Stories Are For Eternity

Lost with paper…

It’s true. My day contains spurts of paper crafting while in my head I’m working on the plot of a mystery novel. So, whether paper crafting or writing, it’s all about paper lately. There is always something new to learn and I love to learn things. Executing new skills is different.

Upon completion of the current journal under construction, I plan to work on a random journal where I can practice “letting go” of my expectations and ordered thinking. Most of my life I’ve embraced symmetry and order. I’m sure it’s because my life was very disordered at certain points. I like knowing what to expect, or I think that’s how I feel. I’m kind of tired of it, truth be told.

Though it’s unlikely I will go back to being the happy-go-lucky kid I once was (too much water under that bridge), it’s entirely possible to become more spontaneous and less rigid in my thinking. While this idea could extend to my reactions and behaviors, I’m mostly pondering it in terms of my crafting. I’m happy with the journals I’m producing, but in order for me to grow as a crafter, it’s time to try some new things.

And that frightens me. It doesn’t frighten me to the point of my hair standing on end; it’s more the fidgety, squirmy state of discomfort. Deep down I know I have to break that association. How do I know? When I was in third grade I was in a serious car accident. I was a passenger in the back seat. It was snowing and we were sideswiped. Our car hit a tree, a large tree. Back in the 1960s car safety was far less important than it is now.

Unrestrained, I traveled forward with my leg sliding under the back of the front seat. This stopped my forward motion, resulting in a compound fracture of my tibia. My injury was the least serious. The point is that I was afraid to ride in a car after that episode. Since I knew I couldn’t avoid it, I developed ways to cope with it. However, it created an inner lifelong anxiety within me related to car travel.

Certainly paper crafting is not as extreme as a car accident. But if I want to improve and acquire new skills, I need to modify my thinking and my own expectations. I’m a bit of a perfectionist. But I expect me to be perfect, not the products I create. Ok, maybe I do expect stuff I make to be damn good. Looking back to writing my book reminds me of that. The book is not perfect. I tried. It defied me. Makes me chuckle.

In stepping outside of the box, I’m going to teach myself to paint with watercolor. I’ve never been one to sketch, even my very rare doodling was very geometric in nature. I’m not ready to pursue a sketching course, I don’t want to paint and sip since wine makes me ill as does small talk, and in the future I’m thinking I may want to dabble a bit with a sewing machine. It’s possible I may break out in hives at any moment.

I was never fearful of physical pursuits. I’ve engaged in most of the sports I’ve wanted to try. I’ve driven dirt bikes, boats, and even the cab of a tractor trailer. I’ve not yet tried pickleball. In my head I would be a natural but my physical self is far from what it was. It would feed my need to hit things hard…think tennis, softball, dodgeball. Maybe.

It’s the more ethereal world of the arts that frightens me. Due to my left-handedness and inability to use scissors correctly, I closed my mind to being “artistic.” More’s the pity. At least I’ve recognized my artsy side now. It will only expand and improve.

I will never be a singer. It’s my gift to the masses. Three things I’ve always wanted to learn to play: drums, saxophone, bagpipes. My neighbors would suffer, but one of them will likely become a reality.

Listen, I’ve written scads of poetry (some of it good), have reams of unfinished fiction written, and stopped doing both because I didn’t know who I was writing it for. I wasn’t happy enough to be the only consumer but I lacked the confidence to put it “out there.” My non-fiction book is different. It’s based in fact. No worries.

I embrace songs more for the lyrics than the music. I do like the music but words are so integral to me. This single song, Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson, contains many elements that speak directly to me.

“Breakaway”

Grew up in a small town
And when the rain would fall down
I’d just stare out my window
Dreaming of what could be
And if I’d end up happy
I would pray (I would pray)

Trying hard to reach out
But when I tried to speak out
Felt like no one could hear me
Wanted to belong here
But something felt so wrong here
So I prayed (I would pray)
I could break away

I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly
I’ll do what it takes ’til I touch the sky
And I’ll make a wish
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away
Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won’t forget all the ones that I love
I’ll take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away

Wanna feel the warm breeze
Sleep under a palm tree
Feel the rush of the ocean
Get on board a fast train
Travel on a jet plane far away
(I will)
And break away

I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly
I’ll do what it takes ’til I touch the sky
And I’ll make a wish
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away
Out of the darkness and into the sun
I won’t forget all the ones that I love
I gotta take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away

Buildings with a hundred floors
Swinging ’round revolving doors
Maybe I don’t know where they’ll take me
But gotta keep moving on, moving on
Fly away, break away

I’ll spread my wings
And I’ll learn how to fly (learn how to fly)
Though it’s not easy to tell you goodbye
I gotta take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away
Out of the darkness and into the sun (into the sun)
But I won’t forget the place I come from
I gotta take a risk
Take a chance
Make a change
And break away, break away, break away.

I will leave it to all of you to decide which parts of the lyrics mean the most to me. As always, thanks for reading and for listening. My blog allows me to recognize my thoughts in a far more concrete manner. For now “I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly…”

What’s in a word?

“Well, I was born in the sign of water/And it’s there that I feel my best/The albatross and the whales, they are my brothers/It’s kind of a special feeling/When you’re out on the sea alone/Staring at the full moon like a lover…”. “Time for a Cool Change” Little River Band

This song always stirs something in me…wistfulness, passion, wanderlust, to name a few things. It depends on the moment. I’ve loved it since I first heard it. The lyrics appeal to me. They allow me to feel. That’s a very crucial element of writing for me. If an author causes me to feel something, then I consider it well written.

And sometimes it seems as though one is a part of the song. For example, I was born in the sign of water. I’ve long (most of my life) felt most at home in the water. The moon draws me to it like the proverbial moth to the flame. I’ve spent huge amounts of time alone in nature. And sometimes the emotions created by my surroundings inspires a passion within that causes me to feel, causes me to understand concepts I’ve not previously grasped, causes a release of emotion.

It’s hard to describe and, even now, just thinking about it gives me goose bumps. Throughout my life, I’ve been blessed to have been exposed to a variety of natural wonder. I’m not necessarily talking about iconic marvels. I’ve found it in what surrounds me…the woods, a lake, the ocean, the mountains. All within these environments impact the enormous well of sensitivity I carry. When I say it’s a powerful feeling, it’s an understatement.

Some of these encounters are calming to me and allow my thoughts to slow. Some of them fill me with incredible wonder and I’m aghast at how they may have been created. Some trip wires in my imagination and create stories in my head. Some cause my lungs to inflate, my chest swell, and I feel my life’s blood coursing through my body.

However, at the present, I’m yearning for a cool change. The water, always such a comfortable place for me, is not a draw for me this summer. I feel guilty, as though I’m wasting an opportunity. But I’m just not feeling it. Instead I make paper crafts, not knowing why or what I will do with them. But I enjoy making the junk journals and the recipients seem happy to have them. And I’m not doing any fiction writing though it races through my head in an endless loop.

At the risk of using yet another cliche, I’m in the rock and hard place situation. I met someone I find interesting within the last several months but I’m too shy to ask him for a coffee and a chat. I just want to connect and chat. I miss meaningful conversation. And I feel very preoccupied with my health, but am easily overwhelmed because I think too much. I’m well aware it’s up to me to make my own changes but my mojo is dangerously low. Somehow, I must find a way to replenish it. I’ve been looking but am encountering too many speed bumps.

“Now that my life is so prearranged/I know, I know, I know,/It’s time for a cool change.”

My forever oasis, from infancy…Big Bowman. Tobacco only.

Let’s talk…

This should be interesting. There is so much stuff whirling in my conscious mind. I’ve decided on three different blog posts, so far. Deep inside I know if I write what I’m thinking about, it will end up being a representation from a shadow lingering behind my conscious thought.

Whoa, kind of profound. And that’s just it. I’m not a “still waters run deep” type of person. I abhor being categorized. No one really knows me well enough to classify me in any fashion. I fit into many categories, but, over the years, not many have taken the time to know who I really am.

Deep thinking and insatiable curiosity are two concepts that I suspect aren’t foregone conclusions when people interact with me. My personality is such that I’m bound to be considered silly and goofy. There’s a reason for that. I am incredibly shy. Very shy. Painfully shy. Erratic heart beating shy. Why don’t people accept this classification of me? Easy. They just don’t know me.

Granted, it isn’t always easy to know me. At times, I cannot even get myself to go beyond the comical, light-hearted version of myself because it protectively cloaks my sensitive inner being. And, too often, it results in emotional pain.

Chew on this. Though I think very deeply, it’s not something I showcase. Parallel to deep thought is deep emotion. It’s necessary for me to use various coping mechanisms because I feel too much. The sensations of my emotions are so keen that beyond feeling my own emotions, I feel those of others…even complete strangers. While it allows me to be very empathetic, it also exhausts me. Additionally, it wreaks havoc in my daily life.

Though debilitating, it’s who I am. Do I have x-Ray vision? Nope. But I am able to see through phoniness and hypocrisy. Actually I’m able to sense and intuit far more than I’m capable of shouldering. That’s just a bit of what’s going on behind the quick smile and humorous demeanor. As with any individual, a quick check of one’s eyes tells us the legitimacy of a smile. Without a doubt, mine are 98% genuine.

What is this about? I often feel shunned from conversations amongst small groups. Maybe shunned isn’t the correct word. People seem to become uncomfortable because I ask questions and then they withdraw. My questions probably don’t seem simple but they’re legit. If I’m asking a question, it’s because I genuinely want to know the answer. Sometimes my questions are difficult on an emotional level. It’s my way of trying to help you see a point you may be missing.

Whatever. Bottom line…I miss meaningful conversation. Small talk is not something of interest to me. But I know well enough how to be polite and respectful to others and I will engage in it. And always remember, however hurtful and mean an individual may be I will still feel the impetus to help. Even though I might be thinking, “Stop walking down my street/Don’t come around here no more/Who did you expect to meet?/Don’t come around here no more,” my inner self will never allow me to ignore what hurts, whether it’s me or others.

Lyrics: Tom Petty

Oh, the woe of us…

The iconic symbol of freedom, the Statue of Liberty, has graced America’s shores since its dedication in 1886 (two years before the birth of my grandmother). Its fabled arm, holding the torch, was on display at the Centennial Exposition (aka World’s Fair) in Philadelphia in 1876. The statue also serves as the unofficial symbol of welcome to the many immigrants who have passed by her.

In that spirit, our nation is set to celebrate its semiquincentennial, or 250th birthday. I’m fortunate enough to remember the nation’s Bicentennial in 1976. That memory will always be associated with images of the tall ships gracing Boston and New York harbors, celebrating our rich past.

I was proud back then. I’m surely not a proud American at this moment in time. An occasion as important as this should not showcase a nation’s Capital that is being defaced and disemboweled by the current administration.

As a country, our standing in the world was once stellar. At present, our allies are no longer able to depend on us for much of anything. The country may wage war at a moment’s notice, deport human beings who are in this country legally, kill non-violent protesters, denounce valid scientific immunization information…the list goes on.

This is not the country of my upbringing. Laws are scattered to the wind, the Supreme Court of our land is biased, and insurrectionists were pardoned of their convictions despite assaulting law enforcement officers, spreading human excrement throughout the Capitol building, egregious disrespect of “their house,” as they liked to call it. Five law enforcement officers died as a result of the January 6th insurrection. And dozens of the pardoned rioters have been arrested since their pardons for crimes.

I’m not going to go on and on. Know this: any statistics and/or statements I’ve posted are factual. They are from valid sources like the Dept of Labor or educational foundations. They are not from any news sources. And before you say “if you don’t like it, do something about it,” I am an active participant in our democracy…even though I probably have a tiny female brain.

Just when one thinks it can’t get any worse, one hears that ICE detained (arrested) a nun walking to mass in South Texas on June 28th. She has since been released due to the outcry of citizens, especially those of the Diocese of Brownsville. The woman is a member of an order based in Nigerian, she is black, she was within a few miles of the US/Mexican border, and she was wearing a habit (religious garb). Of course, no reason has been given for her arrest.

And just when you think taxpayers aren’t funding the “ballroom,” guess again. The ranking member of the House Appropriations committee issued a report that tens of millions of taxpayer dollars have already been spent with another $300 million planned. Oh yeah, for the desecration and demolition of the East Wing without Congressional approval. But, done by a guy who just paid $5 million for sexual abuse, is a 34-time convicted felon, wore a baseball cap to a dignified transfer, and skipped out on another to be in Florida for a $1 million per head fundraiser. And yesterday said, “How a Jewish person can vote for a Democrat is beyond me because I’ve been the best president in the history of Israel.” Uh, what?

This is how I feel. I’ve reported facts.

Why wander?

It’s a valid question and deserves some good thought. Travel is an important component of many people’s lives. I’m referring in this piece about voluntary travel, the type of travel some folks have turned into an almost competitive sport.

Is true travel all about ticking off our many destinations? Is it all about posting a myriad of photos across social media platforms? Is it about experiencing different ways of life in order to enrich our own? I have no answers.

At the present I find myself in a “no travel” existence. I haven’t done any meaningful travel in a few years. Why, you ask? Simple. I don’t feel well enough and, also, I am responsible for an elderly parent who is my only other family member.

Why do I travel? For the simple reason that I like to experience the experience. What does that mean? I love to see the beautiful things as much as anyone else but what moves me most is observing how life is lived elsewhere…whether it’s ten miles from home or ten thousand, and all that is in between.

The sea calls to me relentlessly. I yearn for the rhythm of the waves, the tanginess of the salt air in my nostrils, the screeching of the gulls. I have been to the ocean in many different areas. Always I return to the sea in the Northeast, and mainly Cape Cod or Maine. Even though both have become popular tourist destinations, the appeal of the beach coupled with quintessential New England small towns is what floats my boat.

For me, there’s nothing like visiting the beach in the evening after a day of sunning and swimming. Though there’s activity, it’s not the teeming movement of a crowded beach. It’s the epitome of leisure whether flying a kite, surf casting, shell hunting, or just staring at the horizon. It’s the feeling of being a tiny entity in a vast realm. And it’s the warmth of comfort in past memories and traditions.

In my mind I can feel myself cloaked in the sunset on Cape Cod Bay. The tide is out and a person could seemingly walk forever through the tidal plains. I can feel myself in a kayak, gliding through salt marshes. I can feel the buoyant effect of the salt water as I swim away from the beach.

Most of the buddies with whom I traveled are gone. And I feel I’ve gotten to a point where I’m not sure I want to go through the process of discovering others. And yet, I want to go. There’s a great deal of the past pulling at me and I know that when I return, it won’t be the stuff of my memories. It will be a new level of appreciation for the current (no pun intended) ocean culture and climate, impacted by the present day. The visceral element is a constant. The tactile surroundings are an ever-changing canvas.

“If you spend an evening, you’ll want to stay/Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay…”. excerpt from “Old Cape Cod, sung by Patti Page

“Somewhere beyond the sea/Somewhere waiting for me/My lover stands on golden sands…”. excerpt from “Beyond the Sea” by Bobby Darin. The Romantic part of me will never stop hoping and dreaming. It’s a great deal of what keeps me going.

True colors?

At long last I’m letting some true feelings bubble to the surface in the hope that the “poison” carried in the bubbles will dissipate once the bubbles burst. I do receive some criticism from well-intentioned folks about the content I share, but if I don’t “ain’t nobody else gonna.” (You have no idea my challenge of writing incorrectly.) Sometimes you gotta do something different to make a point.

I’ve learned that too many of my thoughts and memories reside in my far past. I thought that was a time of happiness, in many ways it was, but now it serves almost as a punishment. I rail at the present me because I never lived up to my own expectations. So I’ve begun to take inventory.

Recently I read an article that discussed how many teenaged girls were thought to have anxiety when they were actually dealing with ADHD. And, naturally, they were treated for the anxiety and not given skills to cope with the ADHD. My feeling is anxiety carries less stigma in our society, so it’s an acceptable diagnosis and reason for medication. I may be wrong. It happens.

Throughout my life, I spent many years (30) as a tennis instructor/coach as well as 25 years as a high school English teacher. Many of the “difficult” kids ended up on my court or in my classes. Why? Because I knew what it was like to be different. Thankfully I was brought up to acknowledge each individual as an entity who mattered. I used my broad background of interests to make connections. I treated these kids as I wished to have been treated.

In giving them all I’d never received, it rendered me devoid of any capacity for self-care. My energy went to those for whom I was responsible. I strove to provide a well-rounded experience no matter what I was teaching. Each day it became more and more difficult to regain vital energy. Blah, blah, blah. Decades of doctors not listening to me, as soon as they saw I was taking psych meds, created some long-lasting damage both physically and mentally.

One of my pediatricians once told me he was convinced I was faking an illness. I asked how I could fake a fever. He said there were ways. From then on, I had a healthy distrust of doctors. Add to it that as a 49 year old woman, I was made to wait over 7 hours in the ER waiting room because I wasn’t “that sick” according to triage Nurse Cratchett. My mom was with me and couldn’t understand why I was being ignored. Turns out I had a ruptured appendix and it had been ruptured for six days. Can we say emergency surgery?

And all of those palpitations and “hippy-skippy” heartbeats ascribed to my anxiety? It turned out I was experiencing bouts of atrial fibrillation. Um, hello? As a mature adult, I’ve learned the difference between psychological angst and physical distress. Oh, and six years ago when I told my doctors I was exhausted and very short of breath? Instead of pointing fingers at each other and not finding a reason, a silly blood test resulted in me visiting the ER the next day to receive a blood transfusion because my hemoglobin level was so low. And, yes, I drove myself.

I have reason to be bitter but it doesn’t keep me from trying to help those who are underdogs in this life. Not all of us received stellar genes, were raised without financial woes, and had our educations paid for by family. Many of us paid for our Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees, bought our own cars and houses, and worked multiple jobs for decades.

It all goes back to my senior year in high school. I was walking down the hall with two of my “friends.” A girl not from our “in” crowd walked by and I greeted her by name. Further down the hall, my “friends” asked why I would speak to her. I replied she was in my gym class and I liked her. They rolled their eyes and I saw the writing on the wall.

And, yet, I’m still here. And I’m still kind to people. Most people deserve it.

“If this world makes you crazy/And you’ve taken all you can bear/You call me up/Because you know I’ll be there/And I’ll see your true colors/Shining through…”. Cyndi Lauper

“If you want the world to know/We won’t let hatred grow/Put a little love in your heart.” Jackie DeShannon

“I am everyday people.” Sylvester Stewart (Sly and the Family Stone)

All aboard!

“Mental wounds not healing
Life’s a bitter shame
I’m going off the rails on a crazy train…”

I trust, and know, I will eventually be back on the rails but gee whiz this is so hard sometimes. When I was first diagnosed, back in 1982, with generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression, it was kind of a relief. At least I knew there was a scientific reason for how I felt. However, it was a science that was not understood very well in those days. And it carried such stigmatic weight. The stigma surrounding mental illness has lessened but not by much.

When I experience profoundly challenging days, I often turn to words. Underneath it all, I feel if I can just get some of the “poison” out of me I’m distracted enough to ride out the negative talk in my head. Now don’t assume the voice of Chucky is in my head. It’s a running monotone of every criticism and negative thought that runs on a loop. And it’s all cemented in place anytime I glance in the mirror.

It’s no secret, to me at least, that my crazy train has experienced increased derailments in the past few years. The love/scourge of my life passed away four years ago just as my mom was moving to assisted living. My mom, now 97, has now been in memory care for a year or so. It’s a heartbreaking process. They were huge in my life in that they understood my mental health challenges and witnessed how hard I try/tried to stay on course. It’s difficult to replace those to whom you’ve bared your soul and love you regardless.

I do take medications and they do help. “Help” is the important term. There’s no cure. I try to maintain the status quo. While many things make so much more sense to me now, I still have the mindset that I’ve failed rather than I’m so incredibly strong to have accomplished what I have despite roadblocks others wouldn’t have been able to navigate. Lots of the time I’m in my “warrior princess” mindset. I know, without a doubt, that what I bear mentally and emotionally, along with chronic physical illnesses, would bring many people to their knees. I know I’m not alone in that but it’s still such an awkward conversation. Right? So I’m trying to establish more communication in order for more of us to explain what we go through and for more of you to be able to shed some of the stigmas through the power of knowledge.

Right now I’m working to get rid of the picture I have of myself that I think I should be and accepting the strength and Grace of my true self. Getting back on the rails and blessed to be able to have another chance.

Lyrics credit: Ozzy

N.B.—- I write these entries to figure out my own thinking and to attempt to educate others about what people with mental illnesses face. I’m not asking for pity or sympathy. I do ask for respect. Much of my energy goes into managing my daily life. I’m not lazy, just exhausted much of the time.

Does this look like a person with mental illnesses? Seriously. Kicking it with some longtime friends. The smile is genuine.

It means something, I suppose…

I don’t intentionally look for symbols or meaningful patterns in life. They often hit me like in the old Monty Pythons sketch where they slapped each other’s faces with fish. In some instances, it’s much the same as changing into a favorite outfit; an outfit that is well-worn, comfortable, and a bit shabby.

These moments, for me, revolve around the boundaries of the school year. As a student, school was a welcome activity. I welcomed the social aspect and I loved to learn. My elementary years were interrupted by a serious car accident and I had to change schools for a few years. Big mistake.

I managed to navigate middle school without too many trials and tribulations though my home life was horrific at times. But it was the era of “don’t tell anyone, it’s none of their business.” So I quietly developed into a hot mess on the inside, masked by a cool outward demeanor. Humor became my best defensive tool.

Anxiety ruled my every thought and every move. Would I say the right thing? Will I give the right answer? Would I ever have some “cool” clothes? Why can’t I study like other kids? Will my father start a fight tonight? Will my brother pound on me for no reason? How many chores would there be to complete? These are the easy questions. Others would affect my sleep on many nights. I was in a constant state of “fight or flight.” But not at school. School was comfortable for me.

I was fortunate to encounter a few teachers who saw potential in me when I could not. Two of them encouraged my participation in intramurals, a series of after-school sports programs. As a latch-key kid it was good for me to have a purposeful activity each day. I will never be able to thank those two individuals enough for helping me at a time in my life when it was so crucial.

High school was a roller coaster ride that I survived. There are many good memories of that time, though I made many mistakes due to my life’s circumstances. I’m still loathe to speak of those “circumstances” due to the old school code of never speaking them aloud. And, honestly, they’re still traumatizing for me.

I digress. The month of June meant the anticipation of summer after the close of the school year. By my high school years it also meant exams in the gym with a few hundred other kids. But it also meant we could wear shorts because of the heat. No a/c in our schools. Exam time also included a flexible schedule and not having to be at school if one wasn’t scheduled for a test. I needed the structure of school so this was tough for me. Plus I had to hoof it the two miles each way.

It was the feeling of being on the cusp…how would exams turn out? would there be special fun on the horizon? what did the future hold? If I’d had even a modicum of foresight, I would have made some different decisions. I’ve navigated a difficult course thus far. And I’m so damned exhausted. One foot, then the other. I call this slogging. Slogging is equal to existing. Right now I’m ok with existence. I’m floating. Let me be.

“Old black water, keep on rolling/Mississippi moon, won’t you keep on shining…”. “Black Water”. The Doobie Brothers

It occurred to me…

As a lapsed Catholic, I am often critical and/or scornful of the traditions in which I was raised. That’s my issue, no one else’s. Recently, Grace crept in and allowed me to see what I’ve kept at arm’s length for decades. There is merit in the practice of formalized religion.

This post isn’t about that topic because my thoughts immediately took off to an alternate plane. The “joys” of ADHD. I looked around at the many mourners, at a recent funeral, and realized we had much in common. Most of us are the offspring of the Greatest Generation. And just as that generation has mostly left us, it’s now our turn.

I don’t mean this in a maudlin sense. I’m proud to be a Boomer. Our existence is due to a generation that weathered many storms. They strove for us to have better opportunities than they. In turn I cast my memory’s sights on all I’ve experienced in my lifetime. It is indeed a privilege to grow old. Nothing is promised. Nothing.

And, so, my mind revisits the intent of my post…our annual observance of Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day. After the Civil War, it became a tradition for families to visit the cemeteries and clean the areas in which the markers stood, especially for those who died in war. As a further celebration of the fallen, these families gathered for picnics. This was their method of honor.

For years, along with my mom, I spent time honoring my family at two local cemeteries. We would clean up any branches or limbs overhanging and sweep the stones clean. I learned a great deal about the personalities of some of the older family members. Our outing often culminated in a light picnic while sitting in lawn chairs adjacent to our family.

Never has a cemetery created trepidation in my mind. For me, they are beautiful places of repose. The two I frequent are large and historic. They are wonderful places to walk and observe. In one cemetery my descendants lie in two separate family plots. The original contains a Civil War veteran. The contemporary plot holds WWI, WWII, and Korean War veterans.

I make time to visit and honor their sacrifices. None were lost through war, but war shaped their lives nonetheless. And, because of their efforts, here we are. Now we are ushering our contemporaries, we offspring of the Greatest Generation, into eternity having spent our lives in a civilization that did indeed offer us a plethora of paths for success. I choose to honor my family members, and all who have served. We can’t begin to understand what they experienced in order for us to retain our ways of life.

Vietnam Memorial Wall – Washington, D.C.

I know it’s nice outside, but…

As a child I spent a great deal of time outdoors. Any type of physical play ruled the day. Blessed to have been raised to enjoy and explore the outdoors, it was a joy to be outside. A proficient swimmer by the age of 5, swimming still gives me pleasure. In fact, the water is my most happy place.

Despite wanting to be a lifeguard as a teenager, I became a tennis instructor. My brother fulfilled the lifeguard role. Ten summers spent outdoors on hard-surface tennis courts left me with a great appreciation for the ability to have filled that role. I try not to think about shoulder surgeries, knee replacement, and ankle pain as a result of those hot, sunny days.

I’m happy to be in the sun if I’m dressed for it or am in water…be it a creek, tub, pond, lake, ocean, pool, puddle, stream, sprinkler. You get the idea. I’m also happy to retreat into my air-conditioned home when the humidity gets crazy. But, wait. That’s correct. I have few qualms about putting a bathing suit on regardless of my appearance. The water means too much to me.

Sooooo, what about the title? I’m getting to it. I also worked my way through college, and beyond, at a garden center. Being outdoors selling plants, perennials, and shrubs at this time of year was exhilarating. I’ve done my fair share of gardening over the years.

Yeah, but the title? As an individual with a major depressive disorder, there are days when it’s difficult to get out of my head much less the house. I don’t intend to be flippant. It’s just that most people really don’t get it. I’m glad they don’t because it means they’ve not experienced it.

Does this mean I may never have the joy I once had? Nope. A sense of joy visits on occasion. Do I try to overcome these feelings? Every waking moment. Life has devolved into a performance. Just as I put on five shows a day for 25 years, most days require a concerted effort where I play at being who I think I am.

A little too existential? Yes. Does that mean I’m a phony? No, just trying hard to be the happy-go-lucky kid I was at one time. It’s a beautiful day out today and I’m hunkered in the house alternating between crafting, laundry, writing, and the sporadic foray onto the patio to do just one thing at a time. It’s a red-letter day in that I’m truly accomplishing some tasks.

While I’m not a fan of people dropping by unannounced because my home is in a constant state of chaos (it mirrors my brain), patio season is upon us. If I’m out on the patio, anyone is welcome to stop by. Little, if any, chaos resides on the patio.

“I’m walking on sunshine, woooah/And don’t it feel good.” My memory is loaded with memories akin to walking on sunshine. I’m fortunate enough that I crave to make more. If I could just get outside. It’s nice out.

Song lyrics from Katrina & the Waves “Walking on Sunshine”