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Tasty Tidbit #1:  Three Words

Cellulite Pudding Party

(Let me know how that works for you)

Tasty Tidbit #2: A Nest for the Egg

            I am the proud mama of a 98.1 pound, gold sheen obsidian egg.  Every time I touch it, it feels like home, but that’s for another blog.  The problem with my little nestling is that I haven’t found a spot for it in our new home.  At first it was sitting by the fireplace, but that didn’t look or feel right to me.  Each wall of my living room is set up to represent an element and I thought the egg might like being in the fire corner, being obsidian and all, but not so much.  Ben isn’t real thrilled about having to move it again but then isn’t that what guys are for?  Guys lift heavy objects; women have headaches, that was the equation I learned.  Anyway, I have been going from room to room trying to find the perfect spot for my egg without making Ben move it again.  So far no luck.  For now my 98 pound baby is going to go back by the fireplace until I can figure out where it wants to be.  I’m sure Ben will be excited to move it again, lol!

Tasty Tidbit #3: Mandalas

            I figured I tried mazes and labyrinths, why not try mandalas.  I was looking for something to focus my attention, something that would help me be creative that wasn’t writing.  I just needed another outlet.  I love coloring, I’m really just a big kid, so mandalas are perfect.  Of course I have some books with patterns so I started out with a couple of those.  My goal is to eventually make one of my own.  Some of the books say that you can just draw random shapes or glue pictures on them, I wish I could draw some of the geometric shapes that the mandalas from the book have on them.  Working with the mandalas I noticed that I was drawn toward certain colors every time.  I always went for yellow, gold, silver, magenta, and a color called electric blue, which is a turquoise color.  I poked around and found a website where you can download mandalas for free.  You can save them on your computer and print them out, which is cool in my book.  The website looks a little hacker scary, but I downloaded without Norton going nuts on me.  If you are looking for a creative focusing tool I suggest you check it out.  I just like making pretty pictures.  http://www.mandala-4u.com/en/start.html

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            I decided to change things up this week and share some of my past writing with all of you.  This is by far one of my favorite writing pieces.  I would love any feedback that anyone has on this piece.  I have entered this piece in a couple of contests, but haven’t had success with it as of yet.  I feel it’s a strong piece and I would like to know if other people thought the same or if I was just stuck on this one.  With that being said here is, Professional Humility.

Professional Humility

            We rode the cresting waves of grease.  Our non-slip shoes, always black, slid sideways in the spray of bubbling fat that shot from scorching grills.  No amount of hot water and soap could rid the floors of their ever thickening collection of animal fat and chicken drippings.  The flies taunted us with their freedom.  They strolled across the cheese slices, munched on the dehydrated onions, and clung to hardening globs of mayo and secret sauce, dripping from the sauce guns.

            Our lips were crusted with the salt that seasoned those famous golden crisp fries.  Sweat carved rivers down our backs and made our visors grip our heads even tighter, as though to brand us with humility.  Some bore the marks of their labors.  Lynne wore a scar just above her wrist, three inches in length.  It looked like a mini checker board, but was the branding of a fry basket forever engraved on her skin; a moments carelessness became a permanent tattoo. 

            In the floor was a grease trap with a padlock on it.  Why it was locked no one knew.  No one would have willingly opened that door for any reason.  Trapped beneath four inches of plated steel, was the rotten bog of hell.  Beneath our trudging, slipping feet, was a marsh of grease, rotten meat, and a smell so putrid that even steel could not completely contain it. 

            To the rank hole, twice a month, some poor soul was assigned.  The fryers must be emptied of their over-worked, muddy brown contents, and into the plated hole it would go.  Normally, a worker of low status was picked, but tonight there was mutiny.  Complaints, doctor’s appointments, and sudden illnesses, ravaged my crew.  I found myself appointed to the hated task.  My branded friend stayed with me out of pity.

            In the dim lights of closing time we stood over the casket doorway.  The grimy key had to be wiggled into place and turned forcefully to break through the cumulative effect of poor cleaning.  I paused mid-turn, delaying the inevitable moment.  Lynne backed away in anticipation of the greeting I was about to receive.  In her haste to evacuate the area, she managed to knock over one of the yellow mop buckets.  The bucket groaned under the burden of too many employee discounts. 

            “How about a promotion, Lynne?”

            “Hell no.  Extra pay, extra suck.”

            “Somehow I doubt an extra thirty cents an hour is worth this.”

            We stood staring at the waiting work, as though by magic, the grease traps would empty themselves.  Finally coming to the realization that, that wasn’t going to happen, I reached forward to finish unlocking the grimy padlock when Lynne grabbed my arm.

            “I’ve got an idea.” 

            A few minutes later we knelt together on the dirty floor, scooping the contents of the traps into the hole.  We sang snatches of 80’s songs in helium induced Donald Duck voices, swallowing back vomit, and scrapping at the grease that had become the foundation of our lives. 

Upswing

Tasty Tidbit #1:  A Week in Review

            Sounds boring I know, but in reality things have begun to flow rather nicely.  Here are a few notes on the last week.

Chicken Hater. 

Fluffy white bunny that will eat your soul.

Invisible ninja hamsters now guard my meditation room. 

Coconuts and their many uses.

Run Away! Run Away!

Blueberry Patch and Anemone (not necessarily in that order)

Simplify

Completing chapter one

Is butt-hurt one word or two?

Mid-afternoon pickle spritz

Squirt

And the thing I'm not supposed to mention.  :) 

Tasty Tidbit #2: Bull in a China Shop

            I’ve been on a rampage today.  I’m normally not a graceful person.  I run into walls, door frames, and everything else.  I also have a tendency to break stuff.  I don’t mean to, most of the time I’m trying to help and shit just breaks.  Today I managed to knock a soda off a table, causing it to almost explode, knocked over some metal bars, which in turn broke a C, nearly broke a table, and that was just for starters.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you were reading this blog and your computer shut down without warning, for no other reason than it sensed my presence.  Does it count if I mean well but break your stuff?  I hope so, because I have some bad news.  I think this was yours. Sorry about that. 

Tasty Tidbit #2: Hey I Found the Floor

            As mentioned in my previous blog, my meditation room has been in a state of chaos for some time now.  The thought of going through all my papers, sorting through boxes, bins, and books, kind of made me want to puke.  However, I became convinced that the state of my meditation room was having a direct effect on my writing and probably my emotional state in general.  My sacred space had been turned into a dumping ground, gee why didn’t I want to sit in there and write? It took three days to sort my room out again.  Three very long days filled with trash bags and swear words of a colorful sort.  Now I am sitting in a clutter free space and I have to say it feels so much better and so do I.  I finally took the time to take care of my space.  Beyond just having my space back, I found a pile of writing material.  Actually, I found a stack of loose writings that is literally 23 inches high and stacked next to my bookcase.  One whole bookcase shelf is now occupied by journals of all shapes and sizes, all of which are also filled with writings.  Bits of stories, poem ideas, and prompts were all just scattered around waiting for me to find them.  It will take a lot more work to sort through it all and get it organized, but I have already started the process. I was thrilled about finding the floor; I can’t wait to see what I find in that pile of goodies.

  

Upswing

            Well, we have had a couple weeks of weepy so let’s turn it around shall we?  Finding my meditation room and returning it to a state of sacred space was an important first step.  I had ignored my space for far too long and allowed other things to take up my time.  Most of those other things were pretty pointless, like playing video games on my cellphone.  To be honest, getting my space back together was key.  It started me writing.  Not just writing a note here or a story idea there, I mean real writing.  Of course, caffeine had a lot to do with it too.

            My husband has been through four deployments now.  That means that he can sleep through anything.  I may have mentioned this in a previous blog but since I don’t go back and reread them deal with it.  Anyway, my husband explained to me that the best and really it’s the only way, to wake him up is to get close to his ear, shake him and tell him he’s late for guard duty.  Conditioned much?  I usually don’t mind him sleeping as though dead, except when he flops on me.  This story has a point don’t worry.  I get knocked in the back of the head with an elbow or pushed off the bed when he rolls over completely oblivious to the world.  I am a light sleeper so it makes going to sleep and staying asleep difficult.  One evening about a week ago, Ben was sleeping at a perfect angle taking up the vast majority of the bed making it impossible for me to fall asleep.  All attempts to move him to his side of the bed failed, so I gave in.  I planned to sleep on the couch, but I found myself wide awake.  Instead of shacking up on the couch I went into my partially cleaned meditation room.  There was a story idea floating around in my head and for the first time in a very long time I sat down and typed it out.  I typed for a couple of hours in fact.  Believe me I was shocked when I looked at the clock. It seemed so easy.

            It struck me that writing at night was a great idea.  My sleeping pattern fluctuates. Sometimes I am an early riser, other times a night owl, right now I needed owl.  I noticed that when I was typing I wasn’t thinking about needing to get up and take care of anything around the house, Ben and the animals were asleep, I found an opportunity.  The problem is that currently I am on my early riser schedule.  Ben’s alarm goes off at 4:30am, and it’s difficult for me to fall back asleep.  Though one might suppose that I could use that early morning time while Ben is at PT to write, you have to consider that I have a house full of animals just waking up, all wanting attention and breakfast.  So morning writing is pretty much out.  Still a plan was brewing.

            The day after my writing escapade, I had a soda.  I’m not usually a big soda drinker; I try to stick with water as much as possible.  I’m a bit sensitive to caffeine, can we say MELTDOWN.  If you don’t get the joke don’t worry about it.  The soda kept me up that night long after Ben had fallen asleep, so I tried this whole writing thing again.  It worked.  I stayed awake a couple of hours again, writing out my stories and crafting outlines.  The next day I went out and bought a twelve pack of Dr.Pepper and I have written every night.  I drink one soda a day, which is enough to fuel me a few extra hours in the evening after everyone else in the house has passed out.  Though I can understand how I might not be forming the best habit by drinking a soda every day, I can see excellent results in my writing.  I managed to finish the first chapter of one of the stories I am currently working on.  I haven’t made that much progress in the last six months.  I’m hoping that after a week or two my body will get used to staying up the couple of extra hours a night and I will be able to wean off the soda.  Until then, I’m going to crack me open a tasty Dr.Pepper and get creative with my bad self. 

I Am the Weakest Link

It all started with a Cobb salad.

Tasty Tidbit: #1: The Cornhole Game

            From friends come the greatest quotes and tonight’s game is the Cornhole Game

            “Blue hairs love cornholing.”

“You don’t overhand [in Cornholing], too much power.  It just slams into it and slides off.”

Q: “How do you reach it?”

A:  “Reach in and pull it out.  You have to reach around in there, feel around until you find it.”

“Cornhole Championships!”

“Waiting for the big finish!”

“Yep, that’s Cornholing.  Pick one and blow it up.” 

You know you wanna play!

Tasty Tidbit #2: A Kick in the Ass

            So it turns out sometimes I can turn into a real whiney baby.  I don’t mean your average weeper; I am a top grade whiner.  When I lost the shop, I felt like I lost a huge part of myself.  A piece of my identity if you will, despite my best efforts to believe that wasn’t true, however it was true.  Losing the shop meant I now had to focus on what I had been avoiding for the past four years.  Isn’t that a bitch.  How many times have I had people tell me I am a writer?  Probably as many times as I have had people tell me that I am a healer and psychic, though we aren’t going to get into the multiple definitions that those two things can represent.  Tonight, we focus on the realm of writing.  Damn.  Well last Saturday we had a fund raiser through the shop’s new office to raise money for Mr. Redd Head.  On a side note I would like to thank all of the people who stopped by and donated online!  You are awesome!  At this event Leah was doing readings for donation.  I trust Leah’s readings, mostly because when she says something she’s right.  Damn Aires.  I have been in a downswing since the close of the shop and I was looking for the next step.  I know I’m supposed to be writing, but all those lovely negative thoughts were pushing to the surface and I was wondering if I was just deluding myself.  So I hit Leah up for a reading.  It wasn’t so much the reading that got me, although that was very good and very accurate as usual.  It was the conversation that took place just before the reading.  Janis mentioned that one of her clients was talking about a woman named Debbie Bugg.  I’m not sure I spelled her name right, hopefully.  Anyway, Debbie escaped Clarksville a year or two ago.  Janis was talking about how she realized that the woman she was talking to was talking about Debbie.  Peggy chimed in and said that she had just had a connection with Debbie, I can’t remember now if she thought about her or was talking about her as well, I was too shocked.  As they were talking I realized I had, had a dream about Debbie just a couple of days earlier.  After I busted into the conversation with this information it hit me, something that Debbie had told me in the only reading or real contact I had ever had with her.  She said, “I’m not suppose to swear, but you’re a fucking writer!”  Leah’s card reading was accurate, but the chain of friendship and information that was passed around brought me back to reality with a rather large bump.  The Universe Rocks!  Eventually I guess I’m going to have to get over myself and accept, I am a fucking writer!

I Am the Weakest Link!

            Right about now there are a couple of people going, oh yeah, that’s what she said!  In all honesty this is sort of a continuation of the above tidbit.  So brace yourself for additional whiney baby.  It’ll be all right, I promise.  So two things that we need to look at, well probably more than two, but let’s start with that.  One, I have found that people seem to think I know what I’m talking about and that makes me uncomfortable, in fact it makes me feel like a right old fraud.  Second, the problem of identity.  Let’s address this last one first. 

            When the shop closed I was okay with it.  I understood why it was happening, and I was looking forward to getting started at the new office.  I went to PA for my tour of poop stained toilet paper, and came back somewhat refreshed, if not more appreciative of a sewer system that can handle toilet paper.  I came back and realized that I had nothing to do.  It was about a week before I broke down crying telling myself that without the shop I was useless.  The shop had given me the opportunity to use my talents and that was gone.  Now what?  I equated the shop with the usefulness of my talents.  It took me a minute to realize that I had taken on the shop as a part of my identity, something I strive very hard not to do.  Without the shop I wasn’t important.  It took a day more to break that down.  I was having yet another crying fit about my uselessness when a thought rolled into my head, when the shop closed did I suddenly cease to be me, or have the talents I had when the shop was open?  It was a good question.  Good enough to make me slow up on the waterworks.  Did the shop give me my talents, such as organization and a good memory, or did I have them before I went to the shop and they just got honed by what I learned there?  I knew I still had a good memory, and the only reason I haven’t got my house organized is because I’m in some kind of struggle against it, but that’s for another blog.  I still had everything I had when I walked into the shop when I walked out, so what was the problem?  Part of that problem, and this is a guess, is because finding another job and applying myself to that job means I have to let go of the shop once and for all.  I fear that means losing other things as well, mainly of course, my friends.  I don’t have the easiest time finding and making friends, and losing them is unthinkable.  So I put up this lovely block, which I am now conscious of, to slow myself down.  Which means I have to take a chance, I have to move on.  I can’t linger and allow myself to keep the shop as my identity, it’s not who I am, not now, not ever.  I’m Sara Pulvermacher, and I’m a lot of other things too.  Time to embrace change.

            Going back to the first item on tonight’s whiney baby list, people seem to think I know what I’m talking about.  In some cases, I suppose I do.  It makes me uncomfortable though.  To be honest it makes me think a lot of Angel.  I have lost friends because they put me on this pedestal and then when I can’t do or say what they want me too, or when I just can’t handle the pressure anymore, the friendship goes to crap.  My one friend Lana used to call me all the time begging me to give her some guidance because she believed that I had some answer that she didn’t.  Though there were other factors involved that friendship ended.  I have another friend that does the same thing now.  I have to stop and wonder why that happens.  I must play some role in it.  For my second friend it was that I introduced her to the spiritual world.  I opened the door and she flew through it.  That can come back to bite you.  Not that you shouldn’t help people or introduce people to new ideas, but sometimes a little bit of a good thing can be very bad.  I have one friend that had a reading, not from me, four years ago and is still going off that information.  She often calls asking me questions whether I think this is in line with her reading.  I have tried to tell her that in that much time, things have changed, but she doesn’t hear me.  I think part of the reason that I stay in the background is because I don’t want to be number one, or five or twenty-two.  I’ll take whatever number is last, thanks.  I don’t want to be responsible for answering people’s questions.  It’s too much responsibility.  Because what happens when you can’t answer the question?  What happened to people seeking out their own answers?  Shouldn’t people search for their own truths?  I realize you could argue that people need a guide, or someone to help them take that first step, I’m just not sure that person should be me.  I have no more knowledge than the next person.  I get confused just like everyone else, and like everyone else I sometimes ignore what I know I’m supposed to be doing.  

            That’s when I feel like I am the weakest link!  I am the first one to question myself to death, to analyze something until there is nothing left to analyze and then I analyze that.  I am also a lousy liar apparently.  If I did something wrong, you can tell.  I’ll throw myself on hot coals and admit my weaknesses.  The one thing that I wish is that I could use that same energy to admit my strengths.  Then it could be someone else’s turn to be the weakest link! 

Death of a Porcupine

SAVE REDD!!  Redd is a kitty kitty that was found by a dear friend of mine.  He is sick and looks like he may have been shot by a BB gun.  My friend is doing her best to raise the money to get the cat the medical care that he needs, but she needs help and so does Redd!  For those of you in the Clarksville area, Celestial Esscents is having Readings for Redd on Saturday July 23, starting at 10:00am.  If anyone is able to come, please do.  All money will be donated to take care of this precious pussy cat.  If you are not in the Clarksville area, but would still like to help please feel free to contact me and I will get you additional information! 

Tasty Tidbit #1:  There

            I would have thought that after seven days of close quarters with my family I would have more material to write about, but I don’t.  Nothing of significance happened while I was away.  Oh we went to town a couple of times, but aside from that there was nothing.  No grand lessons, no revelations on the subject of life.  Usually, I journal when I am in PA, but not so much this time, unless you count a couple of recipes.  I also didn’t do any meditating, except once for just a couple of minutes.  All in all, I have no idea why I went.  I was glad to come home.

Tasty Tidbit #2: And Back Again

            While the trip to PA was uneventful at best, the homecoming was a bit more explosive.  No sooner had I said goodbye to my mother when I had an overwhelming attack of emotions.  More like a train wreck of emotion.  I was walking through the living room and the next second I was crying.  When my husband asked what was wrong I had no idea, which just makes me look like a crazy person, or at least a super hormonal woman.  The only thing I could tell him was that I felt like everything was about to change, but that’s pretty standard for me, nothing new there.  I had no idea why I was crying, but it did take a couple of days to get myself back to “normal”.  You would have thought someone died the way I was going on.  Everyone is fine by the way.  Though I have no answer as to why I was crying I can say that once over it, the feeling I got was one of release or cleansing.  Maybe I just needed to get it out of my system, who knows.  I’m just glad that the waterworks decided to relax a bit.  Don’t want to end up being called a whiney baby. 

Death of a Porcupine

            I should have known better.  On our arrival to the backwoods of Pennsylvania I forgot that my grandparents, aunt and uncle, tend to kill any intruding animal that wanders into the fenced area.  I was dragging my suitcase down the grassy hill when I saw movement.  I thought it was a cat at first, but then I realized it was a raccoon (at least I thought it was, turns out I was wrong again). Stupidly I pointed it out to my grandmother who was waiting for us on the front porch.  She walked around to get a better look and that’s when the yelling started. 

            “Porcupine!   Davey, get the gun!”

            I swear to God my uncle, God love him, came out wearing a wife beater and jean shorts, gun in hand.  He ran to one side of the house but my grandmother was already yelling for him to go around the other way.  I was protesting the death of the raccoon/porcupine thing.  I asked them not to kill it which was a pointless gesture, but I had to ask just the same.  There were two shots and then the shouts of backwoods triumph.  The porcupine was dead. 

            My grandfather explained that Sasha, the family dog who is now deaf, but has a nose like you wouldn’t believe, tends to end up with a face full of quills.  Not only is it painful for her, but it costs a hundred dollars every time it happens.  I was the heroine of the evening.  Saver of dogs, spotter of porkies, I didn’t feel like I had saved anyone.  Though I was glad that Sasha would be spared a nose full this time, I took a moment to ask the porcupines’ spirit to connect up; though I’m not sure it was interested in listening to me.

            I realize that back in the woods, my grandparents have to work hard to protect what’s theirs, but I have always had a probably with the killing of the wildlife.  I can remember my grandfather killing treed raccoons, and my grandmother killing the patio furniture in an attempt to kill other raccoons.  Rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks all are dispatched with, in the same fashion.  I try to see it from my grandparent’s point of view.  They carved a home out of a place that was once surrounded by forest, pioneer style in a way.  They fenced in about an acre of this land and called it their own.  They planted trees and tilled the earth to put in a garden to feed the family.  It’s important, one might even call it a part of their survival.  I just wish there was a different way to deal with the wildlife. 

            On one of our evening walks my mother starting talking about her grandfather, my great grandfather.  Their farm is just across the road from my grandparents drive and we could see the big old white farmhouse every night when we walked.  There have been a lot of changes to the house even in the past year.  Siding was put on, and although it’s still white the house doesn’t look right.  It looks too modern to be over a hundred years old.  For the first time it didn’t feel like my great grandparents home, but someone else’s.  I wander, back to my great grandpa.  My mother was telling me that when he planted his crops he used to put three seeds into the ground.  One was for the family; the other two were for the wildlife.  I was surprised by the story, but my mother said my great grandfather respected the land and the animals, except groundhogs.  I guess he had something against groundhogs; he liked to blow them up.  I suppose we all have our faults. 

            I puzzled over the issue of wildlife versus survival while at my grandparents and am still pondering as I write this.  I’m not sure what the best answer is.  Just because you plant some extra seeds doesn’t guarantee that the critters won’t eat everything you planted leaving you and your family with empty bellies.  As far as I know that didn’t happen to my great grandparents, but there is always that chance.  Maybe it’s a quantity thing, I don’t know.  My brain was going haywire.  When I got home not only were my emotions a mess, but I came home to a mess.  My meditation room is still in a relative state of chaos.  After making some porcupine/wildlife notes I starting doing a little cleaning.  One of the things I picked up was a white bag that was sitting on the floor, it didn’t feel like there was anything in the bag, but knowing me I double checked.  I reached into the bag and felt something long, thin and very pointy.  I pulled a plastic bag out of the white bag, and I was more than a little surprised to see four porcupine quills. Now what do you make of that?

Back to Pennsylvania

For those of you who are regular or not so regular readers of this blog, this is just a little note to let you all know that there will not be a posting next week.  I will be out of town in a place lacking internet and toilets that can handle toilet paper being flushed down them.  With so much to look forward to, I feel confident that the follow blog on the 21^st, for those of you who need a date, should be interesting. 

Tasty Tidbit #1:  Lazy

            July 2^nd was pretty cool.  That was the day or rather evening that we spent celebrating the Fourth.  A bit premature I admit, but fun none the less.  My husband, Teresa, and I headed to Brenda’s house to enjoy a cookout, hay rides, and over a thousand dollars in explosives.  I have just a little bit of a pyro in me.  I would use Brenda’s code name but I can’t remember it.  I suppose I could make up a new one for her but I wanted her to know how much I appreciated that night out.  For the first time in a long time I was required to do nothing more than sit on the sidelines.  To be honest I didn’t know what to do with myself.  I was given the mission of yelling for Brenda’s husband; apparently I have talents in the loud and obnoxious department.  I just have that special way, lol.  Instead of running around taking care of guests or setting up tables, I sat on my duff.  Our group offered our services, but the point was for us to relax. I admit I wasn’t sure exactly how to do that.  I figured it out though.  It was wonderful not having to run anything or run at all.  Just sit and watch things blow up, making pretty sparkly colors in the sky.  The paper lanterns and the balloons were awesome too.  The laziness got so bad that during the fireworks I stopped clapping and started using my singular yelling talent.  Instead of clapping I yelled, “I’m clapping with my mouth.” No I wasn’t drunk, didn’t even have a single beer that night, just had fun.  So thank you Brenda, for helping me remember that being lazy once in a while is a lot of fun!

Tasty Tidbit #2:  I spell Hell: D-M-V

            Oh yes ma’am.  Today I got to experience that most necessary and soul crushing experience called the DMV.  I managed to elude the establishment for a couple of years, but with my license expiring the day I am supposed to be leaving on my trip and that I’ve moved and now live in another state I decided that avoidance was no longer an option.  I had heard rumors about this DMV, be prepared to rot in a chair while waiting.  In Wisconsin they didn’t have chairs so I thought I was prepared.  I brought every kind of paper that I thought I would need; my husband’s orders, our lease agreement, three bills, my social security card, my birth certificate, a current LES from the hubby, and a blood sample.  When I arrived and after I had stood in line for the standard minimum state required length of time, I made it to the counter where the nice lady there informed me that I was missing a piece of paperwork, and that they required a urine sample, not blood.  The piece of paper, my marriage certificate.  So like a good little girl I drive back home, locate my marriage certificate, and drive back.  More waiting.  I get my number, great B250.  The number on the screen was B240, wow only ten numbers between me and freedom, this should be a friggin’ breeze.  Not.  The first hour we got all the way up to B242.  If you think I’m kidding, you’ve never been to a DMV.  By this time my urine sample was cold and my eyes were starting to twitch.  It took another fifty-five minutes to get me to the counter.  Five minutes later I was released back into the wild with an ugly picture and the strangest sense that someone had just sucked two hours of my life out of my body.  I think they keep it in a barrel in the back room.  Thank God I have three years before I have to go back.  I made it all the way to the car before I realized they never asked for the urine sample. 

Back to Pennsylvania

            Doesn’t sound like a horror story does it?  In truth it’s not.  Uncomfortable, yes.  Grating, yes.  Nerve wracking, definitely.  So why go you ask, because that is where it all begins, at least that’s where my story begins.  I suppose if you want to be technical it’s where most of my family’s story begins, on my mother’s side.  My mother called me a few weeks ago asking me to go with her on an annual trip to the back woods of nowhere.  I don’t have a problem with nowhere; I do have a slight problem with what is waiting for me in nowhere.

            PA as I always call it, even if it’s not technically correct to write it that way, has always been a source of comfort to me.  When my parents were getting divorced I went there for most of a summer, just me and the woods and the wood spiders.  I sat on the rock in the middle of the creek and watched the sunlight dance.  A couple of years ago I needed to get away from everything, even my precious animals, I went to PA.  I spent two weeks recharging my batteries.  I sat in the middle of a gravel drive and meditated.  I wrote an entire notebook of ideas and journal entries that I’m still sorting through.  My mother and I like to play a little game where we compete to see who gets my grandmother to say their full name the most; oddly enough I don’t always win that one.  For years going to PA with my mother was a blessing, a chance to get away, time for the two of us to just be together.  As things do, PA changed and I’m not sure why.

            Maybe it was just time for me to grow up and stop seeing PA as the magical getaway, but I don’t believe that, not really.  It wasn’t just that my grandmother is so outspoken about her religion, she’s told me enough times that I’m going to hell to make me laugh, though out of respect I don’t, usually.  I blamed it on the religious element at first.  I was tired of hearing her rhetoric, tired of hearing how everyone in the world was going to hell but a handful, her handful.  I have no problem with people having different ideas or beliefs than me; I just don’t need them rammed down my throat.  But it’s not the religion.  That’s who my grandmother is, period.  Accept, move on.

            There’s also the head biting, meaning she has this habit of being my sweet old grandmother who yells, can you hear me now from the car window at the Verizon van, to someone who tries to eat the face off somebody because they ask how my uncle in the hospital is doing, it’s a weird transition.  Sometimes she forgets things.  She forgets to turn the stove on, or off.  She forgets that she just told us the same thing three times and tells us again.  She forgets that she is seventy-two and that she has two knee replacements and at least one hip replacement possibly two.  She forgets and she falls and she gets up and she falls. 

            She also pauses.  As we are walking to the car, she’ll just dead stop.  She doesn’t walk very fast so it’s not abrupt, but it can be a little startling if you are walking behind her not paying attention.  When my grandmother stops she always looks around.  Not real fast like you are trying to cross an intersection, but slowly, taking everything in.  Then she’ll point to something in the garden, or to some tree next to the fence.  She’ll talk about the color, how much rain there’s been, how the sun is affecting the bean crop, where the birds are nesting this year.  Always some detail.  Small, insignificant.  When in a hurry these pauses seem to take forever, until you begin to appreciate them.  My grandmother can tell you the history of the trees in her yard and in the surrounding forest.  She can tell you about each stump, and when each flower will bloom.  My grandmother is amazing.  Yet she makes me uncomfortable.

I remember the first time I felt the need to leave PA, the first time it no longer felt like a safe haven.  The first time that my sanctuary dream was shattered.  My grandmother was recovering from a hip replacement surgery.  The second one, I think.  My mother was helping her in my grandmother’s bedroom and I was called in to help.  There on the bed was my grandmother, a strong powerful woman that you just don’t screw with because you will lose.  She was laying there, my mother supporting her.  My mother was trying to help her pull an adult diaper on.  My mother asked me to help support my grandmother while she worked the diaper up.  After we got that on we put my grandmothers socks on, I put on the right one.  The next time we came to visit, she fell the day before we got there breaking a couple of ribs.  She had been bending over pulling a weed out of the rose bed and down she went.  We didn’t play our game as much that year, laughing hurt her too much.  The last time we went, she was different in a way I can’t describe.  There was a meanness in her.  Maybe it was always there and I didn’t notice it before, I don’t know.  And she kept forgetting.  That worried me more than the mean streak.  My grandmother is changing.  My grandmother is getting old.

Maybe that’s an obvious statement, maybe not so much.  The powerful woman I knew as a child and even as an adult has somehow shrunk, become smaller.  It reminds me of one of her flowers that blooms and then begins to wilt.  My grandmother is wilting and it hurts for me to see it happen.  I realize we all wilt, if we make it that far.  Still it bothers me.  Maybe that’s why I don’t want to go to PA, maybe that’s why I don’t want to wander in the woods anymore.  I want to hold out my hand so she can steady herself as she moves up and down the single step in their home.  I want her to stand straight and tall again.  I don’t want to see the spark slip away.  I don’t want to say goodbye.  I realize I’ll have to, eventually.  If I go to Pennsylvania I have to face it, if I stay home I can live in my memories.  So tomorrow I’ll pack my bags and Saturday I’ll head back to my sanctuary and learn what life has to teach me.

Montage

Favorite Quotes of the Week:

Quote #1:  Welcome to the Cow Planet.

Quote #2:  Can we make the Kool-Aid grape?

Quote #3:  I like a good swelling.

Tasty Tidbit #1:  Welcome

            I thought I would take a moment to welcome baby Cecelia Marie to the world!  Beautiful little Cece joined us on this adventure June 27^th.  We love you!!

Tasty Tidbit #2: 2:34am

            It’s a little early for me, but in a way this is a good thing.  I had been debating on when to write ‘Ritas today.  Tonight is the gratitude ceremony for our shop, so things will be running late and with cleaning going on and potluck cooking I didn’t see when I was going to fit this in.  I guess works.  I just hope I can get back to sleep.

Tasty Tidbit #3: Understanding

            I meant to write this tidbit last week during my tidbit extravaganza, but I forgot.  My bad.  But we’re here now so it’s all good.  Over the past few months I have been advised by several people, Mardi included to reconnect with my father.  I had connected with him last year around my birthday, but things went south rather quickly culminating in me basically telling him to piss off.  It’s not the way that I like to do things, I was just mad as hell.  Thirty whatever years of pissosity just poured out of me into an email.  During the expo and before it, I was started getting the message that I needed to patch this relationship up.  Not one to ignore a message, though I did put this one off for a while, I swallowed my pride and wrote an apology letter to my father.  I was surprised how quickly he got back to me and that he was still interested in talking with me.  We have exchanged a couple of emails now and he even sent me a birthday card, something I haven’t seen in I couldn’t tell you how many years.  Then Father’s Day showed up.  I’m not used to celebrating Father’s Day for a few reasons so it kind of snuck up on me.  In fact it was about halfway through the day when I realized what day it was.  Of course, I thought about my dad.  Emotions mixed and I found myself torn.  Though I appreciate that we have been able to say what we needed to say to move toward healing, I honestly don’t feel a relationship coming on.  In other words, though we have reached a point of understanding, I don’t see it going beyond that.  I had toyed with the idea of going up to Wisconsin to visit him.  I had gone as far as telling him that I might do so, but that I wasn’t sure of my plans.  Sometimes things just are what they are.  On Father’s Day the same thought kept rolling through my mind, you have to be and act like a father to qualify for Father’s Day, at least in my perspective of the world and that wasn’t what I felt. I debated, writing an email saying Happy Father’s Day or don’t.  The answer ended up being don’t for me.  I don’t see us actually having a father/daughter relationship, more a relationship of understanding between two adults and that’s okay.  I never thought it would be, I thought that if I didn’t have a real relationship with my father that I would have a hole in my heart, that somehow I was not loveable enough.  Instead I have found that I am loveable, that there is no hole (the one that had been there was simply created out of my expectations), and that it’s okay to accept that my father and I are never going to have anything more than understanding.  I believe in this case, understanding is enough.

Montage

            I had no intentions of writing about the shop this week.  I tried to write four different topics before finally giving in and writing this one.  Tonight is the gratitude ceremony for our little shop, Celestial Esscents.  The cleaning is finished, the boxes are gone, and what we have left is what we had when we began, nothing. 

            I first saw the stain glass window sticker from the technical college next door.  I was in the parking lot with my mother who had just signed up for classes.  The stain glass intrigued me.  What sort of shop had stain glass?  I was pulled, like so many others, like a moth to the flame.  I decided to check it out.  Leaving my mother at the car I walked around the low chain link fence.  The yard was green, the little house was white.  I wasn’t sure if I should knock or just go in, so I choose to just go in and ask forgiveness later if necessary. 

            As I walked through the door I took a deep breath.  The most wonderful smell hung in the air. A mixture of candles, incense, essential oils, and magic.  My kind of place to be sure.  The woman who would be my boss for the next four years greeted me at the door and then continued her conversation with another woman.  She was talking about some psychic, a young man.  I was pretty sure I knew who she was talking about but some verification was needed.  She told me that I was correct; Frank was doing readings out of the shop here.  The timing was perfect; my birthday was just around the corner.  Before I left I booked myself a reading and an energy session.  I also made a daring move; at least it was daring for me back then.  I told the woman that if she ever needed a volunteer I was ready and able to help.  She regarded me for a moment and then asked for my name and number.  I was slightly amused since she had just written all of that down, but that as I soon learned was Peggy’s way.

            As my reading day approached I grew impatient for a call back from Peggy.  I wanted to work in that shop.  It had always been a dream of mine to work in a metaphysical shop, now I had a chance, I didn’t want it to slip away.  I should have known better.  Peggy did call and I did end up working my dream job for four very special years. 

            Some of those years were tougher than others.  I was actually away from the shop for just about a year.  Those were difficult times, but I learned so much and grew so much that by the time I was ready to return to the shop I was a different person altogether.  Stronger somehow through my experience.  Though I was sad to be away for so long, looking back I see how important my time away was, and I don’t regret that time or the lessons I took from it. 

            When I returned to the shop after my year of learning, it was like no time had passed at all.  It was like a couple in a relationship that breaks up for two weeks.  You don’t stop counting the time together just because of a misunderstanding.  So I never count my time away, in some ways I believe I was always there, if only in spirit. 

            This past year plus has been yet another series of learning experiences.  We celebrated our bond with the community by hosting the Harvest Blessings Fair.  I look on that fair with great love.  Everyone worked to the point of exhaustion.  We gave our all and then some and I was proud to be a part of it.  The day was bright, but chilled you to the bone.  We had asked for sunshine but forgotten to specify temperature. We attempted hot chocolate, but weren’t fully prepared.  I remember standing on the front porch before the fair started, before the vendors and service providers had set up their tents.  I looked out and I envisioned a fair, and that’s exactly what we got.  We were not only able to do a great day of business and collect lots of memories that included hot dogs and the corn man, but we were also able to collect a van full of food for the local food pantry, right when they were in need.  Divine timing indeed.

            Tonight is the final moment of Celestial Esscents.  True we will probably be back tomorrow to clean up after tonight’s festivities, but after tonight it will truly be done.  A piece of me aches.  It aches at the memories, the pictures that run through my head of good food, good friends and good conversations.  Potlucks and classes, readings, energy work, and facials.  I laugh to think of playing The Game, and I tear up when I think of those days gone.  But new days are coming.  New memories are aching in their own way to be made.  Laughter waits impatiently to be shared.  Life is waiting for us to raise our arms to the sky one last time on the launching pad and let go of what is past its time.  Joy is calling our name.  Tonight as this chapter of my life comes to a close I am both smiling and weeping.  I am truly blessed.  I watch as the door closes and listen intently for the opening of the window. 

Tasty Tidbit Night

Favorite Quotes of the week:

I have not included who these quotes are from simply to protect the not so innocent, but you know who you are.  For the most part people aren’t going to find these funny.  I think they’re hilarious. 

Quote #1:  I don’t watch porn, I live porn.

Quote #2:  I need that.

Tasty Bit Night

Tonight I decided to do this a little different.  I found myself with a pile of little tales to tell, but no meaty center.  I have decided to accept that and make tonight a Tasty Tidbit Night.  We’ll return to our regularly scheduled program next week...probably.  J

Tasty Tidbit #1: New Glasses

            I’m starting to think I might need new glasses.  I don’t use my glasses very often, just when I take my contacts out at night, and briefly before I put my contacts back in, in the morning.  My glasses are old, as in high school old.  I don’t believe I have ever had the lens changed out, which means they are somewhere in the -5 range while I currently wear something like a -6.5.  In the world of sight, that -1.5ish makes a huge difference as demonstrated in this tidbit.  Early this week I started out my morning as usual.  Put the glasses on, feed the fish, etc.  When I finished feeding the fish I noticed something lying at the foot of my bed.  It looked like a nut.  I picked it up and stood staring at it trying to figure out how a nut had gotten into my bedroom.  My best guess was that I hadn’t latched the pantry door and the cats had pulled the nut out and played with it.  I keep a couple of bags of uncracked nuts in there, so it wasn’t impossible.  It’s early and still fairly dark in the bedroom and I have to hold this nut pretty close to my face trying to identify just what kind of nut it is.  Raise your hand if you saw this one coming.  You’re right.  It wasn’t a nut, it was a dog turd.  My eye appointment is in two weeks.

Tasty Tidbit #2: The Art of Lateness

            Time drives me nuts.  Being late takes me to a whole new level.  When I’m running late my breathing accelerates, my heart starts pounding, I’m calling in angels to hide my car from lurking police cars, and in general I become a mess.  I’m not sure if I think the people waiting for me are going to hate me because I’m running late or what my problem is, but I can’t handle being late.  Some of my friends however do not have this issue; they have learned what I call the Art of Lateness.  Each one of my friends handles their lateness art in a different way.  One of my friends is always late, I mean always.  Her and her family actually have their own personal time zone, which is absolutely cool.  She figures that her friends know her; this is who she is and if you don’t like it, sucks to be you.  One of my other friends has a similar attitude.  She isn’t late that often but when she is there is always a good reason, plus she doesn’t care if you don’t like it, which I love.  My other friend can’t stand being late, but she is, often.  It flusters her pretty bad too.  She is becoming a master in the craft of Lateness.  Her attitude lately is more relaxed in a shrug your shoulders it is what it is kind of way.  It’s fascinating to me how my different friends handle lateness.  I used to think that people that were late were just lazy, but I don’t think that’s it.  There really is something to be said for divine timing.  While I’m rushing and pushing myself to the point of psycho crazy trying to be on time, they have more relaxed attitudes, more acceptance of how things are.  I love that and I respect it. Someday I hope to be a master of Lateness as well, or at least be okay with being late once in a while. 

Tasty Tidbit #3:  I Didn’t Write This For You (I’m Not Sure I Wrote It For Me)

            Ah blog night.  It’s the one night of the week that I sit down in my space and really let the writer in me out of her cage.  It’s a small cage and damp too.  I shut the door to my room and light a bunch of candles.  Fire up the incense and disappear into the keyboard.  That’s exactly how my room looks tonight.  My incense, a wonderful Japanese blend has already burned out, but the scent will linger for hours.  I have something a little selfish to say and it being the night that my writer is released well here it is, I’m not writing this for you.  What you didn’t guess that was coming from the title?  And here’s the other brainstorm, I’m not sure I’m writing this for me.  So why write it?  To write.  I know I have beat this drum before and I hate to beat a dead horse to death (hehehehe), but after a comment I received last week on my blog I decided that this statement needed to be reiterated.  My only purpose in writing, besides sharing, is simply to write, the practice of writing.  In a way that seems harsh to me.  I don’t like being harsh.  But it is the truth.  I am not trying to be a spiritual guru, or an expert of any sort.  I am just a woman sharing.  If you choose to read, you have my thanks.  If you don’t, well that doesn’t really matter now does it.  This is my practice ground. My baby steps toward greater things.  Each step I take, each blog I write moves me forward.  My blog is also deeply personal.  Just because something might seem like just an interesting story on the surface does not mean it doesn’t have a much deeper and very personal meaning for me.  I often describe it as me standing on the cliffs edge.  This is my space of vulnerability.  That means I must maintain healthy boundaries.  I am making the choice to share, to stand on the cliffs edge, so I make the choice to open myself up to who knows what kind of comments.  Still I felt it was important to remind everyone, myself included that this blog is for the practice of creation and however egotistical it might sound, the title remains the truth.

Tasty Tidbit #4:  Me versus Me

            I have a conundrum.  It seems there is a something of a war going on inside of me.  The New Me vs. the Old Me.  In a way which is hard to wrap my brain around neither me is me, I’m just me.  This is going to get confusing but try to stick with me.  Setting that brain wracker aside, I still have the problem of me vs. me.  The New Me is the stronger, healthier me.  This is the me that enjoys eating good foods, getting plenty of rest and exercise, and is generally a more balanced and healthier person.  The New Me is also ready for new adventures, ready to take on new things, to see what the world has in store for me.  The Old Me is just that, the me that hangs on to the old habits, the old job, the old and comfortable things.  The things that I have been ready to let go of, but unable to do so, because the Old Me was hanging on too tightly.  To be honest I’m concerned that the Old Me might win this little battle.  I have made more poor food choices in the last two weeks than I have in the last six months.  My schedule has been rocked sufficiently out of balance, and it seems like Old Me is doing everything she can to hold onto her old worn out identity.  New Me is trying, but it looks like an uphill battle.  Falling back into old habits is easy and comfortable.  I slid into a couple of them without realizing it until a week had gone by.  Then two past and things got even more comfortable.  Old Me gets me to ignore my meditation time by having me play pointless phone games.  Instead of getting a good night’s sleep, Old Me invites me to watch a movie or stay up late doing something else so that I don’t get enough rest.  Exercise? Eating healthy?  Not so much.  When I think about not eating something Old Me jumps in and says but if you do that cleanse again you’ll never eat that whatever it is again.  New Me does her best to remind me how good I felt when I was exercising, how much I enjoyed the new foods I was eating.  New Me has her work cut out for her.    Thankfully I have friends to help me out, even when they don’t know they are helping.  Twice this week I was having fat days and on both days I had people comment on how nice I looked and the weight I have lost.  Those things help New Me out.  I know I have to let the Old Me go.  I know it’s for the best.  I try to be gentle with her, talk to her, and tell her that she isn’t being annihilated, just changing.  I’m hoping I can talk some sense into her before she goes completely off the deep end.  Hmm, might be too late, lol.