Choppy Waters

DSC01405I’ve been on quite a roll with my memoir writing lately. But suddenly I’m in one of those places, where to move forward even more, means that I must build up my courage and reenter places and times that were cruel and heartbreaking. I’ve been in this situation numerous times in the past as I’ve gone back in time, processing the occasions that brought me to the place on which I stand today. It means remembering and feeling the way I did when both good and horrible things were happening in my life.

The good parts are no problem. Who wouldn’t be willing to revisit the births of their children? As physically painful as those happy occasions can be, they are times of celebration, bringing new life into the world and watching as tiny copies of ourselves take wing and find their own way.

It’s the heart wrenching times that can send me into hurtful funks. But I realize that in order to go where I’m headed, I must enter a roiling sea of emotions and make my way to the opposite shore, where I no longer have to hide from the things that made my life a living hell at times..

By revisiting those dark memories and arriving on the other side, I stand taller, unafraid, and grateful for the chance to move along into my new life. It is a rebirth in which I release myself from the tangle of horrifying events that left me stranded; a broken, needy person.

When I  enter the dark, I find the light and recognize where I am, knowing that I am not all that has happened to me. It is who I am becoming now that is important. It allows me to live each day with joy and forgiveness. It’s a place I never thought I’d find and I’m very grateful to have arrived here.

So this week, I’ll probably spend a few days procrastinating.  I’ll sharpen pencils, clean up the huge mess on my desk, and feel slightly depressed. I’ll listen to my inner critic who seems to think I’m useless and a horrible writer.  When I get tired of  her ranting about how useless I am, I’ll don my Super Woman cape, hold my breath and jump headlong into the mess of living.  I’ll arrive on the other shore with much less baggage, watching her as she tries to catch up with me, rowing a small, leaky boat across the choppy sea.  She’ll eventually make it and will try to torture me with her presence once again. But she’ll still be carrying her oars and hauling the little boat that holds all of her heavy stuff, behind her. I will be freshly bathed and ready to dive into the next waves that roll my way.  She’ll be screaming at me as I go, but I’ll reemerge on the other side once again, even lighter than I was before.

Yay, I Did It!

DSC01475I thought that by the time I turned seventy years old, I’d have it all pretty much together. But last November when I hit the big seven-oh, I was still fumbling my lines and couldn’t remember where on the stage I’m supposed to stand. Let’s just say I’m still rehearsing my act.

When I was a kid my parents often told me that I took life and myself too seriously. I was supposed to laugh more … have fun … quit being so sensitive. I believed every word they spoke and started building what I thought my worth was … in their eyes.

I grew up, got married, had my own kids, and still hadn’t figured out that what I did was really good  and important. Whenever I thought I was doing something wrong, which was most of the time, I’d say, “I’m sorry.” I still say it, but not as much as I used to. I recognize those words as just a misguided belief and an old habit that may take a long time to find its way into the trash can.

A few days ago, in the midst of making an appointment, I was confounded when I tried to schedule a time that would be convenient for me.  In the past I always found it much easier to schedule things whenever it was best for the other person. Even if I had something else to do, I’d somehow find a way to work around it, never wanting to inconvenience anyone else. I was constantly frustrated and anxious about my own work and how I was supposed to get it done.  And I often blamed the other person for being uncooperative.  No more.

The other day when I told the receptionist what time I could be there, she told me that it wouldn’t work; that they don’t take appointments between noon and two.  But this time, without a second thought, I told her that 1 PM was the only time I could meet.  I told her that I work from 9 AM till noon, and my chosen time was the only one that would work for me, as the rest of the day was filled to the brim.

I felt annoyed; prepared to argue it out. But there was no need.  She smilingly said, “Oh, okay. We can do that,” and quickly wrote my name down in my chosen time slot.

For days I’ve been stunned that I said what I had and that the receptionist was so willing to help me out. I’m flabbergasted and embarrassed that it’s taken me so damned long to take my work and myself seriously enough to just say, “No, I can’t do that.” I’m proud of myself for the commitment I’ve made to the work of writing my book. In the past my thoughts would have been something like, “I’m just writing a book.  What’s the big deal?”

Tonight join me as I toast myself for finally beginning to learn my lines.

How about you?  Do you take your dreams seriously or just dismiss them as unimportant?

Painting Spring

spring-color

Water soaked grey sky
pure tones of birch
magnolia, forsythia
spring green leaves
redbud

spriing-colors-in-trees

Raindrop music
fills the air
my paint brush
drips with color

JZR

I made these photographs and wrote this poem back in April of 2008, posting it on the blog I was then tending.  I’m going back through all of the posts now and considering putting together a small e-book to repurpose some of the writing and photography I was doing at the time.

Spring, being the season of rebirth finds me also at work on a new Website and hope to have it up and running before too long.  I’ll let you know more as it progresses.  In the meantime next week will be all about getting my studio cleaned up and getting back to work on my memoir.  There are many new ideas filling my thoughts.

Releasing Molly

Our Little Miss Molly

Bill and I finally scattered Molly’s ashes in the garden a few weeks ago.  They’d been sitting in the small tin box decorated with flowers, provided by the SPCA which I placed on the mantle last November after she passed away.  We could have done it sooner but I just wasn’t ready to let her go.  I’m not sure I was ready on that lovely spring afternoon either. I was teary. I wanted her to come back.  But the freshly planted garden was ready to receive her and she is out in the sunshine, with birds singing praises as they themselves bring forth new life.

Despite the way it might sound I’m fine.  I miss her terribly, but I’m happy and thriving, still full of wonder at what beauty life presents me on a daily basis.

Sam, who I thought would be deeply effected by Molly’s loss was not his usual self for about a month after she died. But now he’s a new dog, full of himself instead of being Molly’s shadow.  He had always been her protector.  Out on the street he’d snarl and threaten any other dog that might be in interested in his one and only.  At doggie daycare where we sent them together once a week to socialize, he’d stick close to her, never letting her out of his site.  He’s now Mr. Popularity every Thursday when he still goes to All Things Pawssable and welcomes newcomers into the pack of “tots” or small dogs he hangs out with. He comes home exhausted, but still has enough energy for Tug of War or Let’s Chase Cats Around The House.  When Molly was still alive, he’d come home and crash, totally exhausted from being Molly’s body-guard all day.

Recently we were asked to take in another small dog who needs a loving home. But we’ve decided that we can’t.  Sam is so happy that I don’t want to rock his boat.  After Molly left, he found his way onto the foot of our bed at night and we’re enjoying having him with us.  But two dogs on the bed is way too much even though they’re small. Sam would have to return to his cozy small bed on the floor, which apparently isn’t as cozy as sleeping with us.

Now I’m keeping an eye on felines Cleo and Peppermint.  Two years ago we were told that Cleo would be gone in just a few months, but she’s hung in there with us.  She’s not looking so good right now and knowing she’s about seventeen years old, I’m not holding my breath.  Pepper is on prednisone for some sort of brain lesion.  I have no idea how long she’ll be with us.

Life moves along as it usually does.  There will be more losses and the thought of my own passing leaves me with one of the only real truths … nothing lasts forever.