Here I am between a rock and a hard place again, unable to move forward and unwilling to go back. You've been there too, I'm guessing. We all have, and eventually we get through it. Sometimes it just Takes. So. Loooooong! My Rock Writing is my bliss, along with making art and music. To quote Hungarian psychologist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, it is when my "flow" happens, a state of concentration wherein I am equally challenged and gratified. While "flow" is present I lose track of time, forget to eat, and basically become so absorbed in whatever I am doing that everything else ceases to exist. As a wife and mother this can be a bit challenging (the family usually appreciates dinner on time over my latest project), but as one who loves to create it is awesome! My Hard Place The fact that I have so many ways to achieve flow and, so far, none of them have panned out economically to the extent they should is trying, to say the least. I'm a lousy business person, and like artists throughout the ages, I struggle to find the balance between doing what I love and what I must. If only making art were as profitable as, say - cleaning toilets (my hardworking hubby does janitor work on the side) there would be no predicament, but periodically I get tired of being a drain on the family's resources enough to actually go out and look for a paying job. That option is closing in on me right now. Lest you think this is one big whine-fest, think again. It's more of a reality check and reminding myself that, no matter what, all things are doable. The only failure is never trying. In the last several years I have succeeded in: writing a fine trilogy with above average sales (not that most people have ever heard of it); starting my own publishing company; becoming an illustrator; teaching dozens of folks to paint; et cetera. I'm not going to stop doing the things I love doing. I may, however, stop trying to make it work. By that, I mean - make it my job. As I see it, one way to get unstuck is to ride the current instead of fight against it. Acceptance creates it's own kind of flow. Life is a beautiful thing when we respond to what hinders us with positivity. Certainly circumstances will influence us, change our course, even redirect us entirely. We can feel stuck, letting pressure build like a geyser until we blow..............or we can adapt and make something else that is beautiful. In the past, even though I have always considered myself an optimist, I've had a hard time seeing the bright side when it comes to putting my writing/artistic career back on hold. I've wanted to stay the course, keep flowing Csíkszentmihályi style, and see where that takes me. But I'm older now - hopefully a little wiser, too - and beginning to understand that there is joy to be found in all situations, if only we choose to seek it. One of my biggest regrets is not that I stepped away from my dreams, but that I didn't always realize what a dream I was already living. My children, whom I adore, have been very supportive of my art and writing, but may have gotten the impression that I would rather be doing other things than devoting myself to being a full-time, actively engaged mom. They were right, of course, yet now that most of them are following their own dreams, I can see that our our short time together could have been less turbulent had I embraced the situation instead of feeling stuck so often. Here we are further down the river all the same. I'm happier now with more time for my passions, but I could have been happier then, too. Stuck is a choice, just like happiness. Like love. I'm going to choose to love whatever I bump into along the way now, be it hard or forgiving. I'm going to let this new flow happen, and try to never feel stuck again. You can too. All it takes is the realization that you'll get there when you get there. Might as well enjoy the journey and create something beautiful along the way. It might not be what you planned. It might be better. Goodbyes are hard. I dread some goodbyes even when I know it is for the best. As a writer, I say sayonara to my characters and I send them out into the world knowing they will take on a life of their own. I can do the same as a mother, but it is infinitely more painful. After all, I can revise a character, plan their plot twists for them, and predict everything they'll do. I can even write them happily ever afters.
Not so with children. Kids grow up and become autonomous - how rude! They make choices independent of my plans for them. They have adventures that I, who nurtured them, could never have foreseen, let alone some I am not invited to join. They travel to distant lands, develop their own interests, meet the world on their own terms. Sometimes they screw up and I can't write them out of it. And, sometimes they succeed brilliantly through no help of mine. As my son leaves to study abroad, I am forced to admit - to myself, mostly - that it is time to let go. As my daughters gracefully disagree with me on matters beyond my control, I realize I have done all that I can. If love is about giving, then I am preparing to love my children more than ever as I give them what was always their birthright; their independence. It's a gift that costs more than they will ever know... ...at least... until they have kids of their own. Safe travels, my dear ones - by air, over land, and through life. My love goes with you, always. "She always wanted to be a writer, but..." I've been attending a lot of funerals lately...well, singing at them, actually. It is something I have done since I was eleven years old when my father, a minister, asked me to share my voice with a bereaved family that I didn't even know. It sounds weird, but I like singing at funerals, probably more so than weddings, which I also do. I like using all of my gifts, and when it benefits others - in this case bringing comfort and peace into a difficult situation - I feel like I am using them to their greatest potential. I also sing in a hospice choir, a church choir, and have taught music at my children's school passing on my love of music to the next generation. But, funerals are what's on my mind today. People always say nice things about the deceased at funerals, even the sparsely attended ones. And rightly so; speaking ill of the dead is poor form, and benefits no one. Listening to folks eulogize their loved ones you would think they were all the most perfect people on the planet. Things they are best remembered for are rarely noteworthy accomplishments, rather, they are the times when they made other people feel special. The times when they poured themselves out in little acts that made a huge difference in someone else's life. What you don't hear is anyone raving about Uncle Fred's cooking, because Uncle Fred* was a bachelor farmer who always took his supper at the local diner. He never taught anybody to knit with those meaty fingers of his because he never cared a lick for needlework, or woolen goods for that matter. And his lectures on life were limited to single sentences cuz he never was much of a talker. But...he always planted a tree whenever he felled one. And his weed-free garden - kept as a hobby - supplied the neighborhood with the hugest, juciest beefsteak tomatoes you ever tasted. He could play the harmonica like nobody's business. His laugh was contagious, the type of belly-shaking, twinkly-eyed good humor that folks associate with Santa, which he played every Christmas at the town hall community supper, doling out candy canes and gifts to all the local children from his own limited savings. He was always up for lending a hand, and one time, when the neighbor's pregnant cow got mired neck deep in the manure pit, he strapped on an antique gas mask and went in after it when no one else was willing. The little boy watching anxiously from the fence went on to become a rescue diver, citing Uncle Fred as his inspiration. You see, we're all writing our own eulogies each and every day, with each act. Much of what we do won't ever get acknowleged - and that's probably a good thing. (Fred's three day benders were few and far between, but when he went on one - boy, oh boy!) It is in the everyday living of our lives that what we will be remembered for comes out. Only time will tell what that is. Some are destined for greatness, and others for simplicity. Most of us have both in us, and our choices reveal it to the world. "If we have greatness in us it may be in the ripples, and not the splash we make." I would like to be remembered as someone who used what she had to benefit not just herself, but others. As someone who didn't just dream about becoming, but became by inspiring others to become along the way. I won't be remembered as a math whiz (or even someone who never uttered a harsh word, unfortunately), but I hope folks will remember that writer/artist/singer/mother/friend who added a little beauty and inspiration to the world, and encouraged them to do the same. *Uncle Fred is a fabrication and not even loosely based on anyone. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental, and taken as a compliment to the author's imagination and descriptive writing skills. If you enjoyed this post please feel free to share it on social media. Who doesn't love to swing? (And, I mean that in the most innocent way!) As a kid I could swing for hours, especially when there was someone there to push me. Pumping back and forth, arcing higher and higher, gliding to a lazy stop, then dragging my feet through the sand (or snow) beneath me - all of it was good. Another push to start the cycle all over, and I was on my way. No matter the season, swinging was a perfect pasttime. On a swing I felt free. I'm older now, and don't do the back and forth motion as well. It leaves me feeling slightly queasy, even with my eyes closed so that I can't see the ground falling away. I'm told it has something to do with the inner ear, an unbalancing of the fluid in the auditory canal. It's the same thing that makes you dizzy from spinning. (I used to love riding the merry-go-round, too, but I don't miss it like I do swinging.) It's harder to enjoy the back and forth - the waxing and waning - of creative energy as an adult, too. I find myself slipping into the winter blahs around this time each year, not because of the weather, but because I have been away from creating too long. With the kids off to school last August, I took off like a first-grader getting an underdog (swing lingo for the most effective type of push). I pumped like mad and cranked out 12 chapters before I tired, and started the slow glide into the Christmas season. Fall's momentum used up, and a million other things on my plate, I came to a writing standstill over the holidays. Now I need a push to get going again, but unlike a kid learning to swing, I have to get myself moving. So...this is me, rocking back and forth, trying to get back into the swing of things. It may take a little while - and a whole lot of effort! - but writing is one pleasure I never intend to give up. See you on the playground! If you like this post, please feel free to share it on social media, and thank you! Just wondering - did everyone get what they wanted this year?
My family had a very lovely Christmas. The only thing that could have made it better would have been having my eldest home, but she will be here later this week and then we can celebrate all over again. That is not to say our Christmas was perfect. In fact, there were a few unexpected twists I could have really done without. Like my mini panic attack about playing my Native American flute at Christmas Eve Mass. I'm less than an amature, and usually only fiddle around on it for my own pleasure, but was somehow persuaded to play along with our pianist and choir. Warming up beforehand, I couldn't remember the fingering for my song, and then the flute got so full of moisture it could barely produce a sound. I tried to back out at the last minute, but - praying to escape with dignity intact - I conceded to at least try. (I did fine by the way; only a few squeaks and shaky notes). Or, the Chinese restaurant we traditionally dine at afterward (In honor of my husband's favorite movie of the season, A Christmas Story) not having a table for us (we've already made reservations for next year). We ended up driving around looking for a substitute, and finally went to a buffet style Chinese restaurant that frankly, even the thought of leaves me feeling a little nauseated. My husband loves it though, and the kids thought it was fun. I ended up eating less - waaaay less! - than I usually do, and felt better for it. Worst of all was the devastation wrought by a dastardly weasel! At least, that's what we think killed three of our chickens - Richard included - sometime between dusk and when we got back from dinner to shut them in. (I'm glad I immortalized him in my last post. I will miss that beautiful bird, and the hens, too.) Esther, the Hen of Nine Lives, seems to have elevated status now due to her incredible ability to survive anything. She and the other four remaining hens appear unfazed. The thing is, we still had a great Christmas. (Well, not the chickens, but...) We made the most of what we had rather than lamenting what we didn't have. Sometimes, I think folks get too wrapped up in the negatives. We focus on shadows and not the light. But Christmas is the season of light. If we let it the Light will dispell the darkness, if not entirely, at least enough for us to see what is truly important. This Christmas, and every Christmas, and all year long. The best gift I got this year was one I've gotten a miliion times before - an optimistic attitude. And it never gets old. This is Richard. Sometimes, when he is being particularly chivalrous, I call him Sir RIchard, These days, however, he pecks, more than protects our hens, greedy glutton that he has become. The other day, eager for treats, he flew over the fence the moment I stepped outside, and landed with a -pouf!- in over a foot of fresh powder. Silly Richard. Poor RIchard! He was stuck, literally, up to his eyeballs. If he had still been his old, sleek self he would have gotten away with his escape attempt, but now, being the size of a small turkey, he couldn't even turn aound in all that snow. I wish I had gotten a picture! As it was, he had to sit there freezing his...comb off, while I first rescued the hen that flew the coop with him. Once she was safely inside, I took a shepherd's crook (flockherd's?), and half-lifed/half-scooted him back toward home. We used to let our chickens free range, but after loosing one for almost a month, finding the poor, bedraggled bird at the neighbors', capturing it in the forest during a downpour, and then nursing it back to health, we decided to limit their territory - at least for the time being. (Also because I got tired of having to hose down the porch!) The henyard we made for them is spacious and sheltered, but has shrunk now with the coming of winter. No wonder RIchard wanted a little adventure. My husband questions sometimes why we keep him, now that they are enclosed. We aren't raising chicks - none of our hens seem interested in sitting - and he takes more than his fair share of feed. But, I just don't have it in my heart to dispatch such a glorious creature.
Come spring I will start letting the chickens out into the yard for a little roam each evening. For now, Richard is definitely ruling the roost through this wintry season by mere kingly presence. And, like his namesake, growing fat. Or was that Henry? I never could keep royalty straight... Still shopping for Christmas? Why not give someone on your list the gift of Fantasy? The Emrysia Three Sisters Trilogy makes a perfect present for avid readers aged 10-12 through adult. Stop by my store page for buy links! They'll be glad you did! |
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