Picking And Choosing

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Acrylic on Paper, Untitled, © Joan Z. Rough

Heaven and hell are not some places I’m going to go to later on.  Heaven and hell are here, right now, and I create them for myself with my choices.

Hae Doh Gary Schwocho
Beneath Belief

Driving in Ireland is quite frightening for me. It’s one of those places where you drive on the left rather than on the right side of the road as we do here in America. It can also be very difficult to figure out where I’m going. I’m not always good at reading maps. When I reach a crossroads there are usually road signs pointing to the nearest village, but more often than not, the signs may have been spun around by the wind and I can easily be lead astray. Many an hour has been taken up in my travels on that magical Emerald Isle, backtracking … trying to find my way to where I’m supposed to be. Fortunately it’s always a beautiful drive along the way.

And so it is with life. Crossroads are always in front of me and road signs are rare, if they exist at all. One minute I’m in a state of bliss. The next moment can take me on the most terrifying journey I’ve ever imagined. Taking one road over another can sometimes make a big difference. It’s always a hit or miss situation. Though I may get to my destination in the end, one way may be full of boulders and potholes, while the other way may be a straight shot on a newly paved surface.

I try to follow my intuition most of the time. But I’m not perfect at it in any sense of the word. Moving to Virginia from Vermont was one of the best choices I ever made. Up north I felt at the end of my rope. I felt I had seen every horizon that existed. I didn’t enjoy the part every winter when the snow was deep, the winds would howl, and I’d get very depressed. I suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, a problem brought on by lack of enough hours of natural daylight during the shortest days of the year.

Here, in Virginia, the road has indeed been tough at times.  Though it was especially hard to move, my world suddenly opened up to new possibilities.

And talk about making choices … we’re close to Washington, DC, where things change or not, depending on how the Senate or the House are feeling on any given day. But right here in Charlottesville there are more educational possibilities at my fingertips and a much more diverse community than I found up north, close to the Canadian border.

The weather here is most agreeable until summer comes along and cooks me with its heat and humidity. I’ve been here for 35 years, and I’m finally getting a bit used to it. Gone are the days of my winter depressions. The only weather bit that sometimes gets to me are summer heat waves when going outside is torture. But summer here is much shorter than winter in Vermont, so less suffering.

Pick and Choose

Which to choose?

But it’s somehow the day-to-day choices that don’t seem to have a great impact on my life that get me in trouble … placing me on the hot seat within spitting distance of hell. Simple choices, like what to eat when I’m feeling I need a bit of energy. Will it be protein or sugar?  Usually it’s sugar. Should I do my hour of exercise in the morning when I have more energy? Or can I make myself do it at four PM when when I have some free time?  If it’s not done by noon, it won’t happen at all.

And so it goes. There are always questions to be answered and choices to make.  Should I hang out with Louise, even though she sucks all of my energy away? And exactly why don’t I tell Steve that I don’t want to see him any more?

When I do nothing about the things that really bother me and just let them be, no matter how much they hurt, I am making a choice. Most often doing nothing leads to the stress and anxiety I’ve already been suffering from. And because I’m afraid of what might happen if I don’t call Louise and invite her to lunch, or tell Steve, that I don’t love him, nothing changes. That is the kind of the choice that will most likely lead me to hell right here and now. The deed not done, is done.

But if I let go and decide not to invite Louise to fill me with her doom and gloom over a healthy salad, or tell Steve the truth about how I feel, there are also consequences. Those two people will be gone from my life and maybe I will miss them. Maybe I won’t be able to find another guy that is attractive to me, and I to him. Maybe there won’t be another Louise to whom I can tell my deepest, darkest secrets. But then, just maybe, I’ll be happier and feel free to go about my life the way I choose to.

Making choices always has consequences. Some are good. And some might be bad … at least for a while. Making choices means making changes in what fits in my life and what doesn’t. Maybe I’ll be lonely for a little while until I find just the right guy. But if I keep hanging on to someone who doesn’t naturally make me want to sing and dance with him, I won’t be happy ever.

When decision times come along, I always try to ask myself what the consequences will be. If I remain where I am, will I be happier or does the alternative have more promise?  Yes, it’s hard, but without change where would I be?

How about you? Are choices hard for you to make? How do you handle those monumental crossroads? What helps to move you along and out of the reaches of hell?

 

Memoir: Two You’ll Love

DSC01793“Through my identification with another girl who could write what I couldn’t begin to think, I discovered a way to break out of the socialized story into something else, something new … my own voice.  I began to see how the story that gets one person through offers a map that gets more of us through. And when we reveal details that we think are excruciatingly personal, we discover the universal.” 

Christina Baldwin,
Making Sense of Our Lives Through the Power and Practice of Story.

There is nothing like reading about another person’s journey through life to get you thinking about your own. In the last couple of months I’ve been reading memoirs as a way to nourish myself as I make my way putting my own story on paper.

I  read memoir to learn how others navigate the slick, shiny surface of a frozen pond, the choppy waters of a summer storm, and the deadly tornadoes of a desperate mind.  I take heart that I am not alone and that others have tasted similar sorrows and the same joys that I have. By immersing myself in another’s personal story, I discover new ways of loving my own life and being comfortable in a challenging world.

Two memoirs that I’ve recently read and that stand out for me are, Wild, From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, by Cheryl Strayed, and Don’t Call Me Mother, A Daughter’s Journey from Abandonment to Forgiveness, by Linda Joy Myers.  Both are greatly influencing me as I work my way through reams of blank paper, telling my own unique story.

These two stories are as different as night and day, but what they have in common are mothers, and individual journeys through grief and acceptance of loss, during which both authors discover themselves and their own power to give voice to who they were and have become.

In both memoirs, brutal honesty and courage rule out what could be dark, lifeless memoirs about victims of circumstance. But these are inspirational as well as universal and healing. Not all of us can take on the wilderness as Strayed did to find herself, or the stubborn revisiting of the past and family that Myers put herself through. But through them we can all find our own ways to bring our stories to life, finally living in peace and acceptance of where we’ve been.

In her story, Strayed, revisions her life and losses as she limps her way along a strenuous wilderness trail, finding wholeness in her bruised and battered body.  Myer’s narrative follows her from abandonment to breaking generational patterns of abuse and becoming the mother that she always wanted to have.

Both books were impossible for me to put down and I can easily see myself reading them again as I move along my own path. For those who are interested in stories about personal growth and are written by women who found their way past major challenges, I recommend them highly.

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?

Good News!

IMG_0006Good news! My new website is getting closer to being finished and my memoir progresses.  Once my website is up, you’ll find out the title of my book and get to read Chapter One. Hopefully you’ll get a hint of what I’ve been up to and perhaps you’ll give me a push now and then, because you just can’t wait to read the rest.

I still struggle with time management, but I’ve come up with a new idea for my Sacred Writing Time, and so far it’s working perfectly.  Sunday through Thursday I’m out of bed by 6:30 AM. I walk the dogs, have breakfast and get some exercise … either more outdoor walking time or on my cross trainer.  Hopefully I’m done with that by 9 AM. Then I write until noon. There is no messing around on the Internet with twitter, Facebook, or email during that time.

I’m always trying to find new ways of staying on target because sooner or later something happens and I let it all go.  I’m hoping that this time it will last longer and keep me going until it’s done.

Should you insist on coming to visit on those mornings, you’ll most likely come upon a sweaty, smelly me, not really wanting to see you until after I’ve taken my shower and brushed my teeth properly … sometime after lunch.  Of course there will be exceptions … emergency visits to doctors or veterinarians or maybe a visitation with someone I adore and haven’t seen in a gazillion years.  All else gets put off until the afternoon and early evening hours.

Part of me wants to rebel; afraid it might miss something. It isn’t easy to keep my inner brat from trying to make trouble, but I’m serious about getting my book written and published. I feel great when I’m writing, and at the end of the day, my level of satisfaction for my work and myself goes way up on the charts if I stay on track. I feel as though I’ve accomplished something and I can relax, do something wild and crazy.

When I recently took ten days off from posting on my blog, I got an amazing amount of stuff done. I even found myself not checking email, Facebook, or Twitter as often as I had been.  I took time to take better care of myself and spent a bit more time preparing good, healthy food, and to read books that don’t necessarily have anything to do with writing, self-publishing or book promotion.

So as a way to give myself a bit more lee-way, starting next week, I’ll only be posting on my blog once a week, on Wednesdays.  That way I won’t get overwhelmed with all I have to do, and you, my readers, won’t get bored reading something that I wasn’t really into, just to keep you entertained.

What are you doing to keep yourself motivated and on target as you work on your creative projects?  Do you ever deny yourself time to keep going because you don’t feel like doing the work?  Do you have a stack of unfinished projects waiting for you to get back to them?

Meet Max

IMG_0652I can’t help myself.  Today is the day I usually post a quote that inspires me.  But we’ve a new member of the family and just can’t wait to introduce him to you.  If you haven’t read this blog before you need to know that I love dogs. There are many posts to check out here if you do, too.

Just over a week ago we lost our dog, Brody, to pneumonia.  My family, the people who took such good care of him at day care every Thursday, and Brody’s veterinarian team were all devastated.  He had lived with us for only six weeks and I could not understand how I would be able to go on without filling the enormous hole he left in my heart.

My very kind and sensitive dog trainer friend, Karen, sent me a picture of a picture of Max and so began the task of my beginning to come to terms with what I now understand to be part of my job description in this life.  I was an abused child. I find it comforting and necessary to take in small abused and abandoned dogs. That does not mean that I stop grieving for all of those gentle souls who have shared their time with me.  There will always be cracks and crevices in my heart through which sorrow and tears will seep when I think of them.

This new little guy in named Max and he came to live with us this past Sunday.  He weighs in at about thirteen pounds and is mostly, if not all, a Shih Tzu. He lived with a single mom and her two kids.  One day she decided she’d had enough and packed up the kids and the dog and dropped them off at her mother’s house.  He was turned into a shelter because the kid’s grandmother couldn’t take care of the children and the dog, too.

Max hadn’t been clipped for a good long time and was covered with mats and infested with fleas.  The caring folks at the Louisa Humane Society, took him from the shelter. They had him shaved down to his skin and put him in a foster home until he could be adopted out.  His foster parents took great care of him and were kind and generous to be able to give him up.  I would not have been able to.

IMG_0632He is a sweetheart of a dog. Gentle, quiet, and he loves to cuddle more than anything else.  He and Sam are beginning to make friends and Lily, who tried to avoid him altogether, has finally given in.  Just this morning I found her rubbing up against Max, the way cats do to mark their belongings and territory.

Yesterday, Max passed his test at doggie day care with flying colors.  I took him in for a brief visit where he was introduced to a number of other dogs to make sure he won’t cause trouble in the big day care pack.  Tomorrow will find him there, mostly following big brother, Sam, around and figuring out the ins and outs of day care.

He’s been sleeping at night in a crate since he’s been here, but at 5:30 this morning he woke me, asking to be let outside.  When he returned instead of going back into the crate, he jumped up on the bed and curled up next to me under the covers.  Uh-0h!  I wonder where he’ll want to sleep tonight.  Although I prefer that he sleep in the crate, (Sleeping with dogs in the summer time can get overly warm.) he just might get the best of me.IMG_0630