Stories Are For Eternity

A lifetime of learning…

I consider myself a lifelong learner. Each day I acquire new information and/or “spins” on current and past information. For the most part, I enjoy discovering new or altered insights. Just as Holden Caulfield railed about phoniness, some of these trends I find repugnant. Though Holden was a hypocrite, he was a very young man who had much to learn about life. He is also a fictional character.

Today’s vocabulary lesson…curate.

The etymology of the word is in the Latin word ‘curare’ meaning ‘to care.’ As the word evolved through time (Medieval Latin and Middle English), it was used in a religious fashion, mostly in England. A curate referred to a person who tended to the spiritual needs of others. And a curated collection often referred to museum artifacts. In the present time, especially through social media and digitized content, it’s used to create a curated life/reality that looks phenomenal but is usually inaccurate.

I have never admired phoniness nor do I endorse hypocrisy. Does that mean I have never engaged in these behaviors? I’m sure I have. Most folks embellish a bit now and then. Our societal norms seem to be embracing the act of being far more than we actually are. People subject themselves to treatments and introduction of artificial elements to their bodies in order to transform their looks. Why would anyone want to look like a Botox Barbie? I appreciate beauty in the natural human form. Some of these new “looks” go beyond the realm of artificial and are tremendously unattractive to the point of being hideous.

This may be part of creating a curated reality, appearance, lifestyle, etc. My understanding of the word ‘curate’ typically meant a collection of things done with intent and taste. In the modern sense (our digital content world), the intent is to showcase one’s looks, assets, furniture, playlists, trips…on and on…through one’s social media platforms. And whether the information is accurate or not is irrelevant. It’s meant to be an invented facade (the “social media facade”).

Who has time for that? Why is it important? I used to post photos of meals I had made. It’s rare that I enjoy cooking for myself. Posting a meal was a source of pride for me. I’d made something nice for myself. And it was a genuine photo of the actual food, not something from a food magazine. Since learning the newest “meaning” of curated, I will no longer do that. My life is not curated nor do I want it to be. My life is real and I live in a manner of my choosing. I do not live to impress anyone. I hope to be respected. What you see is the real deal.

I’m a plus-sized woman. I’ve never wanted to be seen as unkempt or messy. To that end, I like to dress respectably. I’ve dressed in the same manner since I was a teenager and I favor nice sportswear because: 1) clothes are an investment, 2) well-made clothes last a long time and rarely go out of style, 3) I’m not into clothing fads (I learned a lesson from buying a pair of Earth Shoes), 4) I enjoy comfort, 5) sportswear is an extension of my personality. I do not dress to impress. I dress in response to what the situation requires. For example, it now appears to be acceptable to dress in a casual fashion for a funeral. Never say never, but I don’t envision wearing jeans to a funeral. That’s my choice and my belief is to dress with respect to the deceased.

My social media presence is genuine, unless I report otherwise. It never occurred to me to “put on airs.” In fact, my opinions are too honest for some. And for my fellow women, there are no guarantees in regard to altering one’s body. You may endure a fate like Joan Rivers. Worse yet, you may end up looking like Laura Loomer.

Take what you see on social media with a grain of salt. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is fake. After all, “Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.” Madonna was once a talented singer and thus I reference these lyrics from her song “Vogue,” in order to make a point.

My English Cottage garden (not). There are talented folks who legitimately create these. I’m not one of them.

Meetings of the minds…

I spent a few hours with my mom this afternoon. She’s 98 and in a state of cognitive decline. Her home is a memory care facility. Her hearing isn’t great and it’s more difficult for her to get around. But underneath it all, she’s still my mom.

My mother and I have always been inordinately close, mostly for survival. Some would call it co-dependent and they wouldn’t be wrong. As I mentioned, we called it survival. I will leave it at that. Home life wasn’t easy for many years. It left its mark on each of us; each of us is uniquely aware of what we suffered and how it’s stayed with us these many decades.

There are moments of clarity for her but they are less and less frequent. My personality has always been humor-oriented. I like to laugh and to make others laugh. I was a quirky kid and did funny things, though I wasn’t deliberately trying to be funny. I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drummer in many ways.

Today marks my 68th year. As an empath who feels things exceedingly deeply, I can’t say it’s always a good day. Along with many days, it’s mostly bittersweet. For decades two individuals helped me keep my train on the tracks. They understood me at my deepest level, they understood the depth of my emotions, they understood my daily struggle to stay afloat. For the past few years, I’ve been navigating without them. It’s been difficult. They can’t help me now but my memories of them do, to some extent.

My longtime love left this world over four years ago. Things have never been the same. I miss his steady presence, his sound advice, and the fact that he thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. He chose to see who I am at my core. Both he and my mom watched me travel the hills and valleys of mental health challenges for more than four decades. They saw how hard I fought, they saw my struggles, they saw what it takes away from me daily. And yet, they loved me just as fiercely. I hold those memories closely when people choose not to see who I really am.

Today, there was a shaft of sunlight that poked through the haze of my mother’s thoughts. It was a gift I didn’t know I wanted. My mom looked at me with her tired blue eyes, a soft smile on her face, and she said, “I’ve always seen you through a different lens than anyone else. You’re always my kind, sweet girl who brought laughter to our home.” Flabbergasted, I struggled to maintain my feelings. We were sitting in a large room where staff and other residents were milling about.

I laughed and said, “you have to say that because you’re my mother.” I don’t do emotion in public. She looked at me in earnest. “I’ve always recognized you were special and I hope you never change.” Then she patted my hand. “I’m so proud to be your mother.”

Well, knock me over with a feather. I’m now releasing the emotion that resulted from these statements. Her words are a gift I can’t begin to quantify. My tears will turn to ugly crying shortly. They are the tears of of loss, the tears of joy, the tears of what will never be again. But they’re my tears and I earned every single one. May they continue to be a source of comfort among my memories.

Beverage? Cigarette? I was a helpful child.

And recently I discovered this fabulous piece of writing by Aariv Jah. He put my feelings on paper. I wish the individual who needs to read this would see it. But I doubt he will, too mired in his own head. Someone could pass along the suggestion. Bear with me, it’s lengthy but so, so good.

“Maybe one day you’ll understand that I was never trying to argue or prove myself right. I was just trying to explain what was hurting inside me. I wanted you to listen —- not defend yourself, not turn it around, not make me feel like my feelings were too much. I just wanted my feelings to matter to you the way yours mattered to me.

“I wasn’t asking for perfection. I wasn’t asking for grand gestures. Just a little patience. A little understanding. A moment where you chose to understand me instead of trying to be right.

“Because sometimes, all I ever wanted was to feel heard, understood, and [respected]* by you.”

*The original text is “loved.” I chose ‘respected’ because that is my intent.

Harsh reality hurts the hopeful…

And when we hurt, we really hurt. I’ve always been a bit idealistic. I know I have high expectations for myself and often they slip over into my expectations for others. But I was held to high standards throughout my growing up years. I’m not saying it was a good thing nor am I saying it was a bad thing. Because I lived to a higher standard, I often expected the same from others.

I really use this blog in an attempt to help others. People have far worse lives than I’ve had and endure unimaginable challenges. This post is presented from the view of a trauma survivor.

Already there are the squeamish who are clicking right out of this entry, or saying, “here she goes again, being all preachy and TMI,” or “this is a bunch of bull💩.” Knock yourselves out. You don’t have to read what I write nor do you have to like what I write. But I may write as I wish.

And there’s an individual saying, “I bet she even has PTSD which is stupid.” I’m up for the challenge. Yes, I do have PTSD. It’s mild compared to what many experience but that doesn’t negate its effect on my nervous system. Raised voices and arguments send my mind into panic and protect mode. Inwardly, the anxiety spreads throughout my being. My heart beats faster, my eyes dart around looking for escape routes, I become clammy, my vision blurs, fear grips my chest like a vice. There are other triggers that cause this response in me.

I used to feel ashamed to have these reactions. Once I learned what was happening, I was able to identify the triggers and to remove myself from reactive situations. But that isn’t always possible.

There are many things I’m learning to live with, so that I may have a better quality of life in my future. Fretting over former friends and the hurt they’ve caused through actions and/or words is a huge time suck for me. I’m learning to jettison my feelings in regard to these situations. While it is initially a profound loss, it ends up being a relief.

Not an especially happy post but many of us are misunderstood. We are colored by what we’ve lived through, even if you don’t want to acknowledge its existence. Be happy you don’t live with our anxiety but allow us some grace when we make mistakes. And for goodness sake, don’t talk to us like we have a third-eye in the middle of our foreheads.

That last sentence is a reference to one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes, called “Will the Real Martian Please Stand Up?” There are some very powerful episodes of this show, just as there are others that are incredibly thought-provoking. Why does it matter if people may be a bit different?

“When you’re strange/Faces come out of the rain/When you’re strange/No one remembers your name…”. The Doors

Is that song running through your head now?

Adulting ain’t for sissies…

“Good writing is slow. Deep writing is slower.”

I’ve reached the point in my life where I could be resting on my laurels and sipping a cold beverage on a tropical beach. My internal makeup doesn’t lean to resting on my laurels, though sitting on a warm sunny beach would be lovely. But there’s a hitch in my giddy-up.

My hitch is 98 years old. For the last several years, I’ve had to act as my mom’s banker/accountant/healthcare proxy/entertainer, etc. It’s easier now that she is in memory care, as she doesn’t question my every decision. The flip side is while she knows my name and that I’m her daughter, I’m not sure that circuit is complete.

As an individual who has a general anxiety disorder and severe clinical depression, there are days when it’s all I can do to keep my head above water. The added responsibilities, at times, completely overwhelm me. My two best supporters are lost to me now. They would listen without judgement and offer suggestions. More than that, they knew how I struggled each day despite working hard to maintain my equilibrium.

You know, I never imagined writing a public blog in which I’d discuss my health issues. Never.Ever.In.A.Million.Years. But, here I am. My intent when I first began blogging over 15 years ago was to practice and to showcase my writing skills. Situations have a way of morphing into something else.

In the last several years, I’ve learned an enormous amount about my own self. My growing up years were fraught with challenges many never have to face. So be it. I offer no excuses. I offer empowerment. I offer perseverance. I offer strength.

Over the years I’ve been told by several people that in sharing my own “speed bumps,” it has given others hope and/or courage. I find that gratifying and it gives me a further sense of purpose.

Let’s be real. There are many, many folks dealing with tremendously challenging situations. Mine, in large part, are manageable. The crux of the matter is due to the need my mental health issues ask of me, it leaves little left for the maintenance of my physical health and vice-versa. In my head I can still do most anything. The reality that I battle to accept is that I cannot. And this acceptance is most difficult to embrace.

Just as acceptance of a mental health diagnosis over forty years ago felt like a scarlet letter had been engraved in my forehead (the letter ‘n’ for nuts), acknowledgement of life’s shifting realities is difficult to grasp.

I will state again that my illnesses are “invisible” illnesses. It’s not as though I’m sporting a cast or have a huge scar. Many of us in this situation just want to be treated as we always were; therefore, we go to great lengths to pretend we are just as we always were. What does that cost us? It means our down time must be spent in recovery mode so we are able to get up the next day and do it all over again.

At a series of events recently, I was mortified with myself because I’d become that old, overweight person who was wheezing. In breaking it down, I came to terms that I’d kind of given up on my conditioning after a severe bout of anemia where my iron levels took over two years of transfusions and infusions to stabilize and return to normal levels. Then I had a knee replacement. I worked hard at physical therapy and gained a stable knee as a result.

Though I’d done many different water exercises, I was not able to kick in the manner I was accustomed, so I gave up on swimming laps. For the first time, I quit something that was very meaningful to me. Because of this, walking any distance became a challenge. Instead of pushing through it as I usually did, I gave up on it. And I’m paying the price.

So I’m going to stop beating up on myself and next week I will begin a course of physical therapy designed for reconditioning and strength purposes. It’s going to be hard. I can do hard as long as I can keep all three balls in the air. If one falls, it upsets my equilibrium in a big way. Everything goes bust and I start from scratch. I’ve done this many times and I will do it again.

My goal is one of continued self-discovery. In order to pursue it, I need to be in far better shape. It’s just that simple and it’s just that difficult. And it works because I’ve worked it. As for my weight, that will be discussed separately. There’s a solution. As always, it is impacted by some of my other limitations. More on that another time.

If you knew me decades ago and described me as kind and funny, that is still who I am. It’s just that I’m dedicated to being able to put one foot in front of the other and that effort requires a majority of my waking time. In the bits and pieces of time I grab for actual enjoyment, I’m still in awe of nature’s beauty, in awe of words, in awe of music.

“I know what it means to hide your heart/From a long time ago…./It keeps you runnin,’ yeah, it keeps you runnin’…. Doobie Brothers

We all know a single word may have several meanings. For decades, I misinterpreted these lyrics. Now I understand. More on words with several meanings at a later time. I’m busy navigating a path.

Why? Just why?

Did you know there have been 52 school shootings thus far this year in the US? Of the 52, 16 have been on college campuses while 36 occurred at K-12 facilities. I had no clue. Why have school shootings become routine activities? If we are so outraged when they occur, why are we unable to eradicate it? And why do we not hear about them?

I’m a retired educator. During my career I was witness to the escalation of the incidence of school shootings. Watching the horror unfold in Littleton, CO., on April 20, 1999, I was struck by the similarity of the school to the school that employed me as a teacher. It was uncanny. Ironically I was able to tune in because it was the week of our April break.

It’s no secret that I’m an avid reader. Though I’ve read most genres in literature, my favorite remains a well-constructed mystery. In fact, due to my reading within the Detective Fiction, True Crime, and Forensic offerings, I would be a pretty good investigator. Lots of the enjoyment of reading mysteries, for me, is to follow the clues and to try to map out a conclusion. That’s a simplistic view. There’s just so much more.

Despite my dislike of college psychology courses, the psychology of aberrant behavior is fascinating in a macabre way. I cannot fathom how people think so easily to harm others. Though I’m able to understand a human being reaching a breaking point and snapping, I do not begin to understand a mind that enjoys hurting others.

That aside, I’m tired of violence. Is school violence a gun control issue or a mental health issue? Is it both? Is it our changing societal norms? Is it too many things to untangle? I’m sorry to say I have no answer. Believe me, I’ve given it a great deal of thought. All I know is children should not feel frightened to go to school.

Last week, the teacher’s description of the fear these children showed is a phenomenon a child should never experience within a school building, barring a natural disaster like a tornado. I know that feeling of fear, though mine had a different source. It never leaves you, ever.

I live about a two-hour drive from Newtown, CT. The mass murder at Sandy Hook Elementary School on December 14, 2012, took all of five minutes. The perpetrator took his own life after killing 20 children, mostly ages 6 & 7, and six adults at the school. Police would find he’d killed his mother first before heading to the school.

Many of these incidents have a rapid response from law enforcement. Since the Columbine tragedy, communities have developed plans to deal with these situations. These plans also rely on their individual components. As we saw with the Uvalde and Marjory Stoneman Douglas (Parkland High) tragedies, vital pieces within the response teams failed to work as expected. And many perpetrators of school-based shootings have to force their way into school buildings now.

Even the horrific Las Vegas Shooting in 2017 lasted only ten minutes. During that time 58 were killed and over 400 were wounded. Parkland High’s incident took six minutes (17 deaths). The Virginia Tech shooting lasted eleven interminable minutes (33 deaths). Public outcry is swift after these incidents. Many thoughts and prayers are offered. Measures are taken to secure school buildings, though time is showing us the perpetrators find ways around this.

Now we have a President in our country who is not even able to express condolences for victims. He’s more apt to say he’s glad the perpetrator killed himself because he was obviously a nasty person. And because our politicians are making so much money from lobbyists and manufacturers, they do not seem willing to modify gun laws.

I believe in a person’s right to bear arms HOWEVER we are no longer a country that needs weapons to raise militias for our defense and the majority of the people in our country do not rely on a weapon to provide their food. That’s all I’m saying about that.

Do we need to focus on these horrible events? No. But they should not be swept under the rug nor should they be underreported. That smacks of media manipulation which occurs more and more each day.

Bottom line…no child should be frightened to go to school. Children deserve to feel safe at school, that includes teenagers, college students, etc.

“I’m sick of hearing that there’s nothing we can do/This time could be the spark, the start of something new…” Parkland (Into the Silence) Surfer Blood

In the blink of an eye…

I came. I saw. I greeted. Then the 3-day extravaganza was complete, the mood that accompanies “The Party’s Over” settles like a heavy veil and envelops my thoughts along with a warm blanket of good feelings. As an individual who feels far too deeply and is exceedingly sensitive, each event presented personal challenges. Thankfully the book I wrote about the history of the school district, and was hawking, was able to allow me to be “present” and engaged.

The series of events was well planned. Kudos to the organizers. Even brief moments with friends from elementary school days was revitalizing. And looking back on our past exploits was a welcome waltz down memory lane. The only missing component was recognition of class members who have passed. They were a part of us and we are the stewards of their memories.

Perhaps the good feelings will persist as an undercurrent in a part of our unconscious thoughts. Though we know we can never go back, those times are part of what shaped us as individuals (for better or worse). May we continue to grow as human beings with those memories as part of our foundations.

Was it all rainbows, lollipops, and unicorns? Of course not. But neither is life. And since this was a part of life’s passage, it should not have been expected to be all sunshine and goodwill. The vast majority of it was.

Our location in upstate NY provided a warm backdrop for the events. There’s nothing like autumn in the Northeast, even when the fall colors aren’t their most brilliant. One event took place at a local state park. It’s a place I take for granted since it’s always there and has always been there. It was a perfect setting for an afternoon picnic especially since Mother Nature was in a good mood.

“The trees are in their autumn beauty./The woodland paths are dry./Under the October twilight/the water/Mirrors a still sky.” William Butler Yeats

As far as autumnal music is concerned, there is plenty. The vibe on Saturday could well have been Earth, Wind, & Fire’s joyous “September.” “Our hearts were ringin’/In the key that our souls were singin’…”. But as someone whose thoughts are usually on a deeper and more soulful level, my memory flits to some more classical type songs, like “Autumn in New York” featuring Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. “Dreamers with empty hands/They sigh for exotic lands/It’s autumn in New York/It’s good to live it again.” Soulful and wistful.

Embrace the moments you’re in. They’re finite.

John Boyd Thacher State Park (NY) featuring the Helderberg Escarpment

Photo credit: Kathi Russo Cannone

Microcosms…

As a younger person, I barely grasped the meaning of the word “microcosm.” I thought it could be applied to any sort of small group, instead of a small representation of a larger group. While it sort of matters, it doesn’t in the grand scheme.

My life right now is rather freakishly microcosmic, although I’m thinking most any tiny group might be compared with almost any larger group. For goodness sake, I’ve short-circuited.

Take two. I knew where I wanted to go with my initial train of thought but I would never get you there. So, off we go to another cosmos, maybe. Good grief, I feel as though I’m back to teaching science fiction. I enjoyed teaching sci fi, but I’m done with that teaching business.

Today I’ve been thinking about “things” that have had large parts in our lives. And where have they gone? The sport of tennis was an instrumental part of my life for over three decades. I played, I taught, I coached. I stopped. Honestly I don’t think I’ve picked up a racquet in 25 years. Tennis was a love/hate thing with me (that could be said for several other things).

As a kid, I spent loads of time behind our town’s middle school hitting tennis balls. It was close by and they had newer courts at that time. Seven minutes by bike, if one hustled. Fifteen minutes on foot, if the shortcuts weren’t blocked. Over the years there were a few shortcuts if one was on foot. Through the woods behind the courts, over the fence panel by the top area of the courts, through the dirt road by the piano teacher’s house. I opted for the latter method most of the time because it was usually unblocked.

It was rare for me to be on foot. Riding my bike was my preferred method. Once the dirt road shortcut was permanently closed, one had to ride one’s bike to the front of the school and then down a path on the far right. This took us, whether on a bike or on foot, past the exterior of the pool and the girl’s gym to the rear area of the school. As one continued on the right-hand side, the tennis courts made their appearance. There were two tennis courts, fenced off partially, that bordered a couple of basketball courts. Then there were six more beautiful courts, with a backboard on the first court.

Tennis heaven, except during the 60s and 70s it was a very popular activity in my town. Most people were good about keeping play to one hour if people were waiting to play. Now I suppose a riot would break out. I honed my game, such as it was, back there by battering the backboard if no one else showed up to play.

As a budding teen, if my neighbor and I went to play I knew there would be a post-tennis cigarette. Though the same age, my neighbor was more sophisticated than this tomboy. We’d sit and smoke our cigarettes. Then we’d chew some grass from the field because it was supposed to cover the smoke fragrance. Who did we think we were fooling?

My mother. I fooled my mother because we were in a bad car accident when I was young and my mother (driving the car) smashed her nose against the steering wheel and lost a large percentage of her sense of smell. Still, I chewed the grass and spit it out because I was too young and stupid to think of that fact back then.

This is the model of car that bought the farm back then and it was the same color.

Safety features back then left much to be desired. Back to tennis. Even though I broke my leg badly in the crash, it never impacted future athletic endeavors.

The town always ran some good summer programs through its recreation department. I participated in a tennis program one spring and won a serving contest. It netted (pun intended) me a prize! A Tretorn Tennis Trainer. Very high tech in 1969!

Mine was yellow and the ball was white. I filled the base with water so it wouldn’t go flying after the ball (on its elastic string).

It was a great prize and I spent literal hours in the driveway hitting the ball as hard as I could. Heads up if the elastic “string” broke because you had to dodge the string and keep an eye on the ball as it flew across the street.

There’s so much more to tell, but I’ve lost my momentum for now. Who does that? The readers want a complete post, not a quit because you lost your oomph. Oh well. Stay tuned…or not.

One month and counting…

I used to think a 50th high school reunion meant life was almost over. Good grief, the people are elderly! I am soon to be counted among them. Though I can’t fathom how time passed so quickly, I am on the cusp of attending my 50th high school reunion.

Due to my authorship of a book on the early history of our school district, I was asked to be present at the last two 50th reunions, classes of 74 and 75, so my book would be available and I could be there to sign it. I did know some folks in each of those classes and I enjoyed seeing their joy as they rediscovered acquaintances and friends. And I benefitted from speaking with so many different people.

I’m happy to sell copies of my book, a portion of each sale is donated to the particular class. But since I didn’t write the book for financial gain, I’m not too pushy about it. The book fills in some historical gaps and has lots of old pictures. Through the joy of these experiences, there were some unexpected takeaways. The Class of 1974 Reunion left me with my first case of COVID. And it also left me a last chat with an individual who had a role in helping to shape my life. Last year’s experience also involved speaking with many individuals who played important roles in my earlier life.

Will it be that way with my own class? It’s hard to say. Seeing fellow classmates has a bit of a different connotation for me. But I’m approaching the activities with an open mind, just as I approached each of the 26 school years I taught high school English (at my Alma mater no less).

I’ve flailed about for much of my own adult life. I mean this in the sense of choosing not to marry and not to have a family. The true love of my life passed away four years ago, not a surprise as he was older. I will be happy to see people I haven’t seen in a very long time…people who brought joy and/or pain. Life is a learning experience and I’d like to experience as much as possible.

It’s only been in the past ten years that I’ve arrived at a better understanding of who I truly am. You see, my hometown is one where people are competitive financially, socially, and educationally. I’ve done my due diligence. My financial standing is modest but very adequate. The real pride is in knowing I’ve done it all myself. I paid for my education, my homes, my vacations, etc. There is gratification in hard work. Socially? I’ve never had true social aspirations. Small talk isn’t my thing and I have never been a “joiner,” so social climbing isn’t an interest. However, I’ve long been aware of my “standing.” My main goal is to be respected and remembered for being kind to people. I was raised with certain expectations and a solid array of manners. I can be dressed up and taken out. Insert me into most any social situation and I’m able to interact with ease.

As for education, I’ve achieved a very (Master’s degree and 30+ other graduate hours) decent amount though have always wanted more. And it’s because I enjoy learning, not to hold my level of education over anyone’s head. As I’ve learned new things over the years, it has opened more and more doors for my own enrichment.

I’m also ”done” with many things. For example, I’m done with agonizing over my appearance. Many people see me around town and I no longer feel the need, or desire, to dress to impress. As a laid-back and casual dresser, my main goals are comfort and neatness. I’ve seldom been enticed by fads or trends in fashion. Ditto for makeup and hair care. I’ve gained a ton of weight since high school. So be it. I’m a product of my life’s experience thus far. You don’t know what I’ve been through or what I deal with daily. Don’t judge the unknown.

I’m a regular person. I’ve done good deeds, I’ve made mistakes, I have some regrets. In the grand scheme of things, I feel fortunate for what I have and I don’t grieve for what I’ve chosen not to have. I look forward to seeing any of my former classmates. And just because I’m a serious and thoughtful individual, don’t ever think a smile or laugh is far from my lips. My sense of humor is robust and has been since I was a little kid. I am still pretty shy in large group settings, so don’t hesitate to approach me.

And I will disclose that I have an epic plan formulating for a future book. It’s fermenting in my brain. There are many levels of logistics involved, so I may not start on the “official journey” until late spring 2027. There is a great deal of research and preparation involved and that will occupy plenty of the time until then.

“I never said you had to offer me a second chance/(I never said you had to)/I never said I was a victim of circumstance/(I never said)/I still belong/Don’t get me wrong/…”. Billy Joel “My Life”

How might I…

Find my passion? Let’s begin on an equal playing field. Passion has a few different meanings. Today I’m referring to enthusiasm and strong desire. This chat isn’t about physical love or desire.

As a kid I recall being interested in so many different things. I counted the hours until I could do “x”. I mourned when favorite activities were over. There weren’t enough hours in the day to do all I wanted.

And now? Lots of time, lots of ideas, total lack of desire. It has taken me a great deal of time to stop blaming myself for wasting time. I’m not. I’m living with lots on my “plate.” As someone who was passionate about so many things, where did it all go.

A year ago I took up paper crafting and I enjoy creating junk journals. I toyed with the idea of doing craft shows, selling stuff online, creating workshops that pair junk journaling with the healing powers of writing. Currently I’m making journals for friends and acquaintances and randomly gifting them. I don’t know if they even want them.

Here’s the deal. I have no idea what I want to do. I’ve evaluated my skill set. I’m good at telling people about stuff, some call it teaching. I write pretty well. I have an inordinate interest in mysteries and crime. I know a bunch of different things.

Sounds easy enough to figure something out, right? Well, there is this to consider:

I didn’t choose to experience mental illness. While I don’t experience all of these things, many are a large part of my life. And don’t tell me to put my big girl pants on and get over myself. That’s the equivalent of telling a blind individual to just look closer and they’ll see.

The first four bullet points live with me on a daily basis. I always wanted to be the type who didn’t eat. Nope. I don’t believe the fifth is an issue but I tend to distance myself in general, so who knows? I definitely isolate when my moods are swinging like crazy. Who wants to be around someone down in the dumps?

I do not have frequent crying spells and/or meltdowns. I have them on occasion and they are epic. They aren’t pretty but no one else is subject to them, usually. I don’t avoid reality though I’ve had an active imagination all of my life and sometimes want to live in my dreams.

The last three are a double-edged sword. I’m a product of the generation where we were told not to tell people our problems. I learned well. I’m always fine. Most people don’t want to hear otherwise. As for discussing mental health? It’s still a huge stigma and so many folks just don’t understand because either they don’t want to, they don’t believe in it, or they’re just plain scared.

I’m just me. Personable, funny, honest, smart, and capable. I’m not always comfortable talking about my mental health but I do because so many people have no clue how difficult it is for some of us just to get out of bed or leave the house to do an errand sometimes. And I’m tired of being called lazy or messy.

“Even though the river is wide/I walk down every evening and I stand on the shore/I try to cross to the opposite side/So I can finally find out what I’ve been looking for.” from River of Dreams by Billy Joel

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…”