TTNY 4 What would I change about myself – I hate being afraid

August 30, 2016 by

Let me go ahead and put this out there (already knowing that it is going to sound some kind of way). There’s not a whole lot about me I would change. I mean certainly, I think I can always improve. There’s always a faster time, a better way, more knowledge, more ability. There’s always the opportunity to be better today that you were yesterday and even better tomorrow.

But if we are talking about things I would fundamentally change about myself, there’s not a bunch going on there.

Save one I suppose.

I really hate being afraid.

The problem is I am afraid most of the time. Now don’t get me wrong. We aren’t talking about Freddy Krueger afraid. I’m talking about pit of the stomach nag, fuzzy head afraid. That fear you get when you think you may have said the wrong thing, worn the wrong shirt, picked the wrong restaurant, gave the wrong advice, picked the wrong stratedgy…just being wrong in a way that affects other people period. That kind of afraid.

And I stay that way pretty regular. Just today I bought a few gifts and looked for a few more. Petrified. What if I picked the wrong thing, wrong size, wrong store, wrong price? What if they just generally don’t like it? And it was damn near paralyzing. In fact, it was so overwhelming that I damn near went back and returned everything 45 minutes after purchasing them. Ridiculous, I am aware.

I’m a little afraid right now because this little collection of words isn’t doing what I want it to. Or maybe it is. But I really think not. They feel corny and indulgent. damn near pointless.

But I am going to keep putting the nouns and verbs together because behind the fear is something else. There is a nagging sensation that two things are happening…

One, I am working through and being honest with the fact that I do get scared an awful lot. That’s a big one. It isn’t any part of the person I want to be. It is the one thing that I know limits every other wonderful thing in my life. Fear, at least the kind that I am talking about right now, does nothing to promote my best life. It isn’t keeping me safe from bodily harm. It isn’t protecting others. It isn’t shielding doom. It is just making shit that doesn’t need to be hard, really fucking hard.

This fear makes me feel less than. It makes me behave and accomplish less than. It really makes me want to crawl back in the bed right now so that I don’t do anything else today that might have consequences that are a little uncomfortable.

I actually did just crawl back in the bed just then and take a nap. It was wonderful. The most amazing thing is not that I actually got to take a nap (as bizarre as that is) but that I actually still remember what the second thing was!

Two, as in most things that I chew up in my brain, I don’t think it’s just me. While I am sure there are boatloads of people who do not experience this type of fear regularly, I am also sure there are a bunch of us running around with this characteristic that we just never talk about. In fact, I am also willing to bet these are people who, if they told you, you would be shocked.

And, because it does me good to keep processing through in a way that puts words in the universe, I am continuing to work through it on this keyboard.

The truth is I feel much better now. That nap was pretty amazing. Maybe more sleep is the answer. More probable is the idea that just listening to my body is the best answer. It just so happens that in this instance my body said nap and I was able to comply.

But that isn’t always the case. I can’t always do what I want to do; or at least not without some unpleasant consequences. So the fearful living at some point has to give. But, that didn’t develop over night so I am certain it won’t dissolve itself in one journal entry or one nap…but it sure has been a start.

Filed Under: The Thinking Chair

This Time 16 Years Later (TTNY 3)

August 23, 2016 by

It is time for me to write the obligatory “About Me” post. Interesting concept, the “About Me.” Isn’t really that the whole of what is going on with every post? Small little insights about the person doing the writing? But I suppose leaving it that way would be intentionally divergent without accomplishing purpose. There is a lot of value in providing the overview of background for context.

Because I am a writer, I have written a lot of these over the years. Whenever there is a new situation, writing space, or drought, this topic is always the easiest to go back to as it is the one that I am usually most familiar with.

16 years ago, give or take a few months, I was a seriously active Toastmaster member. I loved that stuff. If you are familiar at all, you know one of the first talks you give is about yourself. That talk became one of the favorite things I have ever written. I’ll put it in its original form somewhere.

But I have decided I am not going to start all over for my “set a timer for 5 minutes and write about yourself” exercise from This Time Next Year day three. (Yes, I skipped day 2. I can’t draw for shit and nobody wants to see that.) Instead I am going to break all the rules from day three and edit the shit outta what I already wrote and take whatever time I need to do it. I do what I want.

Interesting note (if not for you the reader then to myself for reflection later) ~ I haven’t read through this in quite sometime. Therefore, I am not real sure what’s gotta be changed, updated, added. In other words, I really hope this turns out.

Without further ado ~ the 2016 edition…

My father’s people call me Hapa Haoli. The words are Hawaiian; Hapa, meaning half, and Haoli meaning, white or mainlander. My mother is a beautiful Georgia Peach with the hair and freckles of the Irish and my dad is strong Hawaiian with salt water in his veins and sand in his hair. Both cultures are so rich with family tradition. You could say that I am a southern transplanted Hawaiian with a strong sense of family.

I am a southerner by heart, by speech, and by eats. There is nothing about the south I don’t like. From cornbread to grits, a hundred degree weather to 100 percent humidity. I have a drawl, I say ya’ll and a cook with so much ham hock and butter my vegetables are unhealthy. I say ma’am and sir and I can tell you, with pretty good accuracy, where yonder is. I love family reunions, weddings at the bride’s Grandma’s house, and azaleas in the springtime. I love the way southern people don’t move to fast, the way we take the time to say hello and smile. The way we take things easy – we really have no choice – most of the time it is too hot to do anything fast. Most of the colleges aren’t as big, but the football is great. Most of the doctor’s aren’t as rich, but she knows my history without my chart. My history, my momma’s, my two sisters my aunt, our neighbor – you get the point. I wouldn’t give up my Southern roots for all the tea in China – because we drink ours sweet and I don’t think they do.

I am Hawaiian by birth. My father comes from a family whose tree is planted firmly in the sands that are Hawaii. My father makes it a point to impress upon us the importance of the Hawaiian blood. Its traditions are rich and family important. I don’t have any Hawaiian friends. They are all family. They are not Mr. and Mrs. They are Auntie and Uncle. Our strength is in our Mana, the life spirit that comes from our ancestors before us. The force in our spirits that connect us to the land, the water, and each other. When the Mana is strong, there is nothing a person can’t do. The Mana of my dad, the mana he has passed on to me, is the central force of who I am.

In Hawaii, you are of the land or you are a visitor. There is no place in a Hawaiian’s heart for disrespect of the islands. The land is sacred. It is a part of the history of the people and as such has embedded upon its children the love and respect due to an honored parent. My father has done his best to keep traditions alive. It has been hard since we live so far away, but he has done well. My sisters and I can cook some of the more common dishes such as luau luau and lomi salmon, and we all dance the hula (albeit some better than others). The distance between the place I was born and the place I was raised is great, but they are both home.

My family is my rock. I believe that even without oxygen, my family could sustain me. The people in my tree define who I am. My mother has given me the courage to withstand all things. She has taught me the meaning of integrity and perseverance. She showed me how wisdom was important and that taking a stand was cool. She gave me the permission to open my mouth in protest as long as I remember that everyone deserves respect. My father gave me the backbone to follow through. He taught me that who you are is shown more by what you do than what you say, who you know or what you have. Together they showed me that nothing is more important than waking up every morning knowing you were loved unconditionally. I now have my own children to love unconditionally.

My two oldest children are nearly grown. One is already an adult child who has launched into the world in beautiful fashion I could not be more proud. The other is an amazing free spirit who is still changing and growing. Watching this child become the person she was meant to be has been like watching one of the great transformations.  My two littles are only 11 months apart. As close as they are in age, they are like sun up and sun down – both beautiful and glorious yet on completely opposite ends of the earth.

These children feed me life. As much as parents are supposed to teach their children, they have taught me more. They have showed me that most answers are simple and most hurts can be cured by a hug and an ice cream. I now know that folded clothes, if left unattended for a second, will need to be folded again and dirt has radar. I have also learned that their best chance of becoming wonderful adults involves being around wonderful adults. In this they have shown me the kind of person I strive to be.

I have the best friends. They are like a bouquet of flowers – each different and colorful and bringing incredible life into my world. I love them dearly. They are more than friends, they are fellow journeyers. They walk with me down my life’s path and allow me to experience theirs.

My personality evolves everyday. With each new experience my repertoire changes. I grow and learn and increase myself. But who I am, where I am from and the things I hold important are as certain as Georgia Heat, Hawaiian Surf and the roots that have been nurtured by each.

Filed Under: The Thinking Chair

This Time Next Year

August 16, 2016 by

I bought this cool little journal. It’s titled “This Time Next Year~365 Days of Exploration”  by Cynthia Scher. It’s this neat little set up that is full of prompts that move you through this look into yourself and different pieces of you each day.

image

The funny thing about me grabbing this book is the only thing I think I ever constantly done for 365 days straight is breathe. I’m trying to think of another thing. Right now, I got nothing. Maybe we will come back to that.

image

But I am in the middle of a divorce so I think I am going to give this a real shot. This next year is going to be a life changing one. I think I kind of owe it to myself to pay a little closer attention.

The first day is supposed to be kinda easy. I am always kinda suspect of any writing idea that appears on the surface to be easy. But who am I to borrow trouble…

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Your name. That’s supposed to be the easiest thing right? Mental note to wax poetic about how that isn’t the case at some later, more appropriate time.

The story behind my name is ~ See, not easy. My name is about as story filled as it gets. So I am going to make a long story short and make yet another note to myself to come back to this later if I run out of time this  morning (this is in honor of my commitment to write everyday, whether I can publish it or not, whether I complete it or not, whether I delete it or not). My first name just is as far as I know. It was not the only option, but it did win out in the end and I am thankful as I am not sure the other contestants were completely thought through.  I share a middle name with my paternal great grandmother (story goes my name was decreed, not suggested). My soon to be former last name comes from one of the best families I’ve ever known and given to me by a young man who rode in on a white horse (that looked a lot like a pickup truck) almost 20 years ago.

Your nickname is ~ Momma? People typically just call me by my name. I had a nickname once many moons ago. Honey. That’s a cute story all its own as well and the face of the sweet little toddler that gave it to me is still fresh in my brain.

The story behind your nickname is ~ Guess I got ahead of myself up there 😀

Your secret name that you you wish you had ~ Ummmmm? I dunno. Siri calls me Queen Bee. My oldest spawn has me saved as “Giver of Life” in her phone. Since this is my journal, I guess that counts.

The story behind that name is ~ My kid is super funny and creative. I heard the Lordes lyric “You can call me Queen Bee” and loved it.

You are a (quick what pops into your mind ~ whole person. Yet another thing I’m going to have to come back and expand on.

The most important thing anyone should know about you is ~ That I am a whole person. A sum greater than the parts. Some of them match, some of them contradict, some are static, others always changing. If you don’t know me today, all you really know about me is who I was yesterday.

You are passionate about ~ Words and food. Both matter.  Both convey emotion. Both provide connection, community, opportunity. Words and food. So many possibilities in those two little things.

#nobow

Filed Under: The Thinking Chair

Dear Future Team Y’all

August 15, 2016 by

Something about writing this seems so natural. Like I always knew I would be here. Like everything was moving straight and inevitably towards this point in time. That point in time where I am no longer married. Where he is no longer my Dude. Where he is preparing himself no longer for me, but for you.

There is a real part of it that absolutely fucking sucks. Like we should have been able to do better than this. Like we should have been able to change tack and adjust our course for a different shore than the island we have found ourselves on now. Like people as smart as us should have been able to figure this shit out before we did. And all the shoulds are just couldn’ts.

And there’s just the part that is. The truth of the thing regardless of wants or shoulds or oughts. The part that I am trying really hard to look at with new eyes. Eyes that are more open than the ones that got me here to begin with. The part that I am attempting to evaluate with judgement I did not or could not use before. The part that screams I want desperately to live honestly and authentically in a way I was never able to before.

He is going to be great. Whether he has yet realized it or not, the other side of this looks amazing for him. He is going to be healthier, stronger, more stable, financially secure, emotionally capable, and physically attractive. He is going to be a fucking stud and you are going to be very happy with him.

And I am going to have to remind myself every single time I see the both of you that the man you found, the one you have, was never going to be mine. He was never going to be that for me. Had I stayed, had I continued to wait for him to make the changes he made for you for me, this new guy you found would have never emerged.

And that’s just okay.

Because the truth is I am already really excited about the person I am becoming. And there is no way she would be emerging without the dissolution of the dream. The box wasn’t the right fit. There is something in the person that I am that would have never blossomed inside the parameters that was our marriage.

Do not misunderstand. I am so thankful for the opportunity I had to be his wife. The good memories, the beautiful children, the things I learned – being his wife was a great joy. I do not for one second regret saying yes. That maybe I said yes for too long is a point that may have some validity, but not so much that it is even worth considering. I am proud that I was his wife.

I am also proud now to be just me. I am thrilled to get to know me for who I am on my own. Just as he is getting to do that for himself.

There would not have been this guy you have. He would have never existed. This is not the guy I missed out on. This is not the guy I lost. This is not the guy I cut loose.

I would have never gotten this guy. It was not in the cards for me. But he deserves to be this guy. And he deserves to be happy. If I am being honest, the bitch side of me wants to walk up to you and say, “You’re welcome.” But that is mad petty, right?

So I am going to have another cup of coffee with the woman he would have never had in honor of the man she would have never got and mourn for just a minute the couple that never was and never could have been. They deserve it. But only a minute. Because the woman I am has shit to do.

8-15-2016

Filed Under: Chrysalis

Pinterest Fail

August 1, 2016 by

I have recently rediscovered Pinterest. And by rediscovered, I mean become obsessed with.

Am I late to the game? No, no I am not. I was down with Pinterest shortly after the late 2011 explosion. However, it took me very little time to realize that the main push of the site, at that time, was not really my jam. Let me go ahead and tell those of you who don’t already know. I am not crafty. At all. Like zero. I am not a good accessorize-er. I don’t do funky scarves without looking a wreck. I cannot elegantly frost a cake.  I don’t know how to pull colors together in a room with properly shaped and proportioned throw pillows. My “DIY a weekend project” is most likely going to result in calling a contractor (and probably my homeowners insurance company) to fix the big mess of shit I got myself into.

In short, I, and my kindred out there, am the reason #pinterestfail is even a thing.

However, like all things, functions and offerings ebb and flow and pinterest and I have found our way back to each other. She with her witty offers of animal memes and insightful quotes on writing. Me with my understanding that I do not need to pin the “Justice League cupcake party in 5 easy steps” pin as it will only jack up my “picked for you” suggestions and seriously, what do I really need that for anyway?

Pinterest has offered quite the plethora of writing inspiration lately. And as I was going through the pins from the weekend road trip, this was how two of my recent pins appeared on my screen…

As I scrolled through, this particular juxtaposition caught me as extremely interesting. These pins were saved relatively close together in time as they are close to each other in my pin feed. I saved them both to the same board – it’s labeled “Truth” and houses those pins that I find I relate to on a real level. Nearly same time, nearly same resonance , pretty different sentiments. The law of noncontradiction starts tugging some where in my brain but no where in my spirit and that is always a feeling that needs to pondered a while.

And I think about myself and what I am learning here. It also called to mind a few journal ideas I had over the weekend while on a mini outing with the children to Wild Adventures. I won’t get into those here, but suffice it to say that they too dealt with contending thoughts in the same head space. And I thought about The Many. And I thought about my tendency to roll depressive and roll manic. And I thought about all the differences in all the places of my personality that I know, have known, and are still discovering.

And it occurs to me that this cute little war of the spirit is probably pretty damn common. It is more than likely more common that not. I am thinking that the desire to be true and authentic without regards to the limits placed by others, while battling the need for approval and positive acceptance is simultaneously both the single biggest hurdle that most people face in their day to day lives, and the one denied the most.

I am also thinking that if none of that last paragraph is true for another single person, it is wholly true for me.

Even right. This. Second. I am editing what I say next as to not offend or upset. Why? Because I don’t want to upset. I am often taken as irreverent and say what I think. Why? Mainly I think it’s because I have no problem using the work “fuck” and publishing some of what I think. But the truth is, fuck is just a word I think has a particularly nice mouth feel so I use it and I probably publish less that 1% of what I actually think.

The truth is I have spent nearly my whole life caring an awful lot about what an awful lot of people think. You can call that whatever you want and I’ve already read the millions of articles about how that makes me a lesser person. How I am weak because what people think affects me. How I am a lesser brand of woman because I seek attention and approval. How I warp the ideas of my true self because I place stock in the ideas of others as it pertains to my person hood.

An interesting note about that. Older folks are right. You eventually hit an age where the noise that goes on around you becomes less of a thing. You eventually start giving less fucks about the bloviating others and more about your own bloviating. It looks like mine is 40.

What I mean to say is you can think whatever you want about the way I’m wired. The collective they has been getting on my nerves for a super long time any way. The bumper sticker writers, the “10 ways to be a” authors, the “must stop doing” hacks – the folks that take base emotion, add to it some cement character trait, and then pedestal it as some keystone of personhood – yeah, no.

And before this post comes off as incredibly salty (because it is starting to feel that way and that is certainly not how I feel and not what I intended when I started touching the keys this morning), let me let you in on a little bit of how I decide what the 1% of, “yes I should publish that” is. If I think I have identified in myself an emotion, thought, idea, struggle, that is uncomfortable to me because I feel it makes me less than the awesome person I know I am, and if I think I am wrong about feeling less than, and if I think that there are other folks feeling less than when they are not, I like to publish the thought. Because when we realize we are not alone, shame has a harder time living where we are (thanks Brene!)

The truth in the pins for me is I am still really hard on myself. Some of that is warranted. Some Most of it is bullshit put into my head by the ideas of others. That me that I am really hard on is flawed and not really fit for public consumption. I would prefer that wasn’t the me you see. It’s not my finest hour.

I am also fully aware that, while I have (and if I am lucky will always have) room to grow and get better, much of me that I am really hard on doesn’t really deserve the abuse I put on her.  And if she doesn’t deserve the abuse I put on her, the person that loves her the most in the whole world, then she damn sure doesn’t deserve abuse from anyone else.

So I would rather you not see the me pieces that I see, those I know that I am working on and feeling out and maybe haven’t smoothed the edges yet. But I have also found some edges that I think I’d like to keep, and I’ve decided I don’t really give a fuck what others think about that.

And the jury is still out on whether or not I will consider this a #pinterestfail redemption. I’m thinking I might 🙂

Filed Under: Chrysalis Tagged With:

It’s Not The Piece, but it is A Piece

July 26, 2016 by

I have fallen into a pattern over the years where I have a certain time of the day I like to write. It started, I think, because the super early mornings are the quietest time in my house. Everyone is asleep. There is nothing to distract, there are no people to entertain, there is no guilt about other things I could be doing…I just write.

The hours of writing are pretty rigid. 0400 until about 0800 is it. If I am up any earlier than that, I use that time to do whatever until 0400 because seriously, I cannot reward getting up earlier than four in the morning with extra writing time. It would seriously get out of hand. After 0800, the guilt starts to creep in around the other stuff that I should be doing. I fall straight into “oh my god you big piece of shit you aren’t even getting paid to do this so get up off your ass and wash a dish, cook a meal, pick up a sock, or something productive” mode.

While this time frame has served me well, there are some real drawbacks to it.

First, the obvious. Sleep. I like laying around in the bed as much as anyone else. I have to make the choice. Sleep or write. When I started running, the choices became even harder – sleep, run, write. It becomes pretty daunting to a schedule when three wonderful things are all fighting for the same time slot.

Second, I have a lot of unfinished stuff. Worse, I have stuff I just say fuck it and delete. The time slot feels like a deadline. If I can’t produce in the amount of time given to me, it just isn’t there (or so I have conditioned myself to think). Usually I just hit delete. Sometimes I will save it, but honestly, I rarely go back to any of it. I write in the moment so often, it is hard to put it down and go back to it later.No greater agony

The third thing is akin to the second. I don’t have a large project and I would really like to. But I never feel like I have the appropriate time to devote to a larger writing project. I also am afraid to commit to a theme that I feel today but won’t feel tomorrow and then what am I supposed to do with that? It’s almost the same way I feel when I am registering for a long race. This is so far out in the future. How will I ever be able to plan for this? What if something happens? Can I really be ready? What if I spend this money and then I just can’t get there? Won’t that be a waste? Won’t that make me feel like a failure?

Let me tell you that all those things happen in the brain of writers and runners. It really does provide a compelling argument to choose sleep.

writing garbage

Finally (at least for right now) is I think I have the misfortune of conditioning myself to both writing at this time,  and also to ONLY write at this time. If I don’t make those hours for whatever reason, I’m not writing. Even if I really need to. This is not productive. If an idea comes up outside of those hours, it gets very little attention paid to it. I don’t even make a note of it. I have become so accustomed to the time parameters that I have justified in my brain that all worthy ideas will happen during those times and any ideas outside of that time will not be worthy once I get around to them. I then further conclude that because those things are true, I am only creating mess and clutter by attempting to preserve these snipets of worthless thoughts and really, who needs that in their life?

Me. I need that in my life. I need to be more open to the words that come into my head, the ideas that rattle around in my brain.

Me. I need to be more flexible with my reception to ideas and times to just put words on paper. So writing at night feels different than writing in the morning. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe there is something there I have never discovered, a groove I’ve never explored because I have convinced myself that it just isn’t “the way I’m wired” or whatever.

write it down

Me. I need sticky notes every where. Journal pages scribbled on. Every where. Half formed ideas and snippets of thought snatched from a moment of time to be revisited later when their full worth or lack thereof can be better measured. My ideas, my thoughts, while not all spectacular, are at least worth more than a passing throw off because the timing wasn’t optimal.

Write for yourself

Me, I need bravery in the process. That it won’t all be good and that’s okay. That it won’t all feel good and that’s okay. That it won’t all be true and that’s okay. That it won’t all be my voice rather another that I am trying on because I have never walked that way before and how can I explore all the pieces of the world if I only take the same trips over and over again?

#nobow

 

Tennessee Williams Quote

Tennessee Williams Quote

Filed Under: Writing

Writing, Running, not pushing Post

July 23, 2016 by

The last few months have been pretty interesting for me. I spent a good bit of time nursing a running injury. The injury, which I have struggled with before, took way more time to heal than I originally anticipated. The rehab process, while doing much better now, was slow going. An unintended result of the extended timeline was a whole lot of time to consider my injury in a broader sense – were there underlying causes, what do I need to do differently, is it a natural consequence of age, is all this running just fucking crazy, should I hang up my shoes?

I came to a few conclusions. I have a very limited idea where this is going this morning so my conclusions maybe in some kind of cohesive flow and you may just have to shake and shimmy through them just like I am 🙂

writing monster

I run for the same reason I write. It keeps me sane. I have a tendency to pull towards the high and low extremes emotionally. When that happens, my brain tangles up and ideas get hitched. I am not always really sure what I think. When I am, I am not sure that I really think that. Maybe one day I will be able to explain that better, but for today, that’s just going to have to do.  For a while in the beginning, we worked on bringing that back towards the middle with meds. I won’t go into all that here, but suffice to say it was not optimal.  If fact, it became so counter productive that I ceased taking anything at all.

Writing has always been a great untangler of the brain snakes. I think we’ve discussed before the therapeutic benefits I experience in putting words on paper so I can consider whether or not they are mine.

answers four hour run

Running has the same untangling effect. Christopher McDougall has a great quote. “If you don’t have the answer to your problems after a four hour run, you ain’t getting them.” Folks have often asked me if I get a runner’s high. I don’t. I do get a runner’s level which, for me, is even better. Because I have high/low tendencies, running is a perfect tool. The endorphins keep my low end elevated and the run burns off the energy at the high end. It is a beautiful thing.

I have also fallen into the same mistakes running as I do writing. Most notably is ancillary work, consistency, and common sense activity.

I know I should stretch more. I know I should read more. I know I should should should….but I don’t. If it isn’t writing exactly, if it isn’t running exactly, it’s placement on my priority list goes way down. In case you were wondering, this is probably the worst idea ever. Okay, so maybe that’s overstated just a bit, but it’s a bad idea. Writing is hard. It is an emotional endeavor that leads to places I am not always ready to go and it changes me every time I do. As I look at that last sentence I realize I can say the exact same thing about running. It’s hard. It takes you places. It changes you. Shoring that up with the ancillary activities that support and care for that is important – maybe most important because it allows me to keep doing the main things longer with more effectiveness.

writing ink blood

I know I should be more consistent. I will go months without writing a word. Weeks without running a mile. Then I will explode into the gotta write every day and I gotta run 20 miles this week. This doesn’t work. The mind doesn’t function that way. The body sure as hell doesn’t function that way. It needs some warm up, it needs training. It needs consistency. Otherwise, the dormant / balls to the wall flip flop causes substandard performance with counter productive results.

I know that doing something, anything, is better than doing nothing. I know that. I know that. But I don’t always know that. I’ll look at my 20 minute training run and think, “Why in Sam’s hell am I even getting out of bed for 20 minutes?” Or I’ll look at the available time I have to write and think,  “There isn’t enough time to get this whole thought out and formatted. I just won’t write.” Or even worse is the, “I can’t post that so I won’t write.”

That’s probably the worst – I can’t do what I think is the natural outcome so I won’t start the journey. Maybe I can’t finish the race. Maybe that piece of writing will get too personal, too convoluted that I can’t publish it. So I don’t. The problem with that way of thinking is I never start and therefore never know what could have been…that’s no way to be.

Filed Under: Health and Wellness, Writing Tagged With:

Bubble Poppers

July 14, 2016 by

Unless you have been hanging out in Siberia (and maybe not even there), Pokemon Go has come into your field of vision. To say that it has been popular is an understatement. Since it’s July 6th release, the augmented reality game has boosted Nintendo’s shares by over 50% with $9 BILLION boost in value – in about a week. Reports show that hunting little Picachu is more popular right now than Tinder and Twitter. It would appear that catching them all is more important than trolling and sex. Who knew?

I was born in 1976 – I am not the target Pokemon demographic. However, when my two older (read “love the wifi”) children and their friends (read “also love the wifi”) asked if they could borrow a cooler to pack drinks and snacks because they had plans to spend the entire day walking around outside in downtown Savannah (GTFOH!), I became curious. I downloaded the app, and while it isn’t my thing, I can definitely see the appeal.

I caught my first Pokemon and texted the screenshot to my daughter. I was an instant rockstar. She wanted to text, talk, and damn near sit in my lap when she saw me. I’ve since deleted the app (like I said, not my thing) and she still loves me. She’s a little disappointed, but she has assured me that her love is unconditional and she is sure we can get over this little hiccup in our relationship. After all, I did birth her and she is responsible for my very first stretch marks so that has to count for something, right?

Evidently I was not the only parent experiencing this phenomenon of sunshine deprived couch children suddenly emerging from the basements and bonus rooms equipped with long distance hiking travel supplies.

Suddenly, there were people…everywhere. Walking around, exploring new places, talking to each other, interacting…everywhere.

And it took exactly from Saturday to Tuesday for the bubble poppers to show up in my social media sphere.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not talking about the funny meme folks. I am not a humorless twit. Some stuff, while snarky, is funny.

Batman Pokemon

I am talking about the assholes. The ones who don’t play, don’t care, don’t know, don’t have any skin in the game at all – except when it comes to popping your bubbles.

Bubble poppers have come into my field of vision lately. I can’t quite put my finger on how the idea gained solidarity in my brain, but it’s there. I have vague recollections of watching children blow bubbles, having that create immense happiness, watching a bubble pop, and the look changing from delight to crestfallen.

Something about that recollection at some point was triggered when I experienced this played out in real life. I can’t remember when or how. I can’t even tell you if it was me.

But I can tell you I’ve seen it, I’ve felt it, and, admittedly, I have been guilty of doing it.

Bubble popping – that moment when a thing is bringing you utter joy and someone decides to just stick a finger in it and deflate the whole experience.

Understandably, in the real world, there are some ideas and situations that need to be attended to. Not all happys are healthy and sometimes you need a little poke of reality in the midst of the joy. Admittedly there are real issues with Pokemon Go frenzy. Safety needs to be discussed. Personal space needs to be remembered. Respect for where you are and the people around you does not take a back seat catching them all.

But haphazard bubble popping is a bullshit move.

However, I am adult enough to know that this phenomenon is not going away. Bubble poppers either don’t know or don’t care that they are being assholes. Or maybe popping bubbles is their bubble and this will pop their bubble. I dunno. And frankly, I’ve decided I don’t care.

What I do care about is learning to better protect my bubble.

#nobow

Tennessee Williams Quote

Tennessee Williams Quote

Filed Under: Chrysalis

Defining Truth (ish)

July 7, 2016 by

One of my favorite byproducts of regular writing is the exercise I get in the word department. I love words. I love discovering what they mean and how that can be the same or different from what people mean when they say them.

This has proven exceptionally important when attempting to answer the question, “What is your truth?” This is a concept that has eluded me for quite sometime. The idea is just too big and small and squirrelly and hard. And then I am convinced I must be “doing it” wrong because if I was being my “authentic” self then I would just “know” and my “truth” would “resonate in my being.”

There’s enough trigger in that statement that I need a shot in my coffee now. Honestly I am a tad disgusted with myself that I just used the word “trigger.” I’m sorry for that. But here’s what I think. I think I am not the only one who has been completely overfuckingwhelmed by all of that. I think that this idea of discovering truth has become One. More. Fucking. Thing. that we are dying to make folks feel inferior at. Motherhood anyone? Work Life Balance folks? Yeah, you hear me.

However, just like raising my children and figuring out the work:play ratio that suits my life, having some idea of my truth is necessary. The older I get, the more I feel the call of adventure and life. The fact that our days are very, very limited grows more apparent to me every day and has created in me a desire to explore all the things. But maybe not ALL the things. Maybe just MY things. But what are MY things? Is that an okay MY thing? Or is that YOUR thing that I want to be MY thing? Is that a socially acceptable thing? Do I care? Who the hell decides anyway?

And four days later when I am able to get out of bed from the complete crisis of life and introspection, I am still no closer to scratching this itch that is nagging my spirit. So I go where I always go – to the words…

Truth ~

~ fidelity, constancy
~ sincerity in action, character, and utterance
~ the state of being the case…fact
~ the body of real things, events, and fact…actuality
~ often capitalized…a transcendent fundamental or spiritual reality
~ judgment, proposition, or idea that is true or accepted as true
~ the body of true statements and propositions

There is a lot here in this singular word. When I turn that around and attempt to decide how that applies to the way I see myself, it is damn near paralyzing and I think maybe I’m just gonna go back to bed…until I hit that very last point…

The body of true statements and propositions

In other words, to me, a person’s truth, my truth, is pretty flexible. It is not a limited scope of ideas, but a body of work. And while there are some steadfast ideas (true statements), there is also my beloved wiggle room.

Proposition ~

~ a statement or assertion that expresses a judgment or opinion
~ a suggested scheme or plan of action

And there it is…opinion, suggestion…which I totally translate in this context into adventure!

My truth is that I am a constantly evolving creature. I have always known this. But I assumed that this was too simple, too small, and too obvious. I am learning that maybe it isn’t so much. There are those who are more steadfast and constant. I think I have always admired that. I think there has been a part of me who has always tried to be that. I think I am not so much that. And I think I am okay with that.

To flesh out a different way, I think I have always judged harshly my inner gypsy. I have always assumed that tendency suggested flaky, untrustworthy, irresponsible and, therefore, undesirable and unacceptable. I have been really ugly to her. I have been unfair. I judged her without really getting to know her. She is honest and true because she is me. She’s simply a bit more free spirited than the other Many. That doesn’t make her wrong, it just makes her different.

My truth is I am rooted in adoration. It is my base point. I prefer to adore and be adored. So it’s no wonder my spirit is consistently unsettled around this idea of personal truth. My adoration circle conflicted directly with my self scourging of my gypsy circle. There is no Venn.

If I had treated somebody this way, I would owe them an apology. Today I apologize to me. I am sure I will be abusive to myself again. Unfortunately it is a habit at this point. It’s just going to take some time to change. But I love me and I have patience with me. I have the amazing good fortune of knowing my intentions for myself. I have forgiven others more while knowing less. I can afford to offer the same to The Many…to the Me.

The forgiveness and acceptance of self is so important. There is more truth there, just like the gypsy, looking to be accepted and appreciated. There are all the adventures. There is adoration in all the things…

This is not the post I set out to write, but it is what was birthed. So, again, I am left with no bow, no witty wrap up…just a burning house.

Filed Under: Chrysalis Tagged With:

Holy Shit, I’m 40!

June 30, 2016 by

My eyes popped open at 0208. I tried until 0256 to go back to sleep. I just couldn’t. It feels like Christmas. And High School graduation. And getting ready for deployment. And heading to the delivery room. And waiting for the test results. All rolled up into one.

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Let me go ahead and acknowledge the fact that I totally get that some folks may think I have put way too much emphasis, both publicly and privately, on my 40th birthday. Let me be clear and with all the love I can muster for those who try and pop the bubbles of others – this is an opinion I do not give a fuck about. This is not your birthday, this is not your journey. You are more than welcome to celebrate with me and travel this way on the party bus. You are also completely within your right to stay the fuck home. The choice is yours. I respect it either way. I will now continue with my choice – celebrating and sucking every bit of life out of this milestone that is particularly important to me.

If you would have asked me what 40 looked like 20 years ago, I would have had an amazingly enlightened answer gleaned from the vast knowledge of the world I possessed when I was 20.

As an aside, there is a serious need for a sarcasm font. I think that’s a good fit for Comic Sans. I may try and start that trend. But I probably won’t.

20 year old me, surprisingly enough, would have been wrong. I would have never, ever described 40 this way. It is far more complex, simple, daunting, easy, exciting, scary, humbling, sexy, fun than I would have ever imagined.

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I have said over and over again these past few months that I don’t feel 40. I was wrong. I do feel 40 because I am 40. The truth is 40 just doesn’t feel like I expected it to. And honestly, I have no idea why I expected it to feel less than what I feel now. To clarify, I feel great. Why I wasted time assuming that there was a point in my life where I would feel less than is beyond me. I am sure there will come a day where I cannot do what I do now, but what if there isn’t? Moreover, why carry tomorrow’s baggage today? Why weigh down myself with things that have happened or will happen at the expense of what is happening?

Fuck that.

In fact, I think that’s where the root of the midlife crisis lives – holding on to so much “why did/n’t I” and “what if” baggage that our truth is crushed under the weight. It has been my experience that truth is not coal and does not, therefore, turn into diamonds under intense pressure. It is more akin to combustible gas that explodes when the pressure release valve is faulty. There are all these voices, ideas, personalities, opportunities, desires, thoughts that are routinely suppressed in our everyday lives because of our own shoulds, oughts, safety mechanisms. The younger we are, the more capable we are to ignore it or justify the hold down because we have “plenty of time” for that later. But you hit a certain age and that gets harder to believe because time just is what it is.

Then you just have to either shut it down and get old, or work it out and keep journeying. I choose, obviously, the latter.

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So here’s to living a life of badassery. Here is to the continued exploration of truth. Here is to leaving it all on the field and appreciating the feeling of exhaustion created in the wake of the good work. Here’s to feeling your age and appreciating what that feels like, even when it isn’t what you expected. Here’s to flipping the idea “I do (insert whatever here) so I am a good person” into “I am a good person so I can explore new things without fear.” Here’s to #teamunicorn 🙂

Here’s to Club 40.

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Filed Under: Chrysalis