Writing Daily

I have started dozens of journals in my life.

Dozens.

Most of which I’ve kept tucked away.

One of the oldest I still have is from 1983 when I was still wearing Snoopy on my clothes and admitted that was my favorite cartoon.

I have travel journals and student journals and women’s journals and workout journals and pregnancy journals.

I have pasted on the pages pictures of old boyfriends, movie ticket stubs, fortune cookie fortunes, plane and train tickets, poems and song lyrics.

I have pages of coloring and drawing and doodling and structured original poems and unstructured original verse.

I have pledges to myself.

I have prayers to the Goddess Fortuna.

I have lists.

I have horoscopes.

Hundreds of pages over almost five decades marking significant and not so significant times.

My first period – May 2,1986

My first house/mortgage – May 28, 2002

My first day in England -June 21,1995

My last day at school in Israel – December 13,1985

I’ve marked Birthdays – 16th, 21st, 30th – and crushes and heartbreaks and New Year’s resolutions and Yom Kippur atonement lists.

It’s all there.

What I didn’t do, what I couldn’t do

Is keep up with it.

I could not keep up with a daily journal.

Weekly even.

All of these journals have dedicated beginnings, voracious middles and no endings. Just blank pages marked by dust.

Gaps not only between months, but years, as new journals are started and old ones packed away in the memory trunk.

For all my love of writing, doing it in this form – consistently day after day has been my Mount Everest … that which is unreachable.

And yes, I’ve tried ones on my computer or through an app or my notes section on my phone or perchance… a blog…a countdown blog created specifically to motivate me up my mountain and document my thought every day… for only 50 days.

And yet.

I can’t.

I can’t because I’m tired more than I’m not.

I can’t because I’ve run out of words or time or patience or will.

I can’t because my life isn’t built for it.

I can’t because I’m not built for it.

That, that is the only sentence worth reading and repeating.

I’m not made that way.

And here’s the thing… the revelation

The journey toward 50 is full of such revelations and that is exactly why I set out to do this quirky little exercise and yet in doing so realized the quirkiness of my inability TO do it is, in fact, the most significant revelation thus far.

And that is ok.

It’s ok that I am 1000% “a writer” that can’t write in a journal every day.

Can’t

Won’t

Doesn’t

No matter.

What matters is that I write when and what I want to write.

And in that, there are still pages of memories

Paragraphs of self reflection.

Lines of morphing penmanship of an ever evolving, messy script of one’s persons life, thoughts, experiences.

Placed out into existence for absorption, consumption, contemplation and even in some cases, absolution.

As is this.

This noble attempt ebbs and flows with the the daily current and it too is subject to my now “embraced” inability for daily journalism.

But as with the others,

But as with quite everything in life

I will wake up the next day and try again.

And again.

And the days I do are a success.

And the days I don’t, also a success of another sort.

And thus, shall it be, for the rest of my days as a writer which is to say, the rest of my days of living.

Nature is angry.

Understandably so.

She’s tired of being shit on.

Literally and figuratively.

And her anger is turning to action.

As often it does with scorned, smart, strong women.

We act.

And I mean…act.

We pretend we are just angry.

We pretend we are righteous in our anger.

We pretend to be motivated, capitulated even by it.

But that’s not the pretend part.

The pretend part

The act

Is that we are not hurt.

That we are not wounded.

That we are not mortified

Or disappointed

Or simply

Broken-hearted.

And thus, the act becomes the act.

And the anger is quelled.

For a time being…

Somehow it got deleted

And didn’t post from yesterday

And it was a really well written piece on expectations

And disappointment

And I’m pissed and upset and also amused at the fucking irony

It is NOT what it is.

Fuck that shit!

It is not our purpose to make the best of it.

It is not our birthright to merely accept it.

It is not our creed to just shrug it off.

It is not what it is just because it happens to be it for the moment.

Kick.

Fight.

Claw.

Your way through the mental ninjas and up the mountain.

Speak, sing, write, scream your peace of mind.

True happiness comes from being true to you and your reactions and emotions and desires and thoughts.

And if all of those happen to be counter to what IT is – well then,

fuck that shit.

Mothering.

Mother’s Day – the annual celebration of the mother.

Traditionally marked with flowers, cards, brunches and pictures.

In our family, usually the official start of the Poppa/Gma Swim Season Sunday BarBQues.

Always lots of hugs.

Always lots of laughs.

Always lots of guac dip and cookie cake.

Always lots of chaos- the good kind.

And always the mothers trying to relax while the fathers and the kids try to help out but rarely does it present as a true “relaxation day”.

And that in itself defines the state of mothering.

Mothers don’t really “relax”.

Because mothering requires there always be a set aside of helping, advising, providing, guiding, lifting, nurturing, aiding, triaging, coaching, refereeing and so on and such.

Even at a Sunday pool day.

The state of being a mother is ever present.

Even when one escapes for an adult vacation or childless night or weekend, there is still, in the far left corner of the brain the part that is still mothering.

Checking the texts.

Worried about their schedule.

Revisiting what they have to wear, eat, homework that needs to be done or forms yet to be filled out.

The act of mothering is a 360 degree 24/7 lifetime commitment.

And it’s lovely and wonderful and what we signed up for and all that bullshit.

But it also is energy.

Raw, unending energy expenditure.

And it changes over time.

Ebbs and flows from constant care of an infant to painful letting go of elementary school years to the tightrope of teenagers to.. well.. I’m not sure because I’m not there yet, but I know it doesn’t get any easier and it doesn’t end, it just changes form.

And to ask for a break from all this is, well, futile.

And to ask for assistance in this mental load is, well, natural.

And to ask for acknowledgment for this is, well, what the day is about.

Acknowledging the art of mothering.

So, in that vein, I acknowledge all the energy spent AND received as a mother and one who has a mother —- and I am grateful!

Storm Rages On

Didn’t post yesterday, was wrung dry for words after handling comms and other things from 7am-9:30pm — and I’m the fortunate one. I got to work from home since I still had power. My co-workers were at a no-power office and out on the roads assessing routes and my fellow COT family members were working the EOC or clearing debris or fixing lines or …or.. or..

And everyone is back at it today.

Myself included.

And I see a lot of chatter online complaining about lack of power or this and that from yesterday

And I want to point out to everyone to just take a min, stop and think …

The sheer volume of human capital, human energy expended during and after a storm is staggering.

The amount of logistics and semantics and scheduling and prioritizing and communicating – all without rest or much time to mentally prepare is overwhelming.

The amount of raw, physical work that is done, is superhuman.

The amount of people working, plans cancelled, sleep lost, meals missed is incalculable.

The tentacles of impact an event like this wraps around a community is monstrous.

Adding criticism, complaints and Monday Morning Quarterbacking doesn’t serve any purpose other than to feed the angry monster in all of us.

The monster.

The one that can’t control the forces of nature that descend on us and thus lashes out.

The one that can’t bear the burden of personal responsibility and thus hands out blame.

The one that can’t fathom an experience other than their own and thus doles out judgement.

Luckily, all of the people I associate with are not monsters.

Most of them work some part of all this crazy, crisis management.

The others are well wishers, checking in and giving support, bringing food or offering to babysit or forwarding information or just being… grateful.

So next time, anytime, a crisis happens in your community – don’t let the monster rear his ugly head because you’re hot, tired, hungry, inconvenienced, scared, sad, mad, alone, overwhelmed or anything else because I guarantee you, there are people out there feeling all those things and more who are working their asses off for you and your family!

Dreams.

Last nite I had a bad dream.

It was about work.

There was a lot of anxiety and confusion and stress.

I woke up anxious, confused, stressed.

It stuck with me all day.

Of course work itself didn’t help to relieve that anxiety, confusion or stress.

But that’s not the point of this particular post.

The dream is the point.

Ever since I was very young I’ve been an active, vivid dreamer.

I remember sitting at the breakfast table and telling my dad every detail of the dream I had the night before, it was always very long, very emotional, very… vivid.

I thought that kind of dreaming was normal.

He would remark that it very much wasn’t – that mine were like small movies with plots and subplots and context and imagery.

Not really that surprising given my penchant for writing and reading and, well, watching movies.

A side effect of Prozac is “abnormal or unusual dreams” – that added a new dimension some 30 years ago when I began taking that to regulate my serotonin levels.

My recurring dreams — that I’m late for class, can’t find my class, didn’t turn in my homework or study for the exam or get a good grade – still plague me.

Other top hits:

My teeth are falling out.

Someone is breaking into my house/bedroom and I try to scream for help but no sound comes out.

I’m lost.

I’m late.

Always vary a little in location, characters, timeframe but always leave the same physical imprint when I wake up – like someone stomped on my chest!

And then I’m unsettled for the rest of the day.

And that’s way worse because then it’s like a living nightmare – living the nightmare – all day – while awake.

Some of my dreams are pleasant – some are visits from old friends, ex-lovers, deceased family.

Some are almost prophetic – I’ve been known to randomly dream about someone I haven’t talked to in forever and then see them/hear from them.

Or dream of a bizarre circumstance and then it happens – not a deja vous – a true, kinda premonition.

Don’t get excited – it’s always about something very stupid or benign like a dream I had about every light I turned on in my house immediately went out/blew the bulb and then two or three days later I flipped the hallway switch and the light blew out.

Weird shit like that.

But still, the baseline is these dreams come from somewhere and usually mean something and stick with me for sometime.

And… it’s exhausting.

I’m fucking done with…Part 1

I’m fucking done with…

Waiting for the dogs to do their business in the back yard while getting eaten by mosquitoes, sweating my ass off, getting soaked, freezing or otherwise late, miserable, hungry or needing to pee myself!

Hurting my ankle, wrist, back, neck, big toe, other wrist, other ankle without knowing how, when, where or why it suddenly pinches, aches, radiates pain, random shooting pain, won’t bend, will only bend or just simply stopped working.

I’m fucking done with…

Hours that drag on before it’s finally bedtime, quitting time, vacation time, holiday time or time to get food, time to get paid, time to get out of here or time to get over there or simply just time and lack thereof.

Home ownership, car ownership, health insurance, car insurance, house repairs, appliance repairs, appliance replacements, knee/hip/other area replacements, dental check ups, physical check ups, mental check ups, shots, vitamins, medications, good food, bad food, buying food, preparing food, cleaning up from food, throwing garbage out, grocery lists, grocery shopping, loading groceries in, groceries to put away, back to school shopping, new season shopping, growth spurt shopping – and bills.

Oh the bills.

I’m fucking done with…

The bills you plan for.

The bills you forgot.

The bills you didn’t even sign up for.

The bills that come out of no where and usually with some sort of emergency.

The bills and the mail and the junk mail and the cards and the stamps for cards and the addressing of cards and remembering to purchase cards and birthdays and anniversaries and National holidays and religious holidays and school holidays and family celebrations and birthday celebrations and holiday celebrations and presents and wrapping and … the calendar…. (to be continued).

Crushin’ Hard

Lately, I find myself feeling a little giddy

I catch myself smiling while just doing simple things around the house

I am even humming

Yeh, it’s like… like … I just got home from a really great date

And I’m crushing 😍

And frankly why wouldn’t I?

I mean he’s so smart

And helpful

And insightful

And witty funny, not just funny funny

And plays songs for me to listen to while he explains the backstory

He makes me watch him play his video games so I can witness his wins

He apologizes when he’s done something wrong and asks for my advice

And he’s handsome

Especially when he smiles

He’s been helping around the house more and is caring and gentle with my old dogs

And lately he’s been cooking dinner for me – it’s just spaghetti – but that’s like one of my favorites, especially after a tuff day

Yeah, he’s definitely a keeper

Especially since his mood swings are way less frequent

And he doesn’t go straight to a dark room and climb into bed as soon as he gets home

And he enjoys eating together again and even going out in public

Like, we are even going to a movie together on Saturday 🤩

Yeah he’s definitely past that icky phase and I think the butterflies in my stomach after we spend an afternoon together, talking, laughing and end the day hanging on the couch watching tv together, yeh those butterflies mean something

I think I am feeling feelings for this dude

Again

Like when he was first born, first smiled at me, first said my name, first walked, first… everything.

It’s like that—-

My son is back.

My son emerged from the tween/teen cocoon of angst a fine, young man.

And every time I’m blessed with some really great minutes/hours/days with him I am more and more smitten with this amazing… amazing…

Person

That I made. ❤️

The one with the final bow

Twenty years ago today, Friends aired its final episode.

That means that Friends aired its first episode 30 years ago.

That means I’m old.

Ok, we know that.

What it also means, is that show ranks up there with only a handful of people who have been in my life for 30 plus years.

And yes, that show is my people.

That show is… my friend.

Oddly enough when it first aired I wasn’t that into it.

Sept 22, 1994 – I was at American University

Living in a house w my boyfriend at the time and, well, four other friends.

So the show was just, eh, a causal glance in the mirror.

It wasn’t until I watched reruns ( remember those!) when I lived in England that I got to know these “Friends”.

At the time I was also addicted to Party of Five – one could say the tv just pacified my American homesickness.

Nevertheless, by the time I moved to Tally in 2000 I was certifiably a Must-See TV Thursday night home by 8pm kinda gal.

With a programmed VCR recording as back up – of course.

Chel and I used to rush home from our favorite spin class at Gold’s – Michelle was the instructor and she always wanted to run the class long – just to watch, sometimes together in person, sometimes together on the phone.

Then of course came the network reruns at 7 and 7:30 and again at 11 and then more over the weekends and then, well HBO and Netflix.

I legitimately can’t count how many times I’ve seen each episode. I know I’ve run through the entire catalog from beginning to end about a dozen times – and that’s just thru the streaming services.

So one would not be exaggerating rounding up to the statement “I’ve spent about a thousand hours of my life watching Friends.”

I watch when I’m bored.

I watch when I’m sad.

I watch when I’m lonely.

I watch when I need a distraction.

I watch it for background noise.

I watch to laugh.

I watch to zone out.

I watch to see my favorite parts.

I watch to hear my favorite lines.

I watch for some really groundbreaking television topics.

I watch ( and cringe) to see some very inappropriate or hopelessly outdated and ignorant topics.

I watch to discuss the above.

I watch to forget.

I watch with different people at different stages of my life and I see it, hear it, experience it differently.

And yet, each time, each episode there is always one thing, one comeback, one side glance or gesture or background character I’ve never seen or heard or registered before – and I genuinely, wholeheartedly laugh.

30 years later and the writing is still sharp.

25 years later and the acting is still on point.

20 years later and the content is still… like looking in a mirror.

They are my friends.

They are my comfort food.

They are my warm, cozy blanket.

They are my memories.

They are my tissues.

They are my journals.

They too, are old.

And … one of them has died.

And I experienced grief as if my own village lost someone.

💔

I buy a lot of the branded clothes.

And magnets and mugs.

And others buy that stuff for me.

And I make references to show more than I should, appropriately and inappropriately, in meetings and texts and with the kids and to complete strangers.

And so maybe, all the cliches and pop culture hipness aside, Friends really is “my show” and I really am just a crazy, super fan.

But after three decades of friendship, you just don’t give up when it starts to get a little crazy.