Archive for March, 2013


I’m feeling a little cabin feverish.  I have been locked up in the house since Saturday with two sick kids.  Now admittedly, some of my sequester is self imposed.  Sunday I could have left my son in the capable hands of my husband, but I was afraid of a fever spike and when the boy looked at me with his flushed little face and said, “Mom, please stay home,” well, I caved.  Tuesday the school called about my daughter and as the first child was preparing to go back to school the second was now home with a temp of 101 and rising. Tuesday night I could have gone to my Writers club meeting, same said husband made arrangements and I could have gone,  consumed with guilt and worry the entire time but I could have.  But now that the second child is feeling better I am gaining a different perspective and it’s not like she would have had a death inducing fever spike in the time it would have taken me to get home to judge the temperature of the warm bath water warm enough not to induce a seizer.  Yes I’ve been in the house way too long.

So I’ve puttered around the house, made homemade organic chicken soup that apparently tasted like soap according to the feverish nine year old and generally got nothing done.  I’m feeling a little devoid of adult companionship right now, a little crazy due to the fact that I cleaned and really you can’t tell and a bit sick after eating too many snickerdoodles eaten out of boredom.  And now on top of that I’m forcing myself to run, because, I guess, I don’t feel bad enough. 

Running sucks.  It hurts so bad that when I begin a run I’m certain even childbirth wasn’t this bad.  And yet here I am on my fifth attempt at making it a solid part of my life.  Why?  Like the stated perspective from above this is my present perspective on running now in the hopes that when I do want to quit this will help me to keep going.

I’m not running now.  I’m sitting at my computer, writing this post, not running.  The absolute best thing about running is not running.  The best day is a non-running day.  Oh to wake up in the morning and think, “This is not a running day!  Yes!” That is one of the best things in the world.  And I only have to suffer for 30 minutes out of every 48 hours.  Really that’s not too tough to take.

The next best thing about running is how I feel when I am not running.  (noticing a theme here?)  I ran Monday, I slept like a log Monday night.  I woke Tuesday morning with my body tingling in a strange satisfying way (please do not tell me the tingling is indicative of some major disease…la la, la, la. I’m not listening).  Walking feels good, cuz it’s not running.  I move more and do more when I’m in between the running because a walk down my killer driveway and the trek back up…is not running!  Anything physical hurts less than running. 

Also, I can easily track my progress.  No I don’t mean on the scale that would be way too normal, and clearly I am not.  When I first started this sadistic activity, running for one minute hurt, like, want to die hurt.  I can now run a whole minute and not want to die.  That’s progress.  Today I ran three sets of 3 minutes…I think.  I’ve stopped keeping track.  I walk for five minutes, run to the next song which is 3 minutes, walk to the next song, then run and so forth until I reach thirty minutes of activity.   If I can keep up a three day a week schedule then I’ll increase but for right now I’m moving.  That is measurable progress.

And the final best thing, when I am running and trying not to let my eyes focus on any one object because I’ll get dizzy and throw up, I think.  I write in my head. I remember things that I already should know but have forgotten.  Like today, I was reminded that if I want my dream to come true, well then no one else is going to make it happen for me.  It is up to me and I better get myself back to work and my eyes on the prize. 

As always I am still trying to find balance in my life and if my goal is to be the absolute best me then I need to work on the body, mind and soul.  Those three things will make me complete.  I work on my soul when I do good things, when I pray and when I meditate.  I work on my mind when I write and when I force myself to learn new things like create a website and go to an All in One Overnight Girl Scout Training…ALL BY MYSELF!  Which honestly has me in a nauseous panic but I’m going to discuss the date with my husband and sign up tomorrow.  After that, there’s no backing out. (unless there’s a hurricane or a flood…tsunami? One can only hope)  Aannd I work on my body by running and trying to eat right.  

We are all works in progress.  Some of us (me) just progress a little slower than others.  Some have the perfect scene painted on the outside but underneath the color is an entirely different perspective.  I’m trying to paint who I am directly onto the canvass.  I’m striving to paint my truth regardless of how difficult and intimidating it might be because honestly if I paint a facade I’m terrified the real me will disappear under the synthetic colors and bleaching overlays.  So I paint real, real joy, real pain and everything in between. There will be mistakes…lots of them and it might just take me a lifetime…or two…or twenty to finally finish this work, but I know if I paint true to myself there is going to come a day when my perspective will change, where I will be standing on the outside looking back at all of my hard work and think, now there’s the masterpiece I’ve had pictured in my head since I started this gig, oh roughly about the beginning of time.


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The Magic

Words have left me.  Oh not the normal words like, get your backpack, get in the car, get ready for bed, have you brushed your teeth yet…I still have all of those words and then some.  I’m talking about the beautiful words.  The ones that when strung together can make someone feel something you yourself simply made up.  The ones that are capable of making someone pause for a second and see something new within.  My writing has left me and I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself.  I wrote a post last Tuesday but it was so miserable I didn’t put it up.  No point in making everyone else feel as bad as I did.

I wrote that I quit trying to be a writer, that I had officially given up,  I would never get published and I think I said a few things that weren’t very nice about myself.  Yes I was depressed, but I was doing all the right things, meditating, praying, trying to write, exercising, but nothing was working.  I was pushing all the right buttons but getting all the wrong items to fall out of the vending machine, or just getting nothing at all.

I felt my story calling to me but whenever I went to it I was painfully disappointed at how inadequate the words were. Sure it had a beginning, middle and an end.  Of course the words said something, but they didn’t paint the emotion or affectivity (my new word for the day) of the story.  They didn’t flow with the beauty and magic this story is and I couldn’t fix it, and the dark cloud got thicker and colder around me.

Sunday morning I sat in church with this weight in my chest, cuddling up to my children, too overburdened to speak with anyone and a thought formed in my head; I am supposed to be learning something from this. This awful feeling has something to teach me. Peace came over me for a second and then it was gone.

Over this past week I just dragged the depression around with me.  Getting through the week, no longer trying to write through it.  What was the point.  Sometimes depression needs to be fought, sometimes it needs to be felt but every time it needs to be heard.  And I wasn’t listening. (Again!)  My default setting needs some serious rewiring.  This is getting ridiculous.

But interestingly enough, on occasion something would peek through the clouds, little gems of my life showing themselves.  Tuesday I stumbled my way through planning a Girl Scout meeting.  When my co-leader asked my reasoning for doing an activity the ‘hard way’ I automatically explained, without thought, that letting the girls figure it out for themselves not only gave them a chance to lead but gave us a chance to see the dynamics of the group at work.  To see who could stand up and lead, who needed to be encouraged a little more and who stood on the sidelines with the potential but not the opportunity (that’s me by the way).  Later walking into the grocery store (for the fifth time this week!) I thought through the darkness, hey, I’m still in there somewhere.  It was a relief to know the best of me was not as lost as I felt.

Later in the week, I was changing out of my work clothes into my comfy lounge pants and noted, it was almost time for bed, my husband would be home and soon I’d be lying next to him, warm and safe.  After 11 years of marriage, it is still the absolute best part of my day.  “Life is good,” crossed my mind.

Thursday I worked and of course the kids asked how my book was coming.  I think I growled.  “That good huh?” One responded.  “I’m in a slump,” I answered.  I stopped their questioning and got to work, we had homework to correct, a story to read and MCAS prep to do. No time to distract Mrs. Warner today.  We read the story and I asked the questions the teacher’s book told me to ask and the kids asked their questions.  Why does the author use that word?  Why can’t he just say the kid felt bad instead of “remorse settled on him like a quilt”?  and I told them, nothing an author writes is for no reason.  Every word is suffered for, thought about, revised and re-revised.  Authors used words to create art, like a painter using colors.  The more vivid the colors the more vibrant the painting and the same goes for writing.   Writing is Art.

Today I opened up my email and a blog I follow was on there, and honestly I don’t follow many.  Mainly because I don’t have time and I am easily distracted if I am checking my email before I get to writing.  “Live simply, travel lightly, love passionately & don’t forget to breathe”  is written by a woman who travels and photographs the places she experiences.  What I like about it is that she has the courage to go places I wouldn’t dare to dream about and she takes me with her in her posts, in her photographs and with her words.

Thank you Elena for reminded me the Magic is always there.  I just forgot for a little while.

“Your salvation lies within the soul of your story.”

(a whisper running around in my head when I woke up at 2am)

Magic can never be owned.  It can only be experienced.  My words are magic and I have to let them bloom rather than force them to be what I think they should be.  I write for more than hope of a paycheck.  Writing is my connection to my God and my self and I forgot that for a moment. My words are back, the dark rain cloud is away for now, and the magic is waiting.  I can’t wait to discover it all over again.

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