Friends

Enjoyed a good discussion with one of my children today, regarding friends. Specifically, how to manage competing interests. One friend wants to do one thing, another something else, and another nothing at all; how to balance that to please the majority, while also remembering to prioritize personal well-being. Good question. And one I hardly feel qualified to answer.

Growing up, I had one close friend. One person I hung out with 90% of the time. The other 10% I was either up to my elbows in household chores, or horse, chicken, and rabbit dung. More often than not, my friend helped me get my livestock chores out of the way, because we were in some instances partners--we each owned rabbits and chickens and caged them on my property, bred the bucks and does, hens and roosters, and sold the kits and chicks at auction--and because in exchange for helping, my friend had exclusive access to ride one of my horses. But time changes everything. And everyone.

By the time we were eighteen, we each had serious boyfriends. From different backgrounds and friend groups. My parents had separated, and my mom sold my childhood home; I had to sell most of my animals, taking with me only one horse (boarded out) and my dog. My friend and I hung out less often, wrapped up as we were in our new boyfriends and their family/social groups. Not to mention full-time jobs. Eventually, we each married our respective boyfriends, and our visits were even less frequent. Then I had kids. She didn't. My marriage broke up. Hers didn't. She had kids. I remarried and moved away. Had more kids. My friend and I went from hanging out daily in elementary and high school, to not seeing or speaking to each other for months. Sometimes a year or more. And yet, when we did finally manage to coordinate our personal and family schedules to visit, it was like we'd never been apart. That's friendship.

The same is true with most of those people I consider true friends. 

Me and one of my life-long friends.
Not the one mentioned in the post.

We don't talk or text every day. We don't hang out every weekend. And we're not all in the same group. Or lifestyle circumstances.

My friends are spread out. Only two live within ten minutes of me. The others are anywhere from an hour, to twelve hours away. Some are married or in long-term relationships. Others single. I see some more often than others. And they all mean the world to me.

Friendship isn't about how much time you spend together, or how you spend that time. Friendship is in the heart. It's a feeling, and it can't be charted.

I've made mistakes with regards to friendship. Looking back with age and wisdom, I realize people I thought were close friends, were actually, In The Moment Friends. Meaning, that in that moment in our lives, we needed each other. We each served a purpose for the other, providing emotional or physical support. Shared lifestyle. Children of similar age, or on the same sport's team. And when that moment in our lives passed, or we outgrew the need for the other person's support, developed new interests or hobbies, or entered a different stage in our life where that person no longer easily fit, or filled a necessary role, like a black hole collapsing inward, the relationship imploded. It happens.

What I also learned, is that true friends forgive. They actively strive to resolve differences. As my childhood best friend and I did. Many, many, times. 

We threw rocks at each other. And hurtful names. Hung up on each other. Refused to answer the phone when the other called. And yet somehow, we always found our way back to each other. Our way back to putting our friendship above petty differences.

So, when it comes to managing competing differences among friends, I have no hard, fast answer. I don't know that there is an answer.

I think, however, when you're happy in yourself, in who you are and what you do, you'll attract like-minded friends. People with whom you can safely share and exchange ideas, interests, goals, and dreams; people who support you, or, at the very least, give you the freedom to do what you need to do, to be happy. People unafraid to challenge you if, or when, you veer off path, or attempt to sacrifice important values or goals for less-important or easier diversions; people willing to be honest, and who value your honesty in return. Friends care. Even when you don't do what they want you to. Even when you don't like some of the things they do. Even when you want something they don't. The same is true in reverse.

Friendship is about empowering those you care about to be authentic; to be true to themselves. To their goals. Their dreams. Their values. And perhaps, that's the answer.

Check your values. Do they align with the people you consider friends? Do theirs align with yours?

Our friendships are a reflection of who we are. In the moment. At the time. Where we are in our life. Where we'll end up. Some friendships flow, change, and grow with us our entire lives; others last only until the harvest. The key to recognizing the difference, and appreciating each, is to spend time with and know, nurture, educate, entertain, love and empower, the very best-friend you'll ever have: You.

Deborah

To be capable of steady friendship or lasting glove are the two greatest proofs, not only of goodness of heart, but of strength of mind. ~William Hazlitt

Being Female

Confession: I've been avoiding Social Media. It's taken me most of my life to truly appreciate the level of harm my empathetic tendency has to hurt me.

I don't just read angry or terrified posts; I absorb them. Feel them. And no matter how I remind myself I am not personally affected, either by the privilege of birth or citizenship, I have a hard time separating myself from the pain those personally impacted, feel.

I've been on the receiving end of sexual harassment, physical assault, emotional intimidation, the latter as recently as last week when a large white male in his forties entered an elevator I was in. As he stepped on, he looked me up and down in a way that set my alarm bells ringing, and hairs on my neck on end. I briefly considered stepping off, but if he followed me, I would be trapped on the 5th floor with no one around but him. And, it was only 5 floors to the Lobby. And witnesses. I remained, and avoided eye-contact, but kept him in my peripheral vision. He looked at his phone, laughed, and then looked at me.

"They're protesting back home."
Silly me, I responded, because that's what POLITE women do (or those do that are afraid to piss off the bigger stronger person with whom they're trapped in a small metal box): "Protesting? The new president?"
"Yeah." He smirked. "And they just better get over it."

I stepped off that elevator moments later, AFTER him (didn't want him behind me), and loitered by the front desk until he departed out the front door. Then I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I am Canadian. And, as much as it galls me to admit it, I also gave thanks I'm Caucasian.

That's White Privilege. Knowing your skin color offers you a certain level of protection. Next time I visit the US, I only have to worry about being female. And that makes me want to cry.

All my life I've had to worry about being female. From the time I was a young and my mother admonished me for turning somersaults, or cartwheels, while wearing a dress: Good girls don't show off their underwear! Or when I started to develop, and male friends of my parents and aunts started staring, and in some cases, groping. When boys at school started cat-calling, or "copping a feel" in the hallways, or on the bus. Men at work whistled and cat-called, asked if I wanted to participate in Wet T-Shirt contest? Told me I had the "nicest big b....lue eyes they had ever seen" as they stared at my chest. It was daily.

As I grew older, and legislation and social acceptance of such sexist behavior changed, the daily assault on my psyche with regard to my physiology slowed. It never went away, as exemplified by my recent elevator encounter (and yes, an inappropriate and obvious full-body scan imbued with sexual overtones is an assault on the psyche), but with legal avenues open to people like me (females), business management and principals started cracking down on inappropriate behavior on the part of males, and societal norms began to change. Young men were beginning to be raised with greater respect for their female counterparts.

Sexual assault was defined as such: Sexual assault. Not "copping a feel". Not "checking to see if they're real". Not "offering a compliment" (because the invitation to the Wet T-Shirt contest was apparently that, a compliment), but SEXUAL ASSAULT. And I began to get through entire days without experiencing an uncomfortable reminder of my femaleness. The fact I had one to four children in tow most days probably helped. The fact the Law and the Powers That Be said it's NOT OKAY, helps more. And that is what is so terrifying about recent events in the U.S.

The small measure of protection females in general had, went up in a puff of fetid air from the white male who will soon be the ultimate Power That Be. Forget being a woman of color. I can't even imagine what they feel. And I won't presume to know. I only know, that as a female, I hurt. A lot.

We were finally seeing, after centuries of oppression and abuse, some improvement in perception of our femaleness. Some improvement in protection of our femaleness. Some respect with regard to our right to not have our femaleness assaulted, physically or psychically. And one person, one man, one white man, has the power to roll all that back. And that is what has kept me from Social Media the last couple of weeks: Grief.

Grief for my Sisters. Grief for my daughter. Grief for my future granddaughters. Grief for my nieces. Grief for all the females of this world that face daily persecution, limitations, and outright abuse/assault/terror simply because they are

Female.

***

Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally. ~ Abraham Lincoln

Best laid plans...

My plan today was to tidy the house and dive into WIP edits; after a full weekend helping husband with roof-related project following a couple of days caring for my nieces, I was eager to catch up on writing-related work. Then hubs needed help with morning errands. We made it home shortly before noon. Still plenty of time to bring my plans to fruition.

Hubs returned to the roof, I was about to start making us lunch when daughter called. I wasn't on the phone with her but two minutes and youngest son bellowed: MOM, DAD NEEDS TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL!

Turns out it wasn't a joke. Hubs had indeed sliced his pinky finger, almost to the bone, on sheet metal used to line roof valleys (where two roof lines intersect). Five hours and fifteen stitches later we staggered in the the front door, and I spent the next half hour helping hubs wrap his bandage in protective wrap, and cut and fit a glove to go over his now 4x-normal-size digit and protect his remaining digits, so he could clamber up the ladder and resume where he left off and I could reroute to where I left off.

Fired up computer, and while it was doing its thing, I set about swiffing up the cat hair, taking out garbage and recycling, loading and starting dishwasher and a load of laundry, and was about to clean litter box (last job before sitting down to edit!) and Hubs came in, panicked look on his face.

"What time is it? I need more of these!" He hoists an empty box of 1 1/4" roofing nails.

It was 7:30 pm. Building supply store closes at 8 pm. Guess who had to hop in her flip-flops and then her car and zoom down to politely ask a weary man in an orange apron to roll his stairway to hell over to the roofing nail section and climb up and haul down a huge box containing the smaller boxes of the kind of nails I needed, because the shelf where said smaller boxes of nails should be, was empty? Yeah. That was me.

810 pm I delivered nails to the roof. 815 pm and I was scooping cat poop. Then I washed up and made tea. Before I could carry it to my office, my father-in-law called. After a lovely chat, I packed the phone up to the roof for hubs. Made new tea. Sat at my desk. Computer was in deep hibernation. Woke it up. Wrote this. It's been fifteen hours since I woke up with great intentions.

Life happens.

I'm just grateful I'm able to happen with it. (And yes, squeeze in a blog post and a few WIP eidits edits.)


Deborah

I think the purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be honorable, to be compassionate. It is, after all, to matter: to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all. ~ Leo C. Rosten

Saturated

I've been scarce lately. Online, that is. My family still finds me routinely annoying in person, but fortunately they love me enough to pretend I'm interesting.

Interesting.

I've been musing that word for a while now, as it is in essence the reason I've been avoiding social media for months. I no longer find it interesting. I'm numb. Saturated. Cooked. Boiled. Sodden...however you want to describe it, I am full to here with Social Media. So, for peace of mind and care of soul, I have consciously stepped back, stopped adding to incessant online noise and turned inward, and toward, more personal interactions.

I joined Yoga. With a friend. It's wonderful. Not only the flexibility and relief from tension I'm enjoying, but the twice-weekly face-to-face chats I have with my friend. I love it. I love her. There's some conversations you just can't have over a smart phone. Texts and voicemail messages have their place, but they should not replace real relationships. I'm also writing more. It feels good.

I am not saying that I don't love Social Media. OK, I am saying that I don't love Social Media. But nor do I hate it. I'm simply full, uncomfortable the way one is after over-indulging on Turkey, mashed potatoes, and wine at Christmas dinner. I need to get up and walk it off, unbutton my jeans and breathe, vow to drink nothing but Kale juice and water for the next six months until I can sit down again without feeling like I might pop. So...

If you've wondered, I am here. Just not Here. As much.

For now.

D.

Let the world know you as you are, not as you think you should be, because sooner or later, if you are posing, you will forget the pose, and then where are you? Fanny Brice

What the...

Where did summer go? One minute I was blogging here, the next it was September and I was--am--in my brother's basement suite. Temporarily.

What a summer. After two years of Limbo--and yes, that's limbo with a capital L--the house sold, we packed all our belongings into three storage units, moved into our camper, and viewed a gazillion houses in an attempt to find a clean, affordable home in a safe community within 30 mins drive of hub's new work location, some 700 kms away from his old one. Three months and three offers--on three different houses--and we finally did it. We bought a house!!

We don't get possession for a couple more weeks, hence my temporary refuge under my brother's roof--and main floor. And it's very nice.

I--and child #3--are the first "tenants" of the newly renovated suite. Brother and sister-in-law decided to take the suite--the entire house, actually--down to the studs and start over. They finished the majority of the total makeover just in time for me and child to move in. And the results are spectacular, upstairs and down. And after a month in the camper, the suite is truly palatial. More, it has cupboards, and sinks, a full-size fridge and stove, a microwave even. And a shower! All the creature comforts one could hope to have, and more...bro hooked me up with TV!

I am particularly giddy about the TV. I had a stove, fridge and sink in the camper. I also had a bed, and storage, limited as it was. But what I did not have was the ability to scroll through the channels at my leisure and watch absolutely nothing. Like now.

I am on my computer, writing this post, and the TV is on. Indiana Jones. And I am barely paying it the attention it deserves. But it's there. White noise in the background. Familiar. Constant. Comforting. Reprieve from the silence that seemed to swallow me up like a moonless night enveloping a lost child.

That's been the hardest the last couple of years; the silence. With hubs on the road and the grown children gone and the almost grown children frequently out and about, I've spent a lot of time alone. And it's rather lonely.

Cliché though it may be, the TV provides a voice, a presence, distraction from the knowledge that time is an express bus without stops and I don't have the pocket change to secure a seat even if it did pause long enough to let me board. Which is why I can't wait to move into our new home.

It's nothing like our last home. It's smaller, older, and is without expensive upgrades like granite, tile and hardwood. In fact I am sure the carpet is original, as is the stripe and floral-print wallpaper, and oak cabinets "refreshed" with white latex paint. And I love it.

It is a home with character, a home where love did, and will, abide.

You can see the love in the custom roll-out drawers in the kitchen, and the custom spice racks built into the home-made pantry doors, all crafted by the now deceased husband for his wife who was recently moved into a care facility by her family. They had owned the home from new, and their love for it, and each other, remains even though they're gone.

The embroidered pillow in the bedroom closet acknowledging 50 years of marriage, twelve years ago. The spotless washing machine, and custom Kitchen Aid Mixer cupboard in the Island fitted with a mechanical shelf that levers the mixer out and fixes it at counter height (another handmade gift from husband to wife). The immaculate and elaborate landscaping, carefully shaped shrubbery, and manicured lawn. The deteriorated fascia and fence. The plywood shelves in the garage. Pink laminate counter tops. Symbols of a long life, and respectful, if not happy marriage; two people content with what they had; a husband that did his best to make things easier for his wife. Some things abandoned due to age, and infirmity. A house.

A home.

I feel honored to be given this chance, for hubs and I to be the second owners of this house, to make it our home, a secure place to live out the next chapter of our lives; to love, and provide a stable base for, our children, and eventually--hopefully--their children. And, with luck and good living, great-grandchildren.

There is much we must do to make this house ours--clean, paint, replace the flooring--and some we want to do (update and upgrade the bathrooms/kitchen), but a few things will remain, like the pantry doors, mixer shelf, and roll out drawers, reminders that life is short, and a home happiest, when in it, love abides.

Deborah

Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do... but how much love we put in that action. ~Mother Teresa

In Praise of Jimmy

I spoke to a former co-worker today when I called my former place of employment with a concern regarding a recent bill. She sounded so happy when she realized who I was, and stated she had been thinking of me of late, wishing I and a few others who also left the company still worked there, because then "I know we could get through this" (an exceptionally heavy workload, would be my guess). Her indirect praise, and the genuineness of her tone and expressed delight, gave me a much needed boost.

It is very easy when you spend your days at home, alone, without regular social feedback--good or bad--to lose sense of your abilities, good or bad. Working to break into publishing can compound the shaky-feeling. Today's chat with my former workmate reminded me of my abilities, and more importantly, how good it feels to receive positive feedback. I must remember this in my daily encounters and share with others what I appreciate about them. At the same time, I must remember that if the only person in the world that appreciates me, is me, then I have enough.

I am enough.

As are you.

Be the change you want to reflect, and love the person in the mirror; she's the only one that truly has your back.

And Jimmy, thank you. I miss you, too.

Deborah


It is no use saying "we are doing our best." You have got to succeed in doing what is necessary. ~Sir Winston Churchill

Celebrate the Small Things Friday

Another great week and wonderful things to celebrate…

 

1)      I am half-way through the initial review pass of ALL THAT MATTERS, and I cried too many times to count; I even had to walk away from the edits because I was so emotional. This is definitely worth celebrating. It's also kind of surreal.

2)      I bought three new novels last week, and started reading the first, THE MARRYING SEASON by Candace Camp, a delightful—so far—read. Up next are Stuart Woods's STRATEGIC MOVES, and Dan Brown's INFERNO.

3)      I already received two RSVPs for daughter's bridal shower.

4)      I had another showing last week, as did my mother (we both have our homes listed for sale); no offers yet, though the feedback was positive.

5)      Sons' third-term report cards arrived—both boys have As and Bs.

6)      I learned how to "optimize" Search Engines by adding a plug-in to my new website and adding keywords to help make it easier to "find" on the web.

7)      Daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law popped in for surprise visit.

8)      Daughter starts her new job Monday!

9)      Eldest got to go shopping for a new fridge this week after his old fridge expired (always look for the silver-lining!).

10)  Had a good phone chat with an out-of-town friend (who will be an in-town friend once I get moved!)

11)  Enjoyed a coffee date with a current in-town friend.

12)  Everyone I know is safe and their homes intact. My prayers to the people of Oklahoma.

13)  Youngest child's visits to Chiropractor seem to have helped.

14)  Received information on an employment contract I'm considering.

15)  The last load of laundry is in the washer.

16)  Oh, and the sun shone today, after a two-day deluge.

I truly appreciate this Celebrate the Small Things Friday routine. It's an inspiring way to end a week—by reviewing and recounting the good things, no matter how small, instead of rueing the bad. If you're a blogger and interested in participating, check out VikLit's blog. If you're a reader, you can play along at home—all you need is a notepad and pen. J And if you're of a mind, please share in the comments what you're celebrating this week.

Take care and stay safe,

Deborah

Stop worrying about the potholes in the road and celebrate the journey! ~Barbara Hoffman

Friday Round Up

Well, it's been a busy week. And a good week. I created more pages on my website, and I started reviewing (and editing, of course, because I can't read without fixing) the sequel to Everything That Matters.

All That Matters is about 3/4 complete (245 pages or so) and I haven't looked at it in a few years. Amazing what a few years can do to one's perspective.

The over-writing is glaring and obvious. And much as I'd like to skim the story to figure out where I left the reins dangling, I have to clean as I go. I'm that way with housework, too.

I start in the kitchen, but on the way to the bedroom to put away the folded laundry left on the counter, I end up clearing the dresser top. And making the bed. Then running the half-full laundry basket downstairs to top up the washer load. Back upstairs, I leave the hamper in the hall as I reroute to the kitchen and resume tidying. At some point, I'll return the hamper to its proper place and while I'm in the bedroom, I'll probably clean the closet, or realize the en-suite mirrors need a spritz and swipe. This is how I work. Circuitous, yet methodical.

I see a mess, or something out of place, I must tidy it or put it away, before moving on to the next thing. The same is true with writing.

I must clean (edit) what I encounter so I can move on to the next thing.

What about you? Are you stack and sort later kind of person, or do you need to put things away as you go? If you're a writer, are you able to skim the existing story on the way to the holes that need filling aware you'll come back and edit later, or do you edit as you go?

Please share. I welcome comments!

Deborah

Without the aid of prejudice and custom, I should not be able to find my way across the room. ~William Hazlitt

Q is for Queries and Queens

Q-day in the A to Z Challenge and today, the theme is Queries and Queens.

Yesterday I mentioned the complexities of human behavior and emotions, how motivation is different for different people, how different people cope with similar situations, how novelists strive to write engaging—saleable—books. Today I share how one woman helped me cope when I finished my first novel and started to query.

A query is a letter, a business letter, in which the author pitches his/her work to an editor/agent in hopes of garnering enough interest to prompt a request for a look at part, or all, of the novel. Simple, right?

No.

Not really.

It's an odd paradox, but often the same author that writes 400 pages of compelling, heart-warming or pulse-pounding storyline, is paralyzed by the thought of tapping out a 400-word, one-page letter that condenses not only the entire novel to a one or two-sentence prevue, but promotes the author's credentials. Say what?

For the multi-published photo-journalist who's authored a novel featuring a photo-journalist caught up in international intrigue, or the criminal defense attorney whose main character is a defense attorney framed for murder, well, selling the creds is not as big a stretch as for, say, the stay-at-home mom whose novel shares the trials and tribulations of a Regency-era heroine forced to marry her nemesis in order to prevent him bankrupting her father. Or is it?

In truth, the only credentials a fiction author needs are good grammar, great characters, proficient execution, distinct style, persistence, and most importantly, positive attitude, belief in one's self, good friends, and thick skin. Without the latter qualities, the former are moot.

If writing a novel is hard, and crafting query letters daunting, receiving rejections to said query letters is absolutely demoralizing. That is where the positive attitude, belief in one's self, good friends, and thick skin comes in.

For the most part, I have a positive attitude. I believe in myself, and my writing. And I'm developing a hide a rhinoceros would envy, in part, because of a good friend who anointed me Queen, Rejection Queen.

To ease the unease and torment of sending query letters and receiving rejections, a friend and fellow writer in the the throes of querying challenged me to a contest, the Rejection Queen contest.

Rejection letters were no longer symbols of failure, but evidence of success—we were putting ourselves out there, tallying up the proof that we were serious about, and dedicated to, our craft. And that simple twist turned what could have been a traumatic venture, into an extraordinary adventure.

That friend, kc dyer went on to publication, and I to the paid workforce where I temporarily—okay, for ten years—abandoned my publication quest. But as I haul out my novels, finished and conceived, and prepare to resume my quest, I find I am better armored, with experience, and the strength of good friends, one who would name me Queen.

 

The elusive, estimable, and intrepid kc dyer. Photo by Deborah

D.


The emotions are not always subject to reason...but they are always subject to action. When thoughts do not neutralize an undesirable emotion, action will. ~William James

M is for Mondays

A to Z Challenge letter: M.

Mondays...

I recall grade eight, the year I entered high school, as the year Monday mornings emerged from an endless blur of days to something sharp, uncomfortable, the first cut in a series of five cuts patched on weekends, the delicate wounds reopened the following Monday.

High school is never easy. It is harder when you are the youngest of five hundred adolescents, unformed, naive, gullible, your clothes too K-Mart, your hair too short, your curves too flat. A few years later, Mondays are less pointed, but by no means soft.

When you're taller, curvier, wiser, Monday mornings become the squat starting block of five routine hurdles, each a gray square to be clambered over best as possible on the way to the psychedelic weekend. After graduation, Mondays coalesced from the mist of adolescence only slightly brighter, tarnished pennies in a handful of change where the value depended on how close each was to Friday. And then I had kids.

With the birth of my first child Mondays sank into a quagmire of feedings, sleepless nights, diapers, stained burp cloths, exhaustion, anxiety, and the occasional moment of quiet and contentment, punctuated by spontaneous toothless grins and excited squeals. But those moments disappeared when I returned to work and Mondays loomed like a craggy mountain in the path of a weekend hang-glider.

I had just found my wind, and was learning how to soar above the insecure havoc motherhood wrought on my otherwise ordered life, and Slam! I was back in high school, another harried neophyte attempting to navigate scheduled blocks of time while juggling the expectations--and criticism--of peers and persons in authority, only now I was also responsible for keeping a child happy, safe and educated, so he could grow into a responsible, centered, and productive adult, and do it all from a distance, like a doctor performing brain and heart surgery from another room using really long chopsticks. I hated Mondays.

Mondays only regained favor with me when I stepped out of the paid workforce to stay home to raise my children. Suddenly Mondays were just another day in an unpredictable week, gaining significance only when the kids started school as it marked the beginning of a predictably hectic schedule.

Newsletters, bake sales, hot lunch money, hockey practice vs. basketball game, doctor, dentist, sleepovers, laundry, grocery shopping, weekend sports' tournaments, visits to the ER...as the kids grew older and their individual activities broader--and more high-risk--I began, for the first time in three decades, to look forward to Monday mornings, to a few hours of silence and stillness. With only two of the four living at home, and both of them old enough to manage their time and belongings effectively, I find Mondays are bittersweet for me now.

The weekly pace is slower even if the activities no less rigorous. I no longer need to stand point, issuing reminders as four young people scramble to down breakfast, find missing homework, stuff backpacks, grab coats and slam out the door. I no longer consult my date book to discover where I need to be, and when, on what days and where. I am once again floating on a warm wind.

My mother once told me that now she is retired, every day is Monday, and every day is Friday; it is either the best day, or the worst day, depending on what she has planned. And that is the essence of Monday.

Mondays are what we make of them depending on where we are in life, and how we are living that life. What about you...are Mondays a peach in a fruitful week, or a first of many stone blocks to grind?

Please share in the comments.

D.

Whether one is twenty, forty, or sixty; whether one has succeeded, failed, or just muddled along; whether yesterday was full of sun or storm, or one of those dull days with no weather at all, life begins each morning!...Each morning is the open door to a new world--new vistas, new aims, new tryings. ~Leigh Mitchell Hodges

K is for Kismet

K is today's A to Z Challenge letter, and today's theme: Kismet.

From Random House Webster's Unabridged Dictionary:

Kismet (kis´met, -met, kis´-), n, fate; destiny. Also, kismat (kiz´mət, kis´-), [1840-50; Turk, Pers qismat, Ar qismah division, portion, lot, fate, akin to qasama to divide].

Kismet, as a word, has existed since the mid-19^th century; I suspect kismet as a concept has existed much longer than that.

Fate. Destiny. Lot. Portion. A belief that coincidence and random exist only in that they fulfill a fated outcome. My novel is built on this premise, perhaps because I believe in the concept, having experienced a number of events I initially perceived as unfair, or tragic, that later proved to be, as Oprah might describe, "aha moments", or, as I refer to them: the slap-upside-the-head I needed to redirect my focus, and realign my life-trajectory in keeping with my purpose, and core-values.

I won't wax-long on the events that nudged—and in some cases head-butted—me in a different direction than I thought I wanted, or believed was the logical, loved-one-approved course; suffice it to say some of them hurt. A lot. Others were less immediate and injurious, external issues and internal inconsistencies too-long ignored, that eventually rose up to slap me down. And from the ground, you have a great, all-encompassing view of what's important—if you roll on your back, and look up.

That is the theme in my novel, Everything That Matters…love, born out of tragedy…because sometimes what at first blush appears a tragic happenstance, leads to something wonderful; a life reimagined, and better than might have been experienced had the tragedy not occurred.

Here is a moment when the heroine in my novel is offered a different perspective to her belief that she is a victim of circumstance:

Excerpt, Everything That Matters, copyrighted material...

Father Ramirez patted Dianna's hand, beamed up at her. "I'm glad he brought you here," he said.

"Mr. Douglas?"

Father Ramirez glanced skyward. Dianna arched her eyebrows, looked around the compound. Compared to her arrival, it was a portrait in serenity.

Chickens clucked as they clawed and pecked at the hard-packed earth, geese honked softly as they waddled to and fro like long-necked Centurions, their black beady eyes alert for intruders; the sow dozed in a hollow dug from the earth alongside the Hacienda, seemingly unfazed by the squirming pink mass of piglets crowded between her fore and hind legs.

Mr. Douglas emerged from a low-roofed barn leading Sonny, Mateo behind him with the saddled roan; a pair of small dogs, one white and one brindled, trotted behind them. The door of the Hacienda opened, and Luisa came out to stand in the shade of the porch, Lazaro hooked on one round hip. The rest of the children loitered near the gate, presumably waiting to say goodbye. Dianna looked back at the tiny cleric.

"You think God brought me here?" she asked.

He smiled.

She shook her head. "I am here," she said, "because of choices other people made." She looked at Mr. Douglas.

"There is always choice, hija," Father Ramirez said quietly. "Even if alternatives are painful or unsavory, they are within your power to choose."

She frowned, her gaze on Mr. Douglas.

Had she chosen him?

Kismet or coincidence? I know what I believe; what do you?

Please share in the comments.

D.

It is often hard to distinguish between the hard knocks in life and those of opportunity. ~Frederick Phillips

 

 

 

  

 

  

 

G is for Gratitude

A to Z Challenge day 7. Letter G.

I received a phone call today. The caller asked if everything was okay; I was behind two letters. And in that call, the essence of this post: Gratitude.

The A to Z Challenge allows for one day off--Sundays--so I am not a day behind, and today's letter is G, however, that call, the fact that _someone_ (okay, my mother) noticed I had not posted yesterday, filled me with the warm tingle of gratitude. If only one person reads my posts, I have reason to be grateful. I have an audience. Ask any busker: an audience of one, is better than none.

Sometimes gratitude is a hard emotion to summon. Last year when I languished on my sofa with severe rotator-cuff tendinitis, I struggled. I focused on what I couldn't do, rather than what I could, and it started to take its toll. So I forced myself to redirect.

Every day I celebrated small things, like being able to lift the kettle even if it took two hands, or wash my hair, even though I had to bend over to get my hands to my scalp. Eventually those little things snowballed into bigger things, and I could carry my purse, and finally drive myself to town. And then to the next town. And as I attained each new goal, I gave thanks. And each time I gave thanks, I felt better. As I felt better, I regained strength and enjoyed less pain.

I believe in the mind/body connection, and I believe persistent stress, and/or pervasive negative thinking poison a body, and in time, a soul. So, as I face new challenges this year, I am reminding myself to embrace gratitude, daily.

Today, I am grateful for many things, one of which, is you.

Thank you for reading. I really do appreciate it.

D.

I'm in a wonderful position; I'm unknown, I'm underrated, and there's nowhere to go but up. ~Pierre S. DuPont IV

F is for Family

Day 6, or letter F of the A to Z Challenge, and a brief post (because I'm caught up in WIP madness) to recognize something near and dear to my heart, my family.

 

You leave home to seek your fortune and, when you get it, you go home and share it with your family. ~Anita Baker

Deborah

Turbulence

Life is turbulent.
                                           
From the first crushing instant of our birth when we're squeezed squalling from the warm liquid cocoon of the womb into the glaring clamor of oneness, we are struggling to adapt.

Mothers, fathers, grandparents, breast milk, and lovers and friends when we're older—much older—offer guidance and support, but they do not adapt for us. They wrap us in flannel, pat our backs, jiggle us as they pace the floor; apply Band-Aids, pour cough syrup, plump pillows; chase boogie men from under the bed and Exes from our lives; they help us study, invite us to movies or pub nights, laugh, kvetch, and commiserate with us, but they don't stop crying, worrying, or hurting for us.

Each of us chooses to accept solace, medicine, love and/or friendship; embrace wisdom, welcome new, tweak technique to fit our needs, and adapt accordingly. Or not. Change happens regardless.

I know. I've lived it. So have you.

Remember when your first baby tooth wiggled under the pressure of your tongue? Or you completed your first wobbly solo on a two-wheeler? What about that training bra, first kiss—and broken heart? You changed. Adapted. Traded white t-shirts for under wires and plastic Scooby-Doo razors for the real thing. Kindergarten to graduation; pig-tails to page-boy; Sippy-cup to wine glass; you changed. And adapted; often loving what Change brought you—driver's license, High School Diploma, Victoria's Secret, admiring looks, independence, your own bank account, new love, old money—freedom, and as you adjusted to eye hooks and inflated gas prices, so did those around you. Some better than others.  

I tend to adapt well—once I make the decision to embrace Faith and Change. It's In-Between that gets me.

Limbo and I are not good buddies. And I don't get along well with Indecision, either. Too often when they're around, so is their ugly cousin, Turbulence. And my perfectly ordered life hangs over a gaping chasm called Unknown.

I am there now. Like Wile E. Coyote, front paws on one side of the chasm, back paws on the other, taut, trembling; unable to move one way or the other without help, or risking a serious fall.

Hubby accepted a promotion. It requires us to move 400 miles to a new city. For six months he's split his time between here and there. When our house sells we'll all go there. Away from family. To other family. Away from friends. To other friends. Away from home and lifestyle we know and love, to one hidden the shadows of Expectation and Intent, the path there lit only by Faith. Our only guarantee is our lifestyle will change; and our love for family and friends will not. Here or there, there or here; love and true friendship remains.

In the interim, we adapt; me to single-parenthood, him to evening solitude. Limbo and Indecision hold sway to help us prepare, collect the tools, knowledge, encouragement, advice, and skills necessary to make the transition. And Faith gentles Turbulence's tantrum.

When you're 40,000 feet up, the landing strip still a long way out and the ride rocky knocking the oxygen mask into your face, you can close your eyes and scream in terror--or you can adapt. Put on the mask, tighten your seatbelt, hold hands with those closest to you, and remember to breathe.

And pray.

There are no atheists on turbulent airplanes. ~Erica Jong

Deborah

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

Be Well

Four days 'til Christmas, and I am not ready. Seriously. And I have absolutely no excuse.

Christmas comes around the same time every year. December 25th. Without fail. And still, I am not ready.

I am not alone. There are others like me. Scrambling, fretting, tense and frustrated, teeth ground to nubbins because there is so much to do, and NO TIME TO DO IT. And yet it will get done. It always does.

Presents bought and wrapped, cookies baked, and turkeys stuffed. It will be done. Eggnog poured, driveways shoveled, floors swept, and seasonal dishes brought out of storage. It will be done. Furniture dusted, extra bedding washed, toilets scrubbed, and sofas denuded of cat hair. It will be done.

It will.

Five days from now, I will stagger from my bedroom to peer through puffy eyes at the wine stains, heap of trash and recycling, half-empty (or full if you prefer) drink glasses on every horizontal surface, and layer of dry pine needles and squashed food bits littering my floor, and I will smile. Because it was done. And I had fun.

That is what I wish you my friends. Fun.

Good food, good friends, good times with family, not only four days from now, but today, and every day.

Seasons Greetings. Happy Holidays. Merry Christmas. Hanukkah. Whatever this time of years means to you, may it be a time of joy and togetherness. Be well my friends.

Be well.

Deb

Still Kickn'

Just a brief note to say, Yes. I am alive. And working on getting well. I'm tolerating about 30 mins of computer work, no more than twice a day, and with a loooong break doing something slow-paced and non-repetitive between sessions.

To learn more about the under-recognized but very real dangers inherent to computer work--especially pro-longed, repetitious, and/or fast-paced actions such as copy-pasting, mousing, and typing--like rotator cuff tendinitis and thoracic outlet syndrome, and why prevention is really the best medicine, read this.

***I believe this issue will become more prevalent as more jobs are computerized and more children grow up attached to a computer mouse or game controller*** -- the only prevention is ACTION, as in, get up, get moving, do something to stretch and strengthen the WHOLE body. DAILY.

Walk. Bike. Swim. Play Bocce. Dance. Limber up with Yoga. Tone with Pilates. Anything to help you build or maintain a strong body and core. Take care of yourself.

You deserve it.

Take care.

D.