“Write fantasy,” he had said, when in my frustration I told him I was struggling with finding words- any words, to put down on the blank page before me. And, because I have the sense of humor of a 15-year-old boy, I giggled and snorted as my mind went directly to lewd and sinister behavior.
War has been waged in my home.
The last ten days have seen my surroundings, once contented, morph into a terrifying battleground, and at lightening speed. Once quiet evenings with a good book have, from seemingly nowhere, turned into hours of blaring diatribes of bitterness, complete with a curse word to every third or fourth noun, and often ending with a non-flying object taking to the skies out of utter frustration. Days of extensive irritation, and consequent pain have ensued, causing hurt and anger to collect in the space above my head like hard black lines scribbled in a bubble above a comic strip character. And, yes, weapons of mass destruction have been used.
The last few days I have felt desperately sorry for myself. Horribly lonely, not a friend within a 20 mile radius, and without a car to go anywhere, I’ve holed myself away at home for yet another weekend. Alone. Broke. Unable to even take a quick trip to the store without committing myself to a 30 minute walk.
And so it is Spring, and the light hangs around a bit longer, flowers begin pushing their way through the dirt, and the blue sky is making a show of the gray. Spring is the shucking off of the dark, the warming of the chill, and the blooming of the lifeless. It allows color into a dreary existence of short days and long nights, representing change, and renewal, and life.
Well, that wasn’t the news I wanted to hear. But, in the reality of life, guess what? I took a wicked curve ball.
I was prepared, alright, or at least I thought I was. For weeks now, I’ve expected that ball hard and fast, straight down the line, into the center of the glove. I had it all planned out, and in it’s supposed foolproof assuredness, I tied it up with a pretty bow. Continue reading
Most of us have been there- some of us more than once, at that place along the path of life where we stop to assess what we’re doing, where we’re going, and whether or not we’re happy. The crossroads, it’s called, and I hear it’s as exciting as it is scary, although the latter is more common in my experience.
I’ve spent a lovely, peaceful weekend with my Sister Lynda, sharing good wine, great food, and deep, thoughtful conversation. (And, by the way, it’s difficult to introduce Lynda, who I often call my “new” Sister, without sharing the story of our family- it is one of love and angst, and shrouded in a thin layer of devout sadness that lived within our mother for the entirety of her adult life. But, you’ll have to click subscribe- just a couple inches Northwest of where your eyes are now to hear the whole story. (And, besides, all the cool kids are doing it.) That, my friends, is another entry entirely. Stay tuned.)
Several months ago, in one of the more philosophical discussions that Ren and I are so prone to having in the deep hours of the night, she asked me if I were to have a dinner party, and could invite five deceased people, who would make the guest list?
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed. Maybe you haven’t thought twice. I’d like to believe that perhaps it’s been overlooked, but I’m quite sure it has not. And if you know me- really know me, it’s glaringly obvious.
So, it’s Thanksgiving Eve, and the expected gratitude is slow to rise to the surface in my pensive state of mind. I’ve had a tough year- and a worse last couple of months, hardly something to jump up and down about. In fact, if it weren’t a holiday that “forced” me to stop and think about things, I would continue on my merry way, a daily break down practically imminent, finding me curled into a ball of sobs on the floor like some crazy lady.