Live with Intensity

First off I would like to send love to all of my readers!  Love you guys!!  Secondly, if you are one of the few who know the company I am writing about in the tidbit below, please do not post the company name on facebook or anywhere else.  I have left out the name of the company out of respect to the owner.  Thank you so much for reading!

Tasty Tidbit #1:  I’ve Got My Go-Getter Panties On

            Recently I have been on the hunt for a job.  I’ve done all the things that a typical job hunter would do, filled out applications, and waited.  The waiting ended with my first phone call last Saturday, at least it ended temporarily.  I was scheduled for a group interview on Monday, so I waited for Monday to get here.  After the interview we were told it would take another week to a week and a half before human resources would make up their minds and give us a call.  I walked away from that interview feeling confident that I had put my best foot forward.  I promptly and not so gracefully tripped over my other foot, when I got a phone call from another company.  The interview was scheduled and I felt confident that I would nail this interview with equal strength.  I started tripping shortly thereafter.  The day of the interview I was concerned about my wardrobe, I felt that the outfit I had chosen might be overdressing for this job, however I come from the old school that no matter the job you dress professional, so I decided to stick with that notion.  Mistake one, ignoring gut instinct.  Mistake number two, arriving twenty minutes early for my interview.  Although I am admittedly anal about time, I honestly hadn’t meant to arrive quite so early.  I actually waited in the car for fifteen minutes and was still twenty minutes early.  I walked in, explained to one of the ladies that I had an interview, and she told me to have a seat, that there were several people in front of me.  There were in fact only two people in front of me, one who was already in an interview.  I sat down next to the other interviewee and waited my turn.  My gut feeling about overdressing was now in full swing and I felt more than a little uncomfortable.  The woman sitting across from me was dressed in white capri’s, sneakers, and a shirt that said Jesus University on it.  The young woman that was interviewing was dressed in blue jeans.  My stomach was headed to my toes.  The owner came and got the woman who was waiting with me, and I reached over and picked up a magazine sitting on the small table next to the chairs.  I wasn’t really reading it, but I must have been doing a good impression because the two women behind the counter began talking about me.  I heard one mention the time of my interview to the other one, and the listener gave what can only be described as a snort.  Fantastic, these might be my future co-workers?  Then one of them proceeded to make the comment, “Go-getter,” loud enough for me to hear.  It wasn’t said in a nice tone, in fact just the opposite, it was quite nasty. There was this undertone to it that I couldn’t identify at first, but now I think I threatened them in some way, it was such a defensive, nasty tone.  At the time, I paid attention to my magazine and tried not to turn red which is my natural reaction to just about everything. 

            I dressed nice and I was early, so I was a go-getter.  My turn for the interview came and I did my best to collect myself, but I have to say I don’t think it went well.  In fact, I know it didn’t go well.  I came home trying to figure out why I felt so bad, the answer wasn’t hard to find.  The comments made by the women had through off my zen chi mojo and upset me.  I didn’t understand what their problem was, after all didn’t they want a co-worker who was well prepared and on time?  I set a bar for myself, and I strive to do my best in every situation.  It doesn’t always happen, but at least even when something is a complete fail I know I did the best I could.  The more I thought about the situation the more I thought, what’s wrong with being a go-getter?  I was eager to work, eager to help, ready to learn, nothing bad there.  Part of the problem was the tone used by the woman who said it; the other part was the negative connotation that I have about the term go-getter.  It makes me think A–type personality, which is not how I see myself.  By the time I had thoroughly hashed through the event and started typing this tidbit I realized that being a go-getter isn’t a bad thing at all.  If those ladies saw it in a negative light, that was their problem not mine.  My problem was seeing the term in a negative light in the first place and then accepting their negative attitudes, allowing them to affect my mood and my performance in the interview.  One question I asked myself was, would I want to work with people like that?  I don’t think so.  I could always say they were having a bad day, but really I don’t feel a need to excuse such behavior.   In my personal opinion, they need to pull up their big girl panties and stop being jealous of my sexy go-getters. 

Live with Intensity

            I’m such an uber nerd.  I’m a writer who reads magazines about writing.  I figure what better way to stay informed about my craft, but still it’s geeky.  The last issue I got was featuring a major writer; let me correct that, a bestselling author.  Though it’s probably bad I tend to skip over those articles, I focus more on the writing prompts, exercises and tips.  This time I decided to check out the author because the subtitle of the article made him sound interesting.  I read about a paragraph and a half before I was overcome with jealousy.  This guy had done it all, I mean everything, then taken all of those experiences and written about them.  Many of the things he had done were things that I want to do, some were outrageous things that I would never think of doing.  The point being that this man didn’t let anything hold him back.  He’s living his life with intensity and enjoying every moment of it or at least experiencing every moment of it.

            The article gave me a lot to ponder, most of the pondering was done on all the things that I keep saying I want to do, but don’t do.  I have lots of excuses; not enough time, not enough money, I have animals and a house to take care of, etc.  After I read this article, none of those excuses seemed good enough reasons not to go after the things that I truly wanted to experience.  This man didn’t look at an experience and say, hey I can’t do that because I don’t have enough money, he would work for a year to save the money to do whatever it was or find another way to get around the problem of not having enough money.  In fact, I don’t think this guy looks at things as problems, I think he looks at them as challenges to be met and overcome.  Maybe that’s my problem, or rather challenge.  I tend to look at a problem as an obstacle, one that is directly cutting across my path.  An obstruction between me and whatever it might be that I want or want to do.  It freezes me and I end up wasting a lot of time analyzing the problem, instead of looking for creative solutions.  

            Part of the article made me think this guy was a little bit more than a little nuts.  But then aren’t we all at least a little crazy?  Example, he joined the army just so he could experience going to war.  That one isn’t on my bucket list, but I bet it gave him a lot to write about.  I couldn’t decide if this guy had the biggest balls ever or if he was the stupidest person in the world.  I am personally leaning towards the balls.  Though undeniably crazy, you have to give the guy points for guts.  He saw something he wanted to experience and he did it simply to experience it.  How many of us do that?  Most of the time we are too busy making up excuses to even consider the possibility that our hopes and dreams could actually happen if we put one tenth of the energy into making them happen that we put into denying ourselves the experience. 

            I would be the first one to raise my hand if someone asked me, who wants to live their dreams no matter the consequences, who is willing to take a risk failing in order to work towards making their dreams a reality?  I would also be the first person who was lying.  If I wasn’t I would have learned French three years ago, I would have taken that trip, I would have used that singing lesson gift certificate, I would have taken that hang-gliding lesson.  Now, I’m not attempting to bash myself in any way, but the truth is that even when something I want is handed to me I find excuses not to participate in my life. 

            I’ve made some small steps toward changing that situation.  My solo trip last fall is a good example, although just about anyone who knows me knows that I almost chickened out at the last minute.  Even now I’m not sure how I beat the fear, I’m not sure I did.  I think I just wanted to go so badly that the fear was tucked away, at least temporarily.  Another example would be hang-gliding.  I have always wanted to try hang-gliding and earlier this year I purchased a certificate to take an all day lesson in hang-gliding.  It was January when I bought it so I thought I would wait until the summer months to test my wings.  Right now I have the certificate tacked up on my vision board, but I haven’t done much else with it.  I look at it, I toy with the idea of calling and setting the lesson up and then I find a number of excuses why I can’t do it.  With school coming up next week I have the perfect readymade excuse why I can’t go. 

            The problem or challenge seems to come between the idea and the action.  Let’s say I have always wanted to learn yoga, because I have.  I think being stretchy would be a good skill to have and it would be relaxing.  So, I look around for places where I can take yoga and even find one in Clarksville.  I watch groupon and find a coupon for yoga; I even take my yoga mat out of the basement and bring it upstairs to my meditation room as a reminder of my goal.  Then I take all of this information and motivated action and do nothing with it.  I put a little yellow sticky note on my vision board that says yoga, that’s about the extent of the action.  What are my excuses for not going to yoga?  I’ve got a couple.  In the case of the studio in Clarksville there is only one day a week I would be able to attend due to my school schedule which tells my brain that it wouldn’t be worth it to go just once a week.  Another excuse would be the cost, which also ties into the first excuse, why would I pay all that money just to go once a week and do we have the money to spend?  There are lots of other excuses too like, other people would be better than me, I wouldn’t know what I was doing, I might look dumb, etc.  I sit and stare at that little yellow sticky note, wishing I could participate instead of actually participating. 

            What would happen if I took a deep breath and jumped off that cliff edge?  What would happen if I actually started doing the things I dreamed about instead of just wishing I could do them?  I’d pee my pants, but I bet I’d have a good time doing it.  I would have to accept the fact that I might fail at some of the things I would like to do.  I might never figure out how to use watercolors, but I might learn how to draw.  I might find out that making candles is fun and that I want to share my love of making them with others.  I think if we start making tiny leaps, toward some of our smaller goals and dreams we can eventually work our way to the bigger ones.  Or if you want to go crazy with it, dive right in.  I started my journey to participation by making a list of random goals.  I started it on the 11^th of this month and I gave myself thirty days to complete thirty small goals.  Most of my goals are very small like sew a button on my shorts or call and get my prescription refilled, they are things that I want and need to do but for multiple reasons I have put them off.  I included some “bigger” goals as well.  For me, the biggest goal on my list is to write an article for the spiritual section of clarskvilleonline.  I’m pleased to say that I have all but five of my goals completed.  The final goal that I have on my sheet is the goal of making the next goal sheet, to keep the process going.  If I keep it going, if I keep leaping off the little cliffs I feel confident that I will be able to participate in my life instead of feeling jealous that other people are living their lives.  With work and determination I can learn how to live my life with intensity and so can you!    

Details

I want to say thank you for everyone who commented on last week’s blog!  I got a lot of good feedback and I think I can finally move on!  Thanks for your support!

Tasty Tidbit #1:  Mr. Fish

            I may or may not have mentioned that my husband bought me a Beta fish for my birthday.   I like to be creative so I named him, Mr. Fish.  Like most Beta fish, he’s beautiful.  I suppose I should say handsome, but since he’s a fish and doesn’t know the difference we’ll go with beautiful.  He has the classic fan tail, which is a fabulous royal blue with blood red highlights.  You would think blue and red would look strange, but with just a few of the red streaks Mr. Fish pulls the look off nicely.  So why am I talking about my fish?  Because he’s a good teacher.  The other day I was laying in bed trying to meditate, although really I was slipping into nap mode which is the trouble with laying down and meditating.  While I was laying there I watched Mr. Fish in his little five gallon world filled with plastic plants, red and black gravel, and of course, a castle.  I have to add to his water once a week and I noticed it was about time, the water level had dropped about two inches.  When the water level drops, the current from the air filter kicks up a notch.  I watched Mr. Fish lean against one of the tall plastic plants.  He just leaned into the plant as it swayed to the rhythm of the filter.  He was one with nature for about five minutes, when he decided to take a swim.  He backed up to the edge of the tank and then started darting through the main stream of bubbles created by the filter.  Every time he would enter the stream he would spin himself around, doing underwater acrobatics.  The best part was when he would spin his tail fin would flow completely out and you could see the whole thing and all of its beautiful colors.  I was pretty convinced he was showing off.  After a few minutes of this dancing and spinning, he went back to the tall plant and leaned on it again.  Once again he stayed there swaying in the plant for about five minutes and started all over again.  Mr. Fish is smart.  He knows there is a time for rest and there is a time for action, even if that action is play.  At first when the shop closed I was antsy for some action, now however I have gotten into a routine of leaning and swaying.  My problem is that my action and resting periods are still not balanced.  The moral of the story, be more like Mr. Fish.  Learn to be balanced in your rest and play and always show off your beauty!

Details

            This writing stuff is hard!  Somehow I was under the impression that when you were a writer you just write and everything else just falls into place.  Not so much.  As I mentioned in one of my previous blogs I managed to complete chapter one of a story I am working on, at least I thought I completed it.  Again with the not so much.  Turns out that even with thirteen pages of writing, which I also found out was short, I had a lot of work to do.  I had the chapter reviewed and at first I was pretty pissy about the comments that came back about it.  Although the person that read it thought it was a good start, there was room for a lot of improvement.  I thought I was getting better at the constructive criticism thing, but I guess that’s just one more thing I need to keep working on. 

            Anywho, this person said that the surface of the story was good, but that I was lacking in details.  I balked at this at first.  Duh, what do you call all those words on the page, those would be details.  Areas where I had tried to be clever appeared confusing to the reader.  I have a whole meditation/vision scene and I thought I did a great job describing it, the reader however said that they had no idea what the hell I was talking about.  Well, they didn’t say it exactly like that, but I got the jist.  This person also went on to point out tense changes (something I have a major problem with, but don’t like admitting), and other various grammar issues.  By the end of it I was convinced that what I had written was a piece of shit not worthy of the paper I had printed it on.  That’s not what the reader was trying to convey, that was just my own self-worth issues cropping up.  Like I said I was pissed at first, I didn’t want to hear what this person had to say.  I only wanted to hear the good things about my chapter, wasn’t there anything there worth noting?  There was and it was noted, but there was more work to be done.  The reader told me that I need to add a lot more detail, my scenes jumped with no detail on how the characters moved from one place to another.  The reader said I needed to work on creating my world, I was going to create his world all right and it was going to be painful.

            After I got over myself, which took considerably longer than I would like to admit, I sat down with the reader again and asked him to repeat his comments.  I realized that I didn’t really hear what he was saying the first time and that it might be worth hearing again.  He pointed out the places where my scenes skipped and offered suggestions on where to place details.  The toughest part was when he said it looked like I had started three chapters in one chapter and that it needed to be completely redone.  When I looked at the chapter again I could see where a reader would get confused.  It was choppy and it did jump around a lot.  There wasn’t much character detail either.  In fact, in thirteen pages I only described what one of six characters looked like, oops.  It was at that moment that I realized there was a lot more to this writing gig than I originally thought.

            I realized there are several other subjects and projects I have been working on that requires some detail.  One of my main projects besides writing is making candles.  I love making candles and it has been a mini dream of mine to make and sell my candles.  One of the weeks that I was moping around my husband suggested that I begin working on making that dream a reality.  At first I ignored the notion, but boredom got the better of me.  I knew that the candles I had made previously had problems.  Bad wicks, poor burn time, and low scent throw.  I would occasionally have a candle that came out okay, but that was more luck than skill in making them.  I had always thought that making candles was simple, just like writing.  You melt the wax, you pour the wax, poof, you have a candle.  This theory had been proven wrong by my many past failures and while I didn’t mind if my candle melted all over, I knew that customers would care if my candles unexpectedly oozed wax all over.  Again with the details.  Since there are bunches of books on candle making, I figured there had to be an even greater number of websites on the subject.  I wasn’t disappointed.  I took my time sorting through waxes and wicks and I have figured out many of the places where I went wrong in my previous candle making ventures.  I still have a lot to learn though. 

            I have never liked details.  I figure if I can get it done without the details than it’s just as good.  I hate to keep saying it but, not so much.  I have learned that skimming the surface, doesn’t get you that far and you lack understanding.  If you don’t know how something works than it’s probable that you won’t be able to make it work.  You might get lucky and get it to work some of the time, but for the most part you are headed for a fail. If I only tell the surface story in my writing, how will people understand the depth of what I am attempting to convey?  If I want to make a product and sell it, how can I make sure that people are getting the best product I can make if I don’t take the time to learn about making it?  I can see many areas of my life where I have floated on the surface, figuring that a small amount of knowledge would get me far enough, but what is enough?  Probably not the quality I am hoping to achieve.  Everything in life takes practice and I see it as a good thing that I made so many mistakes in the past.  At least I get to learn from them and improve because of them.  When I pay attention to the details the things I create show it.  I have never been able to make votive candles; I just never figured it out.  After researching and a couple of test runs I now have a beautiful votive candle burning on my desk, which has been burning perfectly for almost four hours now.  I can take pride in my creations when I take time to understand the little things.  By looking past the surface I get to find the beauty and wonder previously unseen and take my creations to the next level.

Feedback

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

Feedback

            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.