special baby every born.
She doesn’t get to be here, either, to tell him happy birthday or how proud she is of the way he turned out. I know she is proud though. She would tell him that he grew into a man of integrity, of compassion, someone dependable and trustworthy and loving and considerate. She would tell him how proud she is that he’s come so far and made a successful life for himself and his family. She would dote on the grand-babies he’s given her and be so excited for the one still to come this year, his son that will carry on his family name. She would tell him that she loves him more than anything and that even as a grown-up man he will always be her baby.
I know this because she wrote down everything about him in her journals--the things he could say when he learned to speak, how soon he rolled over, how he looked when he laughed. She wrote down every detail-- songs he could sing, his sleep habits, how very smart he was even from a tiny baby. Every time he had a birthday party she wrote down the name of every single guest, what presents they brought, and how much fun he had. She kept track of the little things-- how he rocked himself to sleep on his hands and knees as a baby, and how he knew the words to every single commercial jingle he’d ever seen, and could sing them perfectly in tune and timing.
It doesn’t take a mom to tell you how special you are, but it does mean a lot to hear it from that one person. She didn’t get to be here long but while she was alive she gave the world an incredible person, and made sure he grew up with the best character traits and the best heart. The world would be an awful place without him.
I thank her, my mother in law Annette Denise Watson, a woman I only got to meet very briefly, in passing, many years ago. I thank her for bringing Justin into the world, my soul mate, my best friend. I thank her for helping him grow into a man I want to have children with, and a man I want my children to grow up to be like. Thank you, Mom. You did well. I love you, Justin David Wixom. With all my heart, for the rest of my life and beyond, as long as I am capable of it. Happy Birthday.
But I’ve seen his baby book. I’ve read her journal from the year that he was born. And one thing I know for sure-- he was a miracle to her. She loved him so much. No matter what happened the day after or the week after or for the rest of his life, on this day 32 years ago he was the most special baby every born.
She doesn’t get to be here, either, to tell him happy birthday or how proud she is of the way he turned out. I know she is proud though. She would tell him that he grew into a man of integrity, of compassion, someone dependable and trustworthy and loving and considerate. She would tell him how proud she is that he’s come so far and made a successful life for himself and his family. She would dote on the grand-babies he’s given her and be so excited for the one still to come this year, his son that will carry on his family name. She would tell him that she loves him more than anything and that even as a grown-up man he will always be her baby.
I know this because she wrote down everything about him in her journals--the things he could say when he learned to speak, how soon he rolled over, how he looked when he laughed. She wrote down every detail-- songs he could sing, his sleep habits, how very smart he was even from a tiny baby. Every time he had a birthday party she wrote down the name of every single guest, what presents they brought, and how much fun he had. She kept track of the little things-- how he rocked himself to sleep on his hands and knees as a baby, and how he knew the words to every single commercial jingle he’d ever seen, and could sing them perfectly in tune and timing.
It doesn’t take a mom to tell you how special you are, but it does mean a lot to hear it from that one person. She didn’t get to be here long but while she was alive she gave the world an incredible person, and made sure he grew up with the best character traits and the best heart. The world would be an awful place without him.
I thank her, my mother in law Annette Denise Watson, a woman I only got to meet very briefly, in passing, many years ago. I thank her for bringing Justin into the world, my soul mate, my best friend. I thank her for helping him grow into a man I want to have children with, and a man I want my children to grow up to be like. Thank you, Mom. You did well. I love you, Justin David Wixom. With all my heart, for the rest of my life and beyond, as long as I am capable of it. Happy Birthday.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Not Applicable
I feel guilty. Pursuing a writing career is an idiotic, selfish endeavor. A fool's errand. Pure torture. Sounds fun, eh? Every day I check the classifieds and glean out four or five jobs I am qualified to do-- office work, or taking care of other people's children, or taking care of old people. I do not apply. I can blame this lack of career ambition on my burgeoning belly-- what employer in this economy would be eager to hire a pregnant woman-- or the stiff competition but the reality is that I am sticking to my dream, my goal of being a published writer.
With everyone struggling and our bank account draining I look again to the want ads. Taking yet another ten-dollar and hour job is an option for sure. I did the math once and figured out that I net about fifty dollars a week when I subtract my expenses. And that doesn’t include time away from my husband and kids and wear and tear on my body.
With submission deadlines looming for pieces not guaranteed publication, I think back longingly to a time I had a paying, slightly respectable writing job. That’s the thing with writing-- no guarantees. No certainties that anyone even cares about what I write. And yet, like a moth flying blindly and repeatedly into a porch light, bound for death, I continue the masochistic journey. Following the dream.
On days like these it seems particularly hopeless. Between moving kids about from one place to another, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus dishes, laundry, bedtimes, vitamins, homework, it seems like there’s not even time to write. No writing, no publishing, no dream. I wonder what the point is of having children if I don’t get to spend time with them, care for them, love them, read to them, and become increasingly more annoyed with their endless questions. Ultimately, despite my complaints, I love my children so much. I’m even in the process of making another. It’s pretty nervy of me to continue pursuing writing with so many other responsibilities.
And yet: hope. I don’t know why I believe, but I do. I don’t know why every day I don’t give up on writing and seize an opportunity to be a receptionist or cashier or waitress. I am a writer. I’m holding fast. Every day, I have to give myself a pep talk. Today is the day I will write something compelling, remarkable, undeniable. Today is the day.
With everyone struggling and our bank account draining I look again to the want ads. Taking yet another ten-dollar and hour job is an option for sure. I did the math once and figured out that I net about fifty dollars a week when I subtract my expenses. And that doesn’t include time away from my husband and kids and wear and tear on my body.
With submission deadlines looming for pieces not guaranteed publication, I think back longingly to a time I had a paying, slightly respectable writing job. That’s the thing with writing-- no guarantees. No certainties that anyone even cares about what I write. And yet, like a moth flying blindly and repeatedly into a porch light, bound for death, I continue the masochistic journey. Following the dream.
On days like these it seems particularly hopeless. Between moving kids about from one place to another, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus dishes, laundry, bedtimes, vitamins, homework, it seems like there’s not even time to write. No writing, no publishing, no dream. I wonder what the point is of having children if I don’t get to spend time with them, care for them, love them, read to them, and become increasingly more annoyed with their endless questions. Ultimately, despite my complaints, I love my children so much. I’m even in the process of making another. It’s pretty nervy of me to continue pursuing writing with so many other responsibilities.
And yet: hope. I don’t know why I believe, but I do. I don’t know why every day I don’t give up on writing and seize an opportunity to be a receptionist or cashier or waitress. I am a writer. I’m holding fast. Every day, I have to give myself a pep talk. Today is the day I will write something compelling, remarkable, undeniable. Today is the day.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Short and Silly
I have no bathroom door. It sounds strange but the way the house is laid out the master bedroom goes right into the bathroom. The shower doors and walls are clear glass. Locking the bedroom door is a must for anyone who wants to shower in privacy.
Today I forgot to put the dog outside while I showered. I didn’t think much of it until he planted himself on the bathroom rug and stared at me. It was unnerving. I started wondering what he was thinking. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what I was doing. I certainly wondered what he was doing.
He got up suddenly and disappeared, hackles raised. That actually did freak me out-- I was alone in the house and no one was expected back for hours. The doors were locked but still... I was in the shower. If someone decided to break in I think I would be more embarrassed than anything else.
That's one of my fears- ridiculous though it seems. Having someone break in when I’m showering, or maybe the house catching on fire while showering. Something that involves me ending up naked in public. I like my privacy. I don't get how strippers do it.
And I think now I’m going to need therapy from all the dog-staring. Or maybe the dog will need therapy, I don’t know. Either way, we now have a very awkward relationship. He hangs his head when he passes me in the hall and I can’t quite meet his eyes.
Today I forgot to put the dog outside while I showered. I didn’t think much of it until he planted himself on the bathroom rug and stared at me. It was unnerving. I started wondering what he was thinking. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what I was doing. I certainly wondered what he was doing.
He got up suddenly and disappeared, hackles raised. That actually did freak me out-- I was alone in the house and no one was expected back for hours. The doors were locked but still... I was in the shower. If someone decided to break in I think I would be more embarrassed than anything else.
That's one of my fears- ridiculous though it seems. Having someone break in when I’m showering, or maybe the house catching on fire while showering. Something that involves me ending up naked in public. I like my privacy. I don't get how strippers do it.
And I think now I’m going to need therapy from all the dog-staring. Or maybe the dog will need therapy, I don’t know. Either way, we now have a very awkward relationship. He hangs his head when he passes me in the hall and I can’t quite meet his eyes.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
What ifs
I think at some point everyone asks a what if question. Even a small one-- what if I had been five minutes early instead of twenty minutes late? Would I have made a better contact or been involved in a horrible car accident? What if I hadn’t eaten that last doughnut? Would I have more energy or is it just an extra 20 minutes tacked on my run?
I have a dark what if on my mind these days. It’s not something pregnant moms are supposed to think about, not something anyone is ever supposed to talk about, and I’ll warn you now that some of my thoughts are downright offensive and perhaps even sacrilegious. But I persist in letting them wander across my subconscious from time to time.
The question is what if this baby is born and there’s something wrong with him? I never thought this with my first baby. I always just assumed he would be perfect and “normal” and healthy. Babies are, right?
And I never gave it a second thought as to how I would react if he weren’t perfect-- every parent assumes that as soon as their baby is born they will love it no matter what. And they do and I will too. But I wonder if deep down, there would be that moment of disappointment and despair. Of horror and shame and the awful thought that someone made a big mistake, and I got the wrong baby. How could a parent think that?
I’ve been hearing a lot about autism these days-- lots of people suddenly seem to have kids with this condition. It makes me wonder if God is preparing me to have an autistic child. I saw an article on hemifacial microsomia and thought maybe that will be the case-- one half of the baby’s face is deformed.
Spina bifida, cerebral palsy, congestive heart failure, leukemia, Down’s syndrome… there are so many things that could go wrong. And I’ll bet any parent with a child that has any of those conditions loves that child fiercely, would do anything for them, and wouldn’t trade them for the world. And they mean it-- the words aren’t just lip service. I just wonder if any of them had that moment of anger at God. That tiny, fleeting second when maybe the what ifs creep in.
Neither of my children are perfect, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything, and I love them both fiercely. Outwardly though, and when it comes to disease and deformities they are both sound and whole. Their imperfections lie in the same place my own do-- “normal” issues like having a bad attitude or a penchant for procrastination.
My son has a lot to deal with emotionally, being a little over sensitive like his mother. My daughter has a distinct proclivity for sassiness and backtalk which is probably an age thing. Their issues are mild and common to all children.
A child with one of those other issues would most likely be the same-- just because they are born with a cleft palate doesn’t mean they will have perfect attitudes. Children born with leukemia can still disobey, draw on the walls, try to flush the kitten down the toilet. They will still be sassy and emotional if that is their bent, and fight with their siblings and mouth off and spill things and talk back.
I think those wayward thoughts, if they do cross a parents' mind, are stifled by the reality of their child and the love, so deep and full, that casts out any imperfections in an instant. I think I will be the same. I will see the perfect gift in their smile, lopsided or not, and the love that lights up their eyes when they look at me.
No, I don’t think parents with disabled children feel sorry for themselves or angry at God or regretful for their fate or think about the what ifs. I think they feel blessed and happy that they have such a precious gift. That moment when the news sinks in that their child will always be different must be fleeting at best, before they look at their sleeping baby and love him more than life itself.
Every morning I wake up with a gentle but persistent fluttery kicking in my abdomen. This baby is an early riser, I can tell already. I lay in bed for a few moments with my hand on my belly, feeling him kick and turn and tap out messages from the inside. I love him so much already.
In my mind I already know him-- he has a name and a face, though the face is rather indistinct and exists only in my imagination. He has hopes and dreams and a life ahead of him and all the good things I wish for him are already coming true. He is alive and well.
In the year before I became pregnant with him I lost two other babies. People say all kinds of things meant to be comforting-- maybe they weren’t meant to be born-- maybe they would have been sick or horribly deformed or wouldn’t have lived long. I know they mean well and there's nothing good to say to a mother who has lost a baby, but I loved those babies--I still miss them and ache for them and I can’t be philosophically cheerful about losing them.
I wouldn’t have cared if they’d been born like that-- I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to be born. It scares me to think of losing this baby, every day I’m scared. Every day I’m still pregnant I fall more in love with this baby and thank God that he’s coming.
When I think what if he is sick or deformed and won’t live long, I think of those lost babies. I've wondered if I would have a moment where I curse God and get angry at the unfairness and wish he’d never been born. I think of my two babies in heaven and I know that I won’t. I will be thankful and happy to get to see his little face and count his fingers and toes. And I know that if he’s short a few digits or has a lopsided smile, he will be my sweet baby forever. I don't believe there are what ifs in parenting. Only what is. Love.
I have a dark what if on my mind these days. It’s not something pregnant moms are supposed to think about, not something anyone is ever supposed to talk about, and I’ll warn you now that some of my thoughts are downright offensive and perhaps even sacrilegious. But I persist in letting them wander across my subconscious from time to time.
The question is what if this baby is born and there’s something wrong with him? I never thought this with my first baby. I always just assumed he would be perfect and “normal” and healthy. Babies are, right?
And I never gave it a second thought as to how I would react if he weren’t perfect-- every parent assumes that as soon as their baby is born they will love it no matter what. And they do and I will too. But I wonder if deep down, there would be that moment of disappointment and despair. Of horror and shame and the awful thought that someone made a big mistake, and I got the wrong baby. How could a parent think that?
I’ve been hearing a lot about autism these days-- lots of people suddenly seem to have kids with this condition. It makes me wonder if God is preparing me to have an autistic child. I saw an article on hemifacial microsomia and thought maybe that will be the case-- one half of the baby’s face is deformed.
Spina bifida, cerebral palsy, congestive heart failure, leukemia, Down’s syndrome… there are so many things that could go wrong. And I’ll bet any parent with a child that has any of those conditions loves that child fiercely, would do anything for them, and wouldn’t trade them for the world. And they mean it-- the words aren’t just lip service. I just wonder if any of them had that moment of anger at God. That tiny, fleeting second when maybe the what ifs creep in.
Neither of my children are perfect, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything, and I love them both fiercely. Outwardly though, and when it comes to disease and deformities they are both sound and whole. Their imperfections lie in the same place my own do-- “normal” issues like having a bad attitude or a penchant for procrastination.
My son has a lot to deal with emotionally, being a little over sensitive like his mother. My daughter has a distinct proclivity for sassiness and backtalk which is probably an age thing. Their issues are mild and common to all children.
A child with one of those other issues would most likely be the same-- just because they are born with a cleft palate doesn’t mean they will have perfect attitudes. Children born with leukemia can still disobey, draw on the walls, try to flush the kitten down the toilet. They will still be sassy and emotional if that is their bent, and fight with their siblings and mouth off and spill things and talk back.
I think those wayward thoughts, if they do cross a parents' mind, are stifled by the reality of their child and the love, so deep and full, that casts out any imperfections in an instant. I think I will be the same. I will see the perfect gift in their smile, lopsided or not, and the love that lights up their eyes when they look at me.
No, I don’t think parents with disabled children feel sorry for themselves or angry at God or regretful for their fate or think about the what ifs. I think they feel blessed and happy that they have such a precious gift. That moment when the news sinks in that their child will always be different must be fleeting at best, before they look at their sleeping baby and love him more than life itself.
Every morning I wake up with a gentle but persistent fluttery kicking in my abdomen. This baby is an early riser, I can tell already. I lay in bed for a few moments with my hand on my belly, feeling him kick and turn and tap out messages from the inside. I love him so much already.
In my mind I already know him-- he has a name and a face, though the face is rather indistinct and exists only in my imagination. He has hopes and dreams and a life ahead of him and all the good things I wish for him are already coming true. He is alive and well.
In the year before I became pregnant with him I lost two other babies. People say all kinds of things meant to be comforting-- maybe they weren’t meant to be born-- maybe they would have been sick or horribly deformed or wouldn’t have lived long. I know they mean well and there's nothing good to say to a mother who has lost a baby, but I loved those babies--I still miss them and ache for them and I can’t be philosophically cheerful about losing them.
I wouldn’t have cared if they’d been born like that-- I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to be born. It scares me to think of losing this baby, every day I’m scared. Every day I’m still pregnant I fall more in love with this baby and thank God that he’s coming.
When I think what if he is sick or deformed and won’t live long, I think of those lost babies. I've wondered if I would have a moment where I curse God and get angry at the unfairness and wish he’d never been born. I think of my two babies in heaven and I know that I won’t. I will be thankful and happy to get to see his little face and count his fingers and toes. And I know that if he’s short a few digits or has a lopsided smile, he will be my sweet baby forever. I don't believe there are what ifs in parenting. Only what is. Love.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Defeating myself (not self-defeat)
Last night I dreamed a person I don’t get along with very well had died in a car accident. No, it’s not you, stop being neurotic. However, I think we all have people in our lives that, while we don’t hate them, are definitely the proverbial thorn in our sides.
I always thought if something bad happened to this person-- we’ll call him Sid-- that I’d be happy. A world without Sid seemed like a very nice place to be. In my dream, I wasn’t involved or responsible for Sid’s death, but when it happened, it affected me. Deeply. I found myself comforting Sid’s little son, having to be the one to explain to him that his dad wasn’t ever coming back.
In the dream, I had to take responsibility for this child, and every day he would ask when he could see his dad. I always had to tell him never, and see the tears streak down his little sad face. I found myself eulogizing Sid, and in my eulogy I though of all the things Sid is to other people and how his existence in the world is actually valuable. I found myself feeling sad and wishing fervently that Sid was all right, that he wasn't dead. I awoke with a start and tears on my cheeks.
Everyone is something to somebody, right? Even if they’re a Sid to you, do horrible and annoying things, and make your life hell sometimes, they’re something else to somebody else. I guess I forget that sometimes, when I’m so focused on disliking Sid.
I realized-- all the energy and time I spend disliking him are completely wasted. What does Sid care that I sit home and wonder if he’s cooking up something to make me miserable? Does he even know? If he does, he gives no indication. Sid doesn’t care what I do. I care what Sid is doing, which is why he’s such a problem for me.
I spend much more time than is healthy wondering about what he’s thinking and doing, even having imaginary conversations with him, where I of course always come out on top and get him to realize the error of his ways, see where he’s wrong, apologize and accept my point of view as his own.
These conversations are totally useless because even true friends and loved ones don‘t behave that way-- they may see my point of view or apologize when they‘ve done something horrible, but I never get all that open-minded enlightenment and conversion to my way of thinking. It just doesn’t happen for any of us. Life is a constant struggle to understand and be understood, and rarely do those two walk through the door holding hands. Most of us are far more interested in being understood than in understanding.
Which is what my dream made me realize about Sid. He’s just a person, with his own life and his own little worries and issues, whose occasional interaction with me is minimal but doesn’t occupy his time. He probably isn’t off cooking up ways to torment me. Most likely, when things occur, it’s as much of an annoyance to him as it is to me.
We’re often at cross-purposes and unable to see each other’s point of view, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that his point of view isn’t as valid as mine. It’s just much more annoying to me because it’s not mine and I’m not eager to make things work out nicely for him, if they’re not working out for me.
I really do want to be a better person. If I can’t completely like Sid, I want to have a positive relationship with him. I want to let go of my obsessions, to stop caring about the things he does that don’t matter and don’t affect me. I especially want to let go of the awful things he's done in the past. I want to stop obsessing over those wrongs, which I can do nothing about and which have already been dealt with.
I’m doing something new now--focusing positively on people who I dislike in order to improve my own mental outlook. I want to conquer the past demons learn to get along with those that drag me down in life and who I can’t avoid dealing with.
I don’t want to have enemies in my life. It’s not worth it. I can’t change their behavior but I can make myself happier by not letting my focus on them disturb my own inner peace. Yes, I realize I just said inner peace. Deal with it.
This is me, letting go of the resentment and hurt they’ve caused and just dealing with the present. I am a person for whom the past is important-- I have issues letting things go. There, I said it. I need to stop. The white-knuckle grip I have on old issues is tiring.
I’m done caring about all those little hurts. I'm over obsessing about those wrongs and wondering what Sid is up to and how he's going to be an issue, especially when he's not being an issue except in my own mind. I’m ready for the here and now, where I can just…be. Cheesily living and letting live. It's not happening instantly, much to my chagrin, but every day I make progress. It feels good.
I always thought if something bad happened to this person-- we’ll call him Sid-- that I’d be happy. A world without Sid seemed like a very nice place to be. In my dream, I wasn’t involved or responsible for Sid’s death, but when it happened, it affected me. Deeply. I found myself comforting Sid’s little son, having to be the one to explain to him that his dad wasn’t ever coming back.
In the dream, I had to take responsibility for this child, and every day he would ask when he could see his dad. I always had to tell him never, and see the tears streak down his little sad face. I found myself eulogizing Sid, and in my eulogy I though of all the things Sid is to other people and how his existence in the world is actually valuable. I found myself feeling sad and wishing fervently that Sid was all right, that he wasn't dead. I awoke with a start and tears on my cheeks.
Everyone is something to somebody, right? Even if they’re a Sid to you, do horrible and annoying things, and make your life hell sometimes, they’re something else to somebody else. I guess I forget that sometimes, when I’m so focused on disliking Sid.
I realized-- all the energy and time I spend disliking him are completely wasted. What does Sid care that I sit home and wonder if he’s cooking up something to make me miserable? Does he even know? If he does, he gives no indication. Sid doesn’t care what I do. I care what Sid is doing, which is why he’s such a problem for me.
I spend much more time than is healthy wondering about what he’s thinking and doing, even having imaginary conversations with him, where I of course always come out on top and get him to realize the error of his ways, see where he’s wrong, apologize and accept my point of view as his own.
These conversations are totally useless because even true friends and loved ones don‘t behave that way-- they may see my point of view or apologize when they‘ve done something horrible, but I never get all that open-minded enlightenment and conversion to my way of thinking. It just doesn’t happen for any of us. Life is a constant struggle to understand and be understood, and rarely do those two walk through the door holding hands. Most of us are far more interested in being understood than in understanding.
Which is what my dream made me realize about Sid. He’s just a person, with his own life and his own little worries and issues, whose occasional interaction with me is minimal but doesn’t occupy his time. He probably isn’t off cooking up ways to torment me. Most likely, when things occur, it’s as much of an annoyance to him as it is to me.
We’re often at cross-purposes and unable to see each other’s point of view, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that his point of view isn’t as valid as mine. It’s just much more annoying to me because it’s not mine and I’m not eager to make things work out nicely for him, if they’re not working out for me.
I really do want to be a better person. If I can’t completely like Sid, I want to have a positive relationship with him. I want to let go of my obsessions, to stop caring about the things he does that don’t matter and don’t affect me. I especially want to let go of the awful things he's done in the past. I want to stop obsessing over those wrongs, which I can do nothing about and which have already been dealt with.
I’m doing something new now--focusing positively on people who I dislike in order to improve my own mental outlook. I want to conquer the past demons learn to get along with those that drag me down in life and who I can’t avoid dealing with.
I don’t want to have enemies in my life. It’s not worth it. I can’t change their behavior but I can make myself happier by not letting my focus on them disturb my own inner peace. Yes, I realize I just said inner peace. Deal with it.
This is me, letting go of the resentment and hurt they’ve caused and just dealing with the present. I am a person for whom the past is important-- I have issues letting things go. There, I said it. I need to stop. The white-knuckle grip I have on old issues is tiring.
I’m done caring about all those little hurts. I'm over obsessing about those wrongs and wondering what Sid is up to and how he's going to be an issue, especially when he's not being an issue except in my own mind. I’m ready for the here and now, where I can just…be. Cheesily living and letting live. It's not happening instantly, much to my chagrin, but every day I make progress. It feels good.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Lists
Lists. I love lists. Somehow I feel so much better about the world in general if I have a to do list or a grocery list or a list for sanity. I am not making that up-- I actually have a list for sanity. Ways and reasons and things I can do to keep myself sane.
Today I lost my notebook containing all my lists and notes and things. Information that not even DaVinci could decode. Only my twisted brain would know what “Sunday theater pants coffee spill kitten nachos” means. Likewise my lists-- totally indecipherable to everyone but me. There are items on there like “dog happiness” and “kid bubble” which could probable mean anything, and items listed simply as “computer” which only I would know means that I need to take my old dead computer to be e-cycled and it’s in my trunk waiting for that errand to occur.
So having this information fall into the wrong hands would not be fatal-- someone might laugh but otherwise it’s harmless and unimportant to everyone but me. And to me, it is lifeblood. It is oxygen. It is absolutely necessary to my survival. When I realized it was missing I tried not to panic, but I checked in one of the two places I knew it wasn’t before freaking out. I mean, I knew exactly where it was-- in a shopping cart at Safeway where I’d left it after unloading my groceries. Probably getting wet and rain sodden, the precious lists running together in a river of blue ink and my soul’s despair. I nearly screamed aloud.
And yet-- hope. A simple solution. I called the Safeway lost and found and viola-- it was there. Some kind savior, some good Samaritan, some hero among humans saved my sanity and turned it in. I was saved. It was a miracle.
And now I feel like a complete headcase. Who goes to pieces over a notebook? My husband offered very kindly to help me recreate my lists, to remember the items and rewrite it all. But it cannot be done. It’s too much-- I forget things the moment they fall into my brain. Which is why I write them all down. Losing my notebook is like losing my mind. It cannot be recovered with a simple reboot. It can’t be rewritten. It makes me want to put my precious notebook under lock and key and never let anyone near it.
Today I lost my notebook containing all my lists and notes and things. Information that not even DaVinci could decode. Only my twisted brain would know what “Sunday theater pants coffee spill kitten nachos” means. Likewise my lists-- totally indecipherable to everyone but me. There are items on there like “dog happiness” and “kid bubble” which could probable mean anything, and items listed simply as “computer” which only I would know means that I need to take my old dead computer to be e-cycled and it’s in my trunk waiting for that errand to occur.
So having this information fall into the wrong hands would not be fatal-- someone might laugh but otherwise it’s harmless and unimportant to everyone but me. And to me, it is lifeblood. It is oxygen. It is absolutely necessary to my survival. When I realized it was missing I tried not to panic, but I checked in one of the two places I knew it wasn’t before freaking out. I mean, I knew exactly where it was-- in a shopping cart at Safeway where I’d left it after unloading my groceries. Probably getting wet and rain sodden, the precious lists running together in a river of blue ink and my soul’s despair. I nearly screamed aloud.
And yet-- hope. A simple solution. I called the Safeway lost and found and viola-- it was there. Some kind savior, some good Samaritan, some hero among humans saved my sanity and turned it in. I was saved. It was a miracle.
And now I feel like a complete headcase. Who goes to pieces over a notebook? My husband offered very kindly to help me recreate my lists, to remember the items and rewrite it all. But it cannot be done. It’s too much-- I forget things the moment they fall into my brain. Which is why I write them all down. Losing my notebook is like losing my mind. It cannot be recovered with a simple reboot. It can’t be rewritten. It makes me want to put my precious notebook under lock and key and never let anyone near it.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Does happiness make you boring?
I’ve always been vaguely suspicious of happy people, or at least people who claim to be happy. I mean, is anyone really happy? Don’t they have bills to pay? Kids with runny noses and snotty attitudes? A wall in their house which they painted a slightly regrettable shade of green? And then there are those with happy marriages and relationships. What’s their deal? They talk about being married to their “soul mate” and best friend. They don’t complain about their mate’s bad habits, when everyone knows all men leave dirty socks lying around, little tiny hairs in the sink after shaving, and forget to feed the dog or take out the garbage, leaving you running the overflowing can to the curb in the freezing cold rain wearing pajamas and no bra, hoping it’s too dark for the garbage man to see unbrushed hair and threadbare socks?
Yes, I used to be suspicious of these people until I joined their ranks. I realized then that all those things still occur, all the time, but when you’re really happy with your life and your mate, they don’t bother you that much. You’re busy focusing on the way the sky is blue even when it‘s gray, how beautifully birds chirp- basically living in a forest straight out of a Disney movie. You still have bills to pay and snotty children and hairs in the sink but somehow though those things are minor and annoying, they don’t really touch the deeps of happiness.
This all makes me wonder about my favorite authors and artists, creators of the most inspiring, poignant, interesting, and dark works. They were not happy people- at least, I don’t suppose they were. No one thinks Sylvia Plath or Ernest Hemingway or Edgar Allan Poe were particularly happy and content with their lives. Kate Chopin, Virginia Woolfe, Mary Shelley…. They had angst beyond creditors and progeny. It’s doubtful that Charles Bukowski walks around writing sonnets to the sky. It’s doubtful Diane Arbus did, either.
There have got to be several talented artists out there who aren’t also clinically depressed alcoholics but as a group writers particularly seem to trend towards darkness. Does a sunny positive outlook cause writer’s block? Does it cause prose to come out flat, lifeless and dull on the page, full of clichés and inane drivel? I really hope not.
Sometimes though when I’m having a particularly happy, contented day-- which happens often-- my writing does seem to suffer. I’m not in the mood to explore my characters’ dark sides. I don’t want to kill people off in a tragically ironic way, leaving their loved ones baffled and grief stricken. I want everyone to be happy and in love and I want all my characters seem to wind up married to the man of their dreams living in a house with a white picket fence, having hugely successful careers that are satisfying and fulfilling while easily maintaining a meticulously clean house and vacationing in the Bahamas. Might be a fun way to live but it’s not very interesting to read about.
I feel like I may have found an artificial solution. I’m almost ashamed to say it because it sounds… well, wrong. Just wrong. But here it is-- stark honesty, feel free to judge at will. I was thinking the other day about acting, how some actors use a certain style of acting which isn’t very popular anymore. I can’t remember the term or find it on Wikipedia. But in drama we used to call it the Dead Puppies method. It basically involves focusing on something sad that makes you feel sad so you can cry during a scene. It’s an artificial way of conjuring up tears-- picture a dead puppy and you’ll be sad, for example. Hence the terminology attached to the method. It’s not exactly the same as method acting, because as I recall the dead puppy didn’t have to be your dead puppy, whereas method actors usually channel emotions and events from their own lives that make them sad.
There are plenty of ridiculously sad, ironic, awful stories out there--news, blogs, wherever-- which normally I avoid because I like to live ostrich land where ignoring the existence of sad and awful things makes them nonexistent. I admit it’s quite a cowardly approach to life but it also helps stave off clinical depression. I’m one of those annoyingly empathetic types who cries when I hear other people’s sad stories, though they are not about me. And walking around all day feeling other people’s pain and crying over it is something I’m actually fairly keen to avoid. It’s the reason I am not a therapist and the reason I dropped out of nursing school. I like that happiness, the boring contentment, to anchor me to solid ground and keep my mind from fixating on the sad and morbid aspects of life.
But I figure a little taste, a peek into Pandora’s box, can’t hurt from time to time. And that glimpse infuses a much truer layer of conflict and complex feelings into my characters that my own happiness can sometimes prevent me from delving into. It’s a win, really-- albeit a mighty strange way of channeling angst. Inspiration from real life makes characters more real, right? And there’s really no such thing as happily ever after, except in fairy tales. Maybe I should switch genres.
Yes, I used to be suspicious of these people until I joined their ranks. I realized then that all those things still occur, all the time, but when you’re really happy with your life and your mate, they don’t bother you that much. You’re busy focusing on the way the sky is blue even when it‘s gray, how beautifully birds chirp- basically living in a forest straight out of a Disney movie. You still have bills to pay and snotty children and hairs in the sink but somehow though those things are minor and annoying, they don’t really touch the deeps of happiness.
This all makes me wonder about my favorite authors and artists, creators of the most inspiring, poignant, interesting, and dark works. They were not happy people- at least, I don’t suppose they were. No one thinks Sylvia Plath or Ernest Hemingway or Edgar Allan Poe were particularly happy and content with their lives. Kate Chopin, Virginia Woolfe, Mary Shelley…. They had angst beyond creditors and progeny. It’s doubtful that Charles Bukowski walks around writing sonnets to the sky. It’s doubtful Diane Arbus did, either.
There have got to be several talented artists out there who aren’t also clinically depressed alcoholics but as a group writers particularly seem to trend towards darkness. Does a sunny positive outlook cause writer’s block? Does it cause prose to come out flat, lifeless and dull on the page, full of clichés and inane drivel? I really hope not.
Sometimes though when I’m having a particularly happy, contented day-- which happens often-- my writing does seem to suffer. I’m not in the mood to explore my characters’ dark sides. I don’t want to kill people off in a tragically ironic way, leaving their loved ones baffled and grief stricken. I want everyone to be happy and in love and I want all my characters seem to wind up married to the man of their dreams living in a house with a white picket fence, having hugely successful careers that are satisfying and fulfilling while easily maintaining a meticulously clean house and vacationing in the Bahamas. Might be a fun way to live but it’s not very interesting to read about.
I feel like I may have found an artificial solution. I’m almost ashamed to say it because it sounds… well, wrong. Just wrong. But here it is-- stark honesty, feel free to judge at will. I was thinking the other day about acting, how some actors use a certain style of acting which isn’t very popular anymore. I can’t remember the term or find it on Wikipedia. But in drama we used to call it the Dead Puppies method. It basically involves focusing on something sad that makes you feel sad so you can cry during a scene. It’s an artificial way of conjuring up tears-- picture a dead puppy and you’ll be sad, for example. Hence the terminology attached to the method. It’s not exactly the same as method acting, because as I recall the dead puppy didn’t have to be your dead puppy, whereas method actors usually channel emotions and events from their own lives that make them sad.
There are plenty of ridiculously sad, ironic, awful stories out there--news, blogs, wherever-- which normally I avoid because I like to live ostrich land where ignoring the existence of sad and awful things makes them nonexistent. I admit it’s quite a cowardly approach to life but it also helps stave off clinical depression. I’m one of those annoyingly empathetic types who cries when I hear other people’s sad stories, though they are not about me. And walking around all day feeling other people’s pain and crying over it is something I’m actually fairly keen to avoid. It’s the reason I am not a therapist and the reason I dropped out of nursing school. I like that happiness, the boring contentment, to anchor me to solid ground and keep my mind from fixating on the sad and morbid aspects of life.
But I figure a little taste, a peek into Pandora’s box, can’t hurt from time to time. And that glimpse infuses a much truer layer of conflict and complex feelings into my characters that my own happiness can sometimes prevent me from delving into. It’s a win, really-- albeit a mighty strange way of channeling angst. Inspiration from real life makes characters more real, right? And there’s really no such thing as happily ever after, except in fairy tales. Maybe I should switch genres.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
If you like Pina Coladas at 5 a.m....
Insomnia is boring. People think it’s interesting and somewhat funny, but it’s not. It just hours of laying awake in the dark, wondering if maybe aliens exist or if there might be a spider in your bed or how you’re going to get through the next day on only three hours of sleep. For me, I wait a reasonable amount of time before turning on a light and trying to find something to quiet my brain-- books, television, crossword puzzles, staring contests with my dog… it’s all futile.
I mean it’s good getting a chance to finally watch Beverly Hills Cop II for the first time in two decades, and waking my husband up by crunching on slightly stale Cheerios as a five a.m. snack is always entertaining-- misery loves company-- but at the end of the hour I feel like I should be doing something productive, since I happen to be awake. And not Facebook quizzes or Farmville, people. Something really important and dramatic and fabulous, like, say, writing.
The sad and ironic part of insomnia is that when you’re sleep deprived your normally sharp, witty brain takes a hiatus. There is nothing remotely clever floating even on the periphery of my brain. And as an added disclaimer I should say-- blogging at this early hour is probably not a wise choice. At all. Seeing as my alarm clock just went off (it’s finally six a.m., thank goodness) and I’ve been watching the minutes tick by since two. I foresee a hazy day in which I should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery, but alas in which I am also committed to helping 28 kindergarteners on their journey through education.
I feel good when I do parent volunteering in my daughter’s kindergarten class because I get a chance to see what they’re doing and watch her in her school environment. The downside is I leave vowing never to have any more children and wondering how saintly kindergarten teachers survive teaching those adorable five-year-old monsters for hours on end-- a new batch every year, year after year after year…. I think Maddy’s teacher has been at it for something like 21 years. It kind of makes me want to see if she needs a psychological evaluation. Because that is just nuts. Oh and in case I’m rambling and off on strange tangents here, refer to the above sleep deprivation experiment my body is performing on me.
I once found a notebook with something written in it that I had no knowledge or recollection of writing. I have a history somnuscription, just so you know. I have a feeling later on when I’m completely conscious I will feel that way about this blog. Being pregnant, even a nice Valium of a shot of bourbon (okay I don’t drink bourbon but doesn’t it sound like a delicious idea, something a decadent Southern belle type from New Orleans or Savannah would drink?) is not acceptable. Nor, apparently, is attention to or concern with grammatical or literary rules of any kind. I am all sorts of rebellious this early. Or late; I’m not even sure anymore.
One thing I found to do-- after I woke my husband up and tortured him for a while-- was to join Twitter. I kind of have always thought of it as something of a cultish website-- something I would feel vaguely guilty about getting involved with, like admitting I read People Magazine or watch reality television. Things people do but never talk about. But I found a whole new world at my fingertips that made me love the internet and want to write a sonnet to its beauty and grace.
I mean, I found Margaret Atwood on Twitter. Margaret Atwood! I’m sure it’s not actually her, some publicist or assistant or something but still. I am still in shock. Margaret Atwood! I want to dig out my copy of The Blind Assassin and read it while watching Margaret Atwood’s Twitter updates (tweets? I’m new). I realize this is completely insane-- I’m not a crazed fan type of person. I don’t collect autographs or attend personal appearances and I haven’t got a clue who’s wearing what on what color carpet at any given time. But geez! Margaret Atwood! Okay I’m done. I realize my excitement over that is ridiculous but still…. Ooh, I wonder if I can find Anne Lamott on there. I think I would probably pass out. Which, I guess, would in turn cure my insomnia….
I think it is time to sign off this potentially brilliant glimpse into my life as a crazy person. No doubt it will turn out like an ill-advised drunken phone call to an ex in the middle of the night… not so good. And still I post. Incorrigible.
I mean it’s good getting a chance to finally watch Beverly Hills Cop II for the first time in two decades, and waking my husband up by crunching on slightly stale Cheerios as a five a.m. snack is always entertaining-- misery loves company-- but at the end of the hour I feel like I should be doing something productive, since I happen to be awake. And not Facebook quizzes or Farmville, people. Something really important and dramatic and fabulous, like, say, writing.
The sad and ironic part of insomnia is that when you’re sleep deprived your normally sharp, witty brain takes a hiatus. There is nothing remotely clever floating even on the periphery of my brain. And as an added disclaimer I should say-- blogging at this early hour is probably not a wise choice. At all. Seeing as my alarm clock just went off (it’s finally six a.m., thank goodness) and I’ve been watching the minutes tick by since two. I foresee a hazy day in which I should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery, but alas in which I am also committed to helping 28 kindergarteners on their journey through education.
I feel good when I do parent volunteering in my daughter’s kindergarten class because I get a chance to see what they’re doing and watch her in her school environment. The downside is I leave vowing never to have any more children and wondering how saintly kindergarten teachers survive teaching those adorable five-year-old monsters for hours on end-- a new batch every year, year after year after year…. I think Maddy’s teacher has been at it for something like 21 years. It kind of makes me want to see if she needs a psychological evaluation. Because that is just nuts. Oh and in case I’m rambling and off on strange tangents here, refer to the above sleep deprivation experiment my body is performing on me.
I once found a notebook with something written in it that I had no knowledge or recollection of writing. I have a history somnuscription, just so you know. I have a feeling later on when I’m completely conscious I will feel that way about this blog. Being pregnant, even a nice Valium of a shot of bourbon (okay I don’t drink bourbon but doesn’t it sound like a delicious idea, something a decadent Southern belle type from New Orleans or Savannah would drink?) is not acceptable. Nor, apparently, is attention to or concern with grammatical or literary rules of any kind. I am all sorts of rebellious this early. Or late; I’m not even sure anymore.
One thing I found to do-- after I woke my husband up and tortured him for a while-- was to join Twitter. I kind of have always thought of it as something of a cultish website-- something I would feel vaguely guilty about getting involved with, like admitting I read People Magazine or watch reality television. Things people do but never talk about. But I found a whole new world at my fingertips that made me love the internet and want to write a sonnet to its beauty and grace.
I mean, I found Margaret Atwood on Twitter. Margaret Atwood! I’m sure it’s not actually her, some publicist or assistant or something but still. I am still in shock. Margaret Atwood! I want to dig out my copy of The Blind Assassin and read it while watching Margaret Atwood’s Twitter updates (tweets? I’m new). I realize this is completely insane-- I’m not a crazed fan type of person. I don’t collect autographs or attend personal appearances and I haven’t got a clue who’s wearing what on what color carpet at any given time. But geez! Margaret Atwood! Okay I’m done. I realize my excitement over that is ridiculous but still…. Ooh, I wonder if I can find Anne Lamott on there. I think I would probably pass out. Which, I guess, would in turn cure my insomnia….
I think it is time to sign off this potentially brilliant glimpse into my life as a crazy person. No doubt it will turn out like an ill-advised drunken phone call to an ex in the middle of the night… not so good. And still I post. Incorrigible.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Unresolved
I wonder how many people have blogged about New Year's resolutions or lack thereof. Probably millions. Nothing is original anymore. But it's something that everyone talks about at the beginning of a new year-- we all vow to be better people-- wiser, healthier, more loving. Hardly anyone resolves to gain weight, watch more television, stay indoors more, work out less. Although those resolutions would be far easier to keep...
Traditionally I have been as anti-resolution as I am anti-Valentines day or anti-diet pills, or anti-SUV's or anti-conservative. There are certain things I just don't do but guess what? I've changed. Shocking, but true. I like chocolate on February 14. I haven't wavered on diet pills but I do drive the Tahoe occasionally without freaking out, and I'm starting to see the point to some of those conservatives after all. Mostly I think it's very dangerous to say never, and that includes about resolutions.
So I guess one resolution is never say never, right? But then again, there are times when I want to say never. Never quit. Never stop reaching for goals. Never lie. Never stop hugging, or kissing, or tickling-- even when the other person is hacking up germs. Never be afraid. Never lose sight of what you want. Never lose faith.
I really do want to stick to some important goals, not even considering the time of year it is, just the time of my life seems right for setting and following up with goals. One is for Candid Apple Photography. I just got laid off and my only other option is going to a job that I abhor. So I'm going to book ten portrait sessions per month. I can do it. I will do it.
Also writing. I will write my ten thousand words per day. It's a lofty goal, I know. But seeing as how I have no job except housecleaning (which in this house is done in two hours on Monday, leaving the rest of the week free) and my children. The children do get a considerable amount of attention but I'm confident I can get my writing done while they're at school. It's not unreasonable, and if I'm really going to be committed to being a published writer that's what it's going to take. I can do it. I will do it.
I'm sure there are more but those are the important ones. I can do it. I will do it. I'm actually very happy about it all. It's nice to have goals. I hope you all do too.
Traditionally I have been as anti-resolution as I am anti-Valentines day or anti-diet pills, or anti-SUV's or anti-conservative. There are certain things I just don't do but guess what? I've changed. Shocking, but true. I like chocolate on February 14. I haven't wavered on diet pills but I do drive the Tahoe occasionally without freaking out, and I'm starting to see the point to some of those conservatives after all. Mostly I think it's very dangerous to say never, and that includes about resolutions.
So I guess one resolution is never say never, right? But then again, there are times when I want to say never. Never quit. Never stop reaching for goals. Never lie. Never stop hugging, or kissing, or tickling-- even when the other person is hacking up germs. Never be afraid. Never lose sight of what you want. Never lose faith.
I really do want to stick to some important goals, not even considering the time of year it is, just the time of my life seems right for setting and following up with goals. One is for Candid Apple Photography. I just got laid off and my only other option is going to a job that I abhor. So I'm going to book ten portrait sessions per month. I can do it. I will do it.
Also writing. I will write my ten thousand words per day. It's a lofty goal, I know. But seeing as how I have no job except housecleaning (which in this house is done in two hours on Monday, leaving the rest of the week free) and my children. The children do get a considerable amount of attention but I'm confident I can get my writing done while they're at school. It's not unreasonable, and if I'm really going to be committed to being a published writer that's what it's going to take. I can do it. I will do it.
I'm sure there are more but those are the important ones. I can do it. I will do it. I'm actually very happy about it all. It's nice to have goals. I hope you all do too.
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