My Blog — Joan Z Rough

Trusting Love

March 7, 2012 By Joan Rough

Hellebores

“I was lying in bed one day, thinking about my death, wondering if I’d be conscious enough to talk to my children, what I’d like to leave to them; famous last words as it were.

The key word is trust. Trust everything that happens in life, even those experiences that cause pain will serve to better you in the end. It’s easy to lose the inner vision, the greater truths, in the face of tragedy. There really in no such thing as suffering for the sake of suffering. Along with developing a basic trust in the rhyme and reason of life itself, I advise you to trust your intuition. It is a far better guide in the long run than your intellect.

Next on my list is to learn what love is. It is complete and utter surrender. That’s a big word, surrender. It doesn’t mean letting people walk all over you, take advantage of you. It’s when we surrender control, let go of our egos, that all the love in the world is there waiting for us. Love in not a game, it’s a state of being.”

Henry Miller
from Reflections, edited by Twinka Thiebault

Filed Under: Life, Wise Words Tagged With: love, trust

Lunch At Marco & Luca’s

March 2, 2012 By Joan Rough

With only time for a quick lunch between appointments yesterday, I decided to treat myself to the best fried dumplings in town at Marco & Luca’s on the Downtown Mall. Six to-die-for dumplings in a luscious soy sauce/concoction for three Dollars is the perfect light lunch when I’m on the run. Though they may not be the best things for me to eat, I don’t do it very often. And today as I often do, I promise myself I’ll have an apple when I get home to try to balance out my food sins. It’s way too chilly for gelato at Splendora’s, so no worries about totally caving on my food plan there.

I sit on my usual stool in the window looking out over the Mall and start diving in with my chopsticks. I’m a klutz with these crazy eating tools and almost always end up picking the dumplings up with my fingers taking dainty bites. The sauce begins covering my once clean fingers, leaving them too sticky to pick up my glass of water. When I pick up the paper napkin it sticks to my hands and I have to peel it off. So I dip my fingers into my water and using a paper towel provided at the tray station, clean myself up. It’s a messy, indelicate and embarrassing way to eat if other people are watching. But if I don’t get somewhat cleaned up right then and there I’ll be unable to pick up my purse and jacket and make a beeline to the ladies room where I can do the job right.

Half way through my first dumpling, I notice a young man standing in the middle of the mall, with his adorable West Highland Terrier. They appear to be waiting for someone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another man approaching with his own dog, a large, mutt that towers over the terrier.

Both dogs wag their tails and lunge at each other trying to get into that nose to butt position that dogs do when first meeting. But both men pull their pets back and the man with the large dog continues on his way up the mall, leaving the first man and his dog behind.

The terrier looks frustrated and tries to follow the big dog, but his leash is held too tightly. He looks up at his owner’s face then lifts his little leg and pees on his man’s shoe.

I’m laughing so hard I almost drop my second dumpling in my lap. It’s not an out loud laughing. I’m laughing to myself. From behind it might look like I’m having a seizure for all the shaking I’m doing. But nobody notices. I watch the guy suddenly feel something warm and wet on his foot. He bends down, feels his shoe and sock. He looks down at the dog who looks back up at him with tail wagging. The man looks around as if to make sure nobody is watching, then bends down and starts rubbing the dog’s nose on his shoe. He is saying something to the dog, but since I’m inside, I can’t hear what I imagine is a tirade about where one shouldn’t lift a leg. It all reminds me of an old slapstick movie.

My inner laughing and shaking revs up a notch as I pick up my third dumpling. When I pierce it with my teeth, it explodes sending a stream of warm sauce up in the air and on to my glasses. I now look out through dripping, brown lenses. Everything is blurred and sticky. I’m in a state of shock. Did anyone see this happen? I’m too embarrassed to look around. With dripping fingers I grab a paper towel, dip my glasses into my glass of water and clean them off. When I look out the window again the man and his terrier are gone. The last laugh must be on me.

Lesson Of The Day:

Don’t laugh too hard at other people’s follies, lest you become a folly yourself!

The Carousel outside of the Discovery Museum.

Filed Under: Life, stories Tagged With: Food, laughter

Books

February 23, 2012 By Joan Rough

There is no friend as loyal as a book.
Ernest Hemingway

I love books. You might say I’m addicted to them. I have a long list of books at Amazon ready to be purchased. Right now they are mostly memoirs and books on writing. I try to order only three or four at a time, but that’s very difficult for me. They are as tempting as my favorite locally made chocolates or a quart of freshly picked, June strawberries from the farm down the road. I often tell myself, “I’ll never have enough.” or “I’ll buy it now, because I REALLY NEED it. ”

I also tell myself that my addiction is harmless because books aren’t narcotics or contain alcohol. I’m not into buying diamonds, furs, or private jets. I don’t need those things and I don’t have that kind of money. If I did, I’d probably spend it all on books, with a healthy dose of traveling and clothes thrown in.

I’ve been told by those who frequent AA meetings that thoughts like that are called, “Stinking Thinking.” Well, I’m guilty. And though I’ve known that I’m a bookaholic and do a lot of stinking thinking for a long time, I am in the middle of confirming it as official. We moved to this house almost two years ago. In the frenzy of the move, my husband and I got rid of a lot of books. I can’t speak for him, but for me it was difficult. I chose books that I remembered as not being engaging … that no longer drew me and/or that obviously for one reason or another, I never should have bought in the first place. After the move and unbeknownst to me, Bill asked a friend who was helping us to unload all of the boxes of books onto our bookshelves.

I discovered a problem a month or two later when I was looking for one in particular, a favorite poetry book. All of my books had been unpacked and in some cases packed in such a way that they were all mixed up and out-of-order. You might think I’m a bit anal, but I’ve always grouped genres of books together. Poetry, Gardening, Nature, Novels, Memoirs, etc. The only ones I keep in alphabetical order are the poets. There are too many to do otherwise.

So, as wonderful as it seemed to have all of my books unpacked for me, it was a nightmare. I had my work cut out for me. Just after Christmas, Bill and I decided to finally get our downstairs “Tornado” room put together and unpacked. It’s underground, where all of the bookcases are located, along with a TV, puzzles, games and a fireplace. It’s cozy. Warm in the winter, and cool in the summer. A perfect place to ride out any storm.

It’s where one night last summer, while Bill was having a meeting of associates, we made everyone go when a tornado warning came across on our emergency weather radio, telling us to take shelter immediately. We flew to the basement, glasses of wine and crackers and cheese in hand. We sat amongst unpacked boxes and moving rubble for about thirty minutes waiting for the tornado to hit or move on. One friend laughingly realized she was a “Tornado Virgin,” never having gone through a warning before. Thankfully, the tornado passed us by and we were safe. No damage had been done, except for the embarrassment of having everyone see the mess and the boxes still needing to be unpacked. We swore we’d get the room organized. Reshelving the books was mostly my job since most of them are mine.

Since Christmas I’ve been working a little bit at a time to get my precious tomes in order. First, I did poetry. Then came gardening, cooking, and books on using herbs as medicine. I’m now at work on my books on religion and spirituality, which are many. I know I could get it all done in one day, but I’m enjoying the slow pace. Books feel good in my hands. They smell um, booky. They are filled with wisdom and some actually seem to glow. No, not like a kindle. Like a real book that’s offering itself to me.

I have discovered that I have many books that I bought and have never read. As I place each one onto it’s new shelf, I flip through a few pages and immediatley want to sit down and read it from the beginning. There are others I consider to be “old friends” that I’d like to read again or that I simply could never part with. I started out making a pile of books that I wanted to read for the first time. I gave up. There are too many. And there are three more on their way through the postal system that will be added to the stack by my bedside.

I’m trying to be honest with myself. I am an addict. I need to get my problem under control. Someone suggested that I start going to the library instead of buying books. That’s all well and good for some, but I like to write comments in books and I’m afraid that wouldn’t do if it belonged to the library. Maybe I just need to read faster. Maybe if I stay up later than I normally do and get up earlier I can get them all read.

And just maybe I shouldn’t buy any more until I’ve read the ones I’ve already got … Ah yes, books. They’re a problem.

Filed Under: Addiction, Books, Life, Memoir, Poetry, stories, wonderings, Writing

Art And War

February 17, 2012 By Joan Rough

I just finished reading a small but hugely important book. If you are an artist, writer, or anyone who has a project of any kind in mind, but can’t seem to get started, this book is for you.

I’m writing a memoir. It took me a year to say that out loud or to write it down. It’s hard. I love the process. I hate the process. It comes in fits and starts. Some days you’ll find me flying high above the treetops loving the world and everything in it. Other days, I might be floating underground on my way to the city’s sewage treatment plant. That’s how these things go and I know I’m not alone.

After reading Steven Pressfield’s, The War of Art, Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles, I’m feeling oh, so much better. I’m confident I will finish my memoir. It’s a kick in the butt for scared, lazy people like myself who can find a gazillion reasons why they shouldn’t begin what their heart is calling them to do.

It’s three books in one. Book One is about Resistance in all of its manifestations: procrastination, self-dramatization, victimhood, fear and every other possible reason I can come up with to not sit down at the computer and start to write. It’s about those little voices in my head I call stink bugs, who tell me I’m not good enough. What this man has to say about them squashes them in their tracks and sweeps them away before the stink has a chance to rise into the air and get on your fingers.

Book Two, Combating Resistance, is about being a warrior set on wiping Resistance off the face of the earth. It’s about becoming a pro and keeping yourself from wandering off course. It’s the hard part. If you’re like me, tending toward being a peace-maker and conscientious objector, the militancy will make you wince. But in that you might also recognized one more mask of that sly fox, Resistance.

Book Three, Beyond Resistance, is my favorite part. It brought me back from the realm of the warrior to my own inner knowing about what I need to do. It’s about the magic of putting words down on paper and how that, in and of itself, can become very habit-forming. It’s about growth and waking up. It’s about healing. It’s about communicating with the Muse. It’s about being a visionary.

Do yourself a big favor. Read this little book.

Filed Under: Books, Memoir, Wise Words, Writing