Extraordinary

I had an epiphany today.  The more extraordinary I think I am, the more ordinary I really am. It is in the search to be more that I join the teeming masses of others who think more about that than they do the things that would actually make them, us, me, extraordinary.

I know some extraordinary people and I know they consider themselves quite ordinary.  They may even equate themselves with that poor ass pulling an old fashioned plow endlessly through the field. Except, that unlike me, they find themselves plodding patiently step after step to reach the end of each row, hoping, believing, but not demanding that some good thing might happen with each step.  Making each step important and necessary and maybe even a little bit wonderful in its own way.

The true humbleness of the extraordinary shines through what they do, who they are, how they approach the milestones that look like barriers to me.

My Way is filled with beautiful Aha moments, but it is also filled with long stretches of potholes and pockets of darkness and fake rest areas where I think I am recharging when I am only wallowing. 

Sometimes I wonder why I am here, what the point of me is and if I am supposed to say the obvious to those coming up behind me or if they need to discover those things themselves. I wonder if the fall before the climb makes that climb any more productive, or if it only makes it longer?

I do know that the fall is only that.  A fall.  Any attempt to dissect it only inhibits the climb back up.  I may not choose the best way back up, but I will learn much from the attempt so any subsequent climbs will be even more productive.  I think extraordinary people seem to know this instinctively.

The rest of us learn the hard way that we are seldom as extraordinary or as inconsequential as we believe.

And that is the road to being extraordinary, or perhaps simply back to that thought I had in the beginning.

Rain

The rain is constant, cozy, cool

That last chance to crawl into a cocoon before summer gets here and all the cocoons melt away, or mildew, or cease to be in some other way.

The pitter patters are like lullabies, gentle reminders of times gone by, times when my world was full of people even if they weren't present.

Windows light up in the distance.  Windows with yellow lights that say, "Come home.  Come home."

I expect to smell meat cooking with garlic and onions in the kitchen, to hear the clanking of silverware as someone sets the table in dining room, to see lights flicker on all around me.

But those are only the echos of days gone by. Ghosts of things past that seem so precious, so rare.

There is only the rain, constant, cozy, cool

Dredging up senses better left dormant.

Tip the scales

One moment I think I am going to die: of some imagined disease, pain, fear, sadness. The list goes on and on depending on how I look at it.

A few moments later everything changes.

I try to figure out exactly what changed because the signs of the disease are still there, the pain is still pretty awful, I'm still afraid and I am definitely still sad.

"Still" seems to be the only constant.  I am still here.

Continuing to ponder what improved I slowly realize that it was simply that something changed.  Any change alters my perspective, my thoughts, my position.  It doesn't need to make sense.  Any change tips the balance.  The more radical my feelings, the more room there is for change to occur.

Extremes are both my worst enemy and my friend, because knowing that I am a person of extremes, I know now that I need to remind myself to DO something.  It can be as simple as getting out of bed, or making tea.  Whatever it is, it must make that old brain fluid slosh around so that some different part of it connects with a more rational part of my mind.

Imagine a scale weighted down by hundreds of little pebbles.  Remove a few, or rearrange them and the balance tips.

Nature

Screaming emcees hawk joy to crowds of desperate hedonists, horror mongers masquerade as newscasters paid to feed us an unending line of propaganda, politicians promise us heaven woven out of hate filled dreams, and in this unending sound track straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah we fail to hear the gentle, all encompassing voice that echoes out of the garden.

The old voices, the real voices, those not engineered by the desire for gold, or power, or control, are still here, still strong, alive and well like they have always been.

The old songs ring true. "I walk in the garden alone," and "the dew is still on the roses." 

The wind still whispers of eternity and the stars of infinity.

When I'm weary, I go into the silence of nature where the songs of birds and the gurgling of water soothes me, where the trees grow bigger than me and the mountains amaze me.

This universe and its creator will be here long after all the gold lies encrusted by barnacles under some future sea and the bones of the money grubbers are jumbled together for a future archeologist.

Sometimes, when I sit in the silence of my heart, I find peace.

The love connection

As a very young child I believed that everyone knew grandma was coming when they saw the red scarf fly through our transom and land on the hall rug.

I heard my mother's voice when she was miles away on several momentous occasions.

I heard one of my children "call" me when he was in trouble.  It was so clear I thought he was downstairs, but he was miles away.  However he remembered that I had told them, when they were very young, that if they ever needed me I thought I would hear them if they thought of me very hard. He told me later he was thinking hard and calling me.
 
I have often heard the sound of a door opening, or closing, about ten minutes before someone arrives where I am.

I have had other experiences that led me to believe that I had  connected with a loved one on some strange level on other important occasions.

I can't make any of these things happen.  I can't count on them. I have no more control over them than when I hear the sound of a cardinal singing. But they happened and that makes me believe  human beings can communicate in ways we don't understand yet.

Last night I fell asleep thinking of one of my children and singing (in my head) the same lullabies I sang when they were very small.  When I heard that this child slept much better last night than during the past weeks, it made me wonder.

If science ever figures these sorts of things out, maybe they should call it the love connection.

Feel the pain

There is a time and a place for medicine. 

If someone has a disease their body cannot deal with on its own, like strep, or a fundamental imbalance that can be measured in their blood, I understand that medicine has a place in their life.

But I believe we do people a disservice if we let them believe everything can be solved by popping some kind of pill.

Behavior modification is never easy, but it works faster if I actually know what I am doing and do it consciously.

That probably means a relatively long time, lots of pain and the need for as much support as I can get.

The support has to be realistic, honest, and if it can be constant too, my chances for success grow every day.  If it is only enabling, or a stop gap band aid, it can be the most destructive thing in my life. The last thing I need when I am struggling is someone reinforcing the very behaviors that got me to this place.

People who are hurting want to hear the easy things, the good things, the things that say, "I can make this easy for you." But those are not the truth.

Any kind of transition is difficult.  It takes more time to unlearn a behavior than it ever took to learn it and there is a reason for that.  There is comfort in the known even when it is killing you.

Be positive, be honest, be kind to yourself, but firm.  Do not allow anyone to enable you to keep doing the hurtful stuff. Those people are not your friends.

You can feel the pain and work through it, so that it goes away and then, if it does come back, you know where to go to heal again.

Power

My heart twists in my chest. My breath catches in my throat. Tears spring to my eyes unbidden.

Whether caused by the unexpected blessings of a world filled with miracles, or the unbelievable sorrows of some great disaster, extremes seem to start out the same.

I am overwhelmed by feelings so great they seem to have weight and mass, height and depth. It is impossible to believe they only exist inside of me.

And the wind keeps blowing, the sun keeps shining, the rain continues to fall . . .

I expect some kind of great revelation to manifest around me.

I want control. I want to know who or what is in control.

I look for signs, search for rituals, explore each and every possibility, trying desperately to manage what seems to be out of my hands.

And the wind keeps blowing, the sun keeps shining, the rain continues to fall . . .

Unlike the stones who stand stoically, or the waters that ebb and flow, the beasts who endure with patient eyes, or the trees that cling to the earth with bony fingers, I believe that I am unique, that I deserve more, but the only revelation that ever comes is that I am descended from a long line of humanity that has persevered for thousands of years.

The only power I have inside me stays inside me.

I need to find my place like the stones and the waters, the beasts and the trees.  I am a child of this earth.

And the wind keeps blowing, the sun keeps shining, the rain continues to fall . . .

Time to clean house

I have to be reminded, again and again, that I should never under estimate the value of a friend, especially one I can talk to.

Actually having anyone to talk to in an outright, unguarded, pour it on me way, has great value.

And, as my friend (who I am lucky enough to know) reminded me, if I can't tell someone then I should write it down.  Even if I tear it up afterwards, or maybe especially so I CAN tear it up afterwards and throw it away.

There is great value in emptying out my head, whether it be symbolically, or in reality.

The accumulated sadness, badness, and trashiness, of old memories, bad thoughts, and unrelenting pressures begin to rot when left too long in small dark places.

Garbage doesn't care whether it is expunged by friends, willing strangers, counselors, or the act of placing pen or pencil on paper (yes, write it down, don't type it out because deleting just isn't the same thing as tearing something up.) 

The actual point is simply to diffuse it, get rid of it, take away its power -- even some of its power, because I can always come back and do this all again and again and again.

The penny in the pool

There are no appropriate metaphors for pain.

It is so personal.

So uniquely localized for some people and overwhelmingly generalized for others that I may as well try to describe the swimming pool's thoughts on that penny the life guard threw in last summer.

Yes, it broke the surface of the water when it landed.  And it broke every single infinitesimal layer after that -- all the way to the bottom.

It contaminated the chemical imbalances of water whose being was there to kill some things and thrill others.

It was nothing to some and everything to others.

The way the light reflected off of it as it sank into the depths caught the pool off guard.  The total cosmic meaning to the universe was immaterial.

How could something so seemingly small and immaterial matter so much?

In that moment when it broke the water's surface it destroyed something forever, because even though the layers, the molecules, the drops appeared to come back together, they were never the same.  And even though no one else ever knew -- the pool knew.

That is how it is with pain.

Such a singular experience, a lonely, seemingly inconsequential experience, changes everything.

Imagine what something larger does.

Every little breath

As human beings we are so quick to reduce ourselves to absolutes, to black and white, to feast or famine, good and bad.

We think we know.  We think THEY know.  We all want to know . . . the absolute truth, the final answer, what will be.  Yet, time after time I have found all these things to be disproved.

I have a daughter who was labeled, "slow" in elementary school.  I, like many other people, equated that with very limited, unable to learn much, or, in old school terms, retarded, but it turns out she was merely slower.  She has kept learning all these years and now functions above many of the people I thought were "normal" at one time.

I think we are designed to survive -- even thrive.  We have two eyes, two hands, two legs, two lungs and the list goes on.  People who have lost the ability to do something one way often discover they can reroute their bodily processes to do it another way. 

I think it stands to reason that we can relearn or improve almost any part of our lives.  Believing there is only one of anything is a romantic notion that may not be any more truthful than some of the other truths I once believed in.  There are just different ways of being.

Although it may be more comfortable to stay with the old ways because transitions can be terrifying and difficult, it doesn't mean that is the only way, or only one, or only chance.

As long as we can draw a breath, there is hope.

That is important because none of us exist in a vacuum.  We are little parts of a huge pond where every little ripple and wave affects everyone and everything else in the pond.

It bears remembering that my thoughts and actions are worth taking seriously.  Each positive move I make improves things for all those I love and even those I do not.

Blech

In the past twenty four hours two different people in my life have sent me the text, "Blech."

It has meanings that range from disgust, to the name of a covering observant Jews use to place over the lit burners of their stove so the food stays warm without violating the sabbath rules.

The word seems to be the last resort, the final attempt to separate the theoretical from actuality in a harsh materialistic world.

It is a word that says I am not a lab rat.  I am a living, breathing creature with real needs, feelings and a desire to do what is right in spite of all the people you can find to validate your insanity.

It is a civilized response to an age old desire to retaliate against immorality, greed, and a total disassociation from real people with real needs.

It is a last resort response of those forced to participate in something that goes against every thought, belief and feeling they possess.

It is dispossessed manifested in a simple onomatopoeia.

Grim fairy tales

The deep golden puddles of light that embrace the trees and drip down onto fat little bunnies and plump ducks seems out of place today.

How can such fairy tale beauty coincide with the awfulness of this day?

How can Snow White be both the heroine and the villain?

Where did the fire breathing dragon come from?

Is it possible that Hansel and Gretel can evade the house of  horrors in the middle of the woods and still find their way home using bread crumbs?

Bread crumbs!  Such homely things.  Grounded by the wheat and yeast and water that made them.  Basic, back to earth things that speak of hearth and home in a world of fearful unknowns.

Children lost between the ways of adults blinded by the worlds ways.

The hero always fights unwillingly in order to save the innocent.

That is how he becomes the hero.

Squirrelly

I have never quite understood what bird lovers hate about squirrels.  To me, one is as fascinating as the other, only in different ways.

The bird is brilliant, a beautiful singer and has the freedom to fly.  The squirrel is furry and fuzzy and cuddly looking.  They both draw me in and stir my thoughts.

But . . . they have fundamental differences beyond looks.

The bird is a creature of the moment.  It flies in, eats a bit here and there and flies off.

The squirrel is a hoarder.  It stuffs its little cheeks as full as it can, scampers off and returns until all the seed is gone.

I try to do a sort of reverse anthropomorphizing where I see some great lesson that can be translated into the human condition.  It falls short.

With all the similarities, people are still more complicated.  Our layers hide hundreds of thoughts and raison d'etre. We have more in common with paper mache dolls than these living breathing creatures.

Because in spite of the squirrels desire to hide away as much as possible, I don't believe he has any underlying reasons for what he does, except that it is instinct.  The same thing is true for the birds.  They eat what is in front of them and move off to find more when they need it, an instinctive thing for a creature whose food often has legs and wings and disappears the moment a shadow falls over it.

Our motives and excuses and general habits are much more complicated.  Even though we often say, "He is rotten to the core," or "She has a heart of gold," neither of those statements is a hard core truth.

People don't have cores as much as they have dreams and desires based on both truth and fantasy and it is often difficult to know where the boundaries of these things begin and end.

World's fair

It is a crazy carnival world, a Twilight Zone of insanity where people pretend to be living their lives.

They:

Wander down the midway with good intentions, doing good deeds and being hoodwinked by carnies dressed as public officials.

Drive around in bumper cars, careening and  bouncing off each other like two negatively charged atoms on a collision course.

Ride roller coasters in stomach dropping circles, leaving their hearts behind.

Filling those stomachs with cotton candy, bitter shake ups and funnel cakes for dessert.

Drowning themselves in freak shows and side shows and other comedies or tragedies.

And ending up in a house of mirrors where nothing looks familiar.

The art of useful creativity

Creativity is generally thought of when people do artistic things, but I am finding it necessary for doing the ordinary things, the everyday things, the humdrum things.

Vacuuming the carpet with a fractured foot means doing it sitting down which sounds fine until the actual doing of it.  Then it becomes a study in how to reach unreachable places from odd angles.

Transporting clothing from the dryer to closets or drawers without wadding them up is like doing a jigsaw puzzle with soft pieces.

Placing dishes in the dishwasher, or refrigerator is a lesson in contortion.

Even sleeping without placing the injured foot in a compromising position becomes an issue.

In the past two months I have learned how to do the usual in unusual ways.

I am creative.  Not in particularly beautiful ways, but definitely in useful ones.

A thousand steps

Human beings are problem solvers.  That is what has made humanity reach the place it is now, but in order to solve problems, they must be identified, which isn't always easy.

Problem solving can slip into blaming and that really only creates more problems. 

The tendency to blame others for our unhappiness comes from frustration and anger, both common human feelings.  So we blame and feel bad. Get angrier and feel worse. And another new cycle begins that just exacerbates an already difficult situation.

At some point the cycle must be broken.

No matter what the problem is, or who is to blame, the past needs to stay in the past.  Take the lessons learned and move into the future with the firm belief that it is possible to do better.

Turning a bad situation into something new and good takes a tremendous amount of work, but that is okay.  The energy it takes to do this can cover up some of the pain until it is farther behind us.

Every step towards a positive approach grows exponentially, so even if it takes a thousand steps, the interim grows brighter and better over time. 

Coping

Looking back on one of the saddest moments in my life, the death of my mother when I was 36, there are so many things I remember.  First, right after the funeral we had to go home because my daughter had volunteered to do a paper route for a friend who was on vacation.  That meant both my husband and I getting up with her every morning before six to run around the neighborhood and I have never been a morning person. 

Each morning I opened my eyes and felt an actual stabbing pain in my chest as I remembered the reality of the moment.  My mother was dead.  I fell into a deep depression that lasted almost five years.

Another time I would deal with a separation from my husband while my children were very small.  Once more I woke up to that stabbing pain and then I had to deal with all the issues that come with raising small children as well as the prospect of re-entering a job force I was totally unprepared for.

That time he came back, but he would leave again fourteen years later and for good, two years after that.  Each time I found myself in almost unbearable pain, deep grieving, a feeling of total helplessness.

The good news was that by then the children were mostly grown, but the shock and pain was still there.  The last time I recuperated more quickly for several reasons.  First of all, as painful as it was, I was almost relieved that it would end.  No more waiting for that other shoe to drop.  Secondly, I had learned a few tricks for dealing with that kind of pain over the years.

I would meditate, or do centering prayer every day, sometimes several times a day.

I would journal furiously, often for hours at a time.

I would get up and get out of the house as early as possible, even if only to go to the local fast food place for a sausage biscuit. (My psychiatrist after the second leaving told me to do that and it actually helped.)

And last, but certainly not least, I reminded myself that this moment would pass.  In the beginning I did that almost every moment, but over time I was able to stretch out the time between this mantra until one day I realized I had not needed it all morning and finally not at all.

It took time, more time than I thought I could bear in the beginning, but time really does heal all things if I allow it to.  For me the secret was learning to face the truth, pick up the pieces and move forward even though I didn't want to.

Joy, contentment and peace do follow great sadness, but it takes time.  Grieving can destroy us, or cause us to be annealed and become stronger, more beautiful human beings in the long run.

Mom isn't a chair

I grew up, like many others, associating "things" with people.

That isn't just a chair, it is "Mom's" chair.  That isn't just a pan, it is part of the set of pans "He" gave me. That coat was one I bought when my friend and I were so young and close.  Those airplane models are a symbol of belonging because I used to be part of a RC airplane club.  I might need these clothes for the kids some day.

And there begins a whole new way of needing things.  They might be the one "thing" that makes me be needed and useful.  I might be able to give them away to someone else in a time of need.

In fact, things tend to keep people away from each other, not bring them together.  They require time to maintain, clutter up minds and homes and relationships that might thrive in more open spaces.

We all know the jokes about old ladies who collect cats, but most of us don't associate our personal "collections" with that sort of thing.

It's okay to have mementos.  They just shouldn't have us.

Letting go

I am looking at a bright little cumulus cloud floating in the deep warm golden light of a late spring afternoon.  It is so beautiful it should bring me joy, peace, happiness.  It does not.

Instead I remember the sad things, the bad things, the things that make me mad.

I am angry.

I hate being angry.

It is a dark negative way of living, but the truth is that there are dark negative things in this world.  People who hurt those they love by letting them do things that are harmful.  It is so easy to let others hurt themselves. So much easier than confronting them with the truth, so much easier than trying to change the hurtful behavior and reroute it back into the light.

Instead, these people pretend they care, pretend to be doing the right things, pretend they are so sweet and gentle and loving that they HAVE to allow others to continue on in self destructive ways.  It is only pretending -- even if they are fooling themselves too.

Anything worth calling love is worth working for.  Otherwise it is simply another facade used to navigate this world as easily as possible. And that is selfishness.

I practice letting go.

I know the best way to show anyone anything is to try and be a window to the light, but I can never be a window if I continue to cloak myself in anger.

I breathe out, imagine myself as this cloud.  Imagine floating softly above all the darkness.  Imagine the light flowing through me as I move through the world.

And for moments -- only moments -- it works.

I can only move moment by moment.

Mother's Day 2015

I began this day with a phone call from my oldest son and ended it with one from my youngest.

I spent the hours between with my daughter and granddaughter.

We skyped with my youngest grandchildren and thought of the others.

It was a day to be remembered.

The greatest gift

I don't understand how love can end.

Even after going through a divorce I don't understand it.

Contracts can be broken.  Friendships can end.

But love is the foundation for existence.

Choosing to embrace it, acknowledging its existence and standing fast within its boundaries I stand shoulder to shoulder with the gods and subsequently I am given the gift of the gods; the ability to create life in my own image.

The chance to walk hand in hand while nurturing and shaping other beings who may someday do the same, is the greatest gift of all.

All the magic in the books, all the misery in the stories, all the fables and parables, the myths and the wonder embrace this quest.  It is the quest for eternity.

No Thots

I erased today's thot.

There is really nothing that expresses my thoughts right now.

I'm not even sure I understand what they are.

A little bit

I  have always been the person I am to some extent.  Introspective, curious, a little bit adventurous and a little bit rebellious.  I am strong with weak joints.  I have made up stories in my head since before I was four, maybe before I was three.  Time is a little bit foggy at those ages.  I am extremely loyal and loving when it comes to my children and those close to me. I have usually been good enough at most things so that I can do them fairly easily, but my interest quickly wanes when things are too easy or require a little bit too much sustained concentration. 

In short I walk a fine line that doesn't work particularly well in a world where the goal is to make money  and while I don't deny that life is a little bit easier with money than without it, it just isn't the end all and be all.

The truly satisfying things cannot be bought.  They require a little bit of work and I can do anything -- for a little bit -- it's what gets me through from a bad place to a better one.

Sometimes all I need is a little bit: a little bit of time, a little bit of luck, a little bit of know how and a little bit of perseverance . . . then life starts to get a little bit better.

Sacred responsibility

Children are the walking, talking, breathing, absolutely human, manifestation of love.

Like gods, we create them in our own image and in doing so take on a sacred responsibility to do everything in our power to give them the love and security they need.

Love can be defined in many ways, but playing word games with our own children is irresponsible.

Reasonable

Being a reasonable person is not easy.  Sometimes it goes against every instinct I have.

Growing up around a lot of women, most of whom were fundamentalists and all of whom were staunchly against transgressions of any sort, I was not taught any sort of tolerance for those who hurt someone I loved.

I was taught martyrdom and games and retribution. You were either on "our" side or you were not.  I won't lie, it felt good when I felt wronged.

But I have discovered that much of life is not black and white, not either or, not them or us.

Marriages and relationships bring other people into our families and that attachment, if it really is sacred, cannot be discounted when it becomes inconvenient.

Children do not thrive in most divorces, but staying together for the children only works if there are two adults, two whole families, and a community dedicated to the idea that people can change if the stakes are high enough, the desire great enough.

And we have to remember that most of us are children at heart.  We will act out sometimes, do foolish things sometimes, be immature no matter how old we are, so there has to be forgiveness and a system in place to iron out the wrinkles. Because wrinkles appear when something is washed and dried and all things must be cleaned occasionally.

I like to think I've come a long way in my life, but there is still a long way to go.  Reasonable is still, sometimes, very difficult.

Invictus

I listened to Morgan Freeman recite William Ernest Henley's poem, Invictus,  last night and I was deeply moved.  Not just because it is an inspiring poem, or even because Nelson Mandela used it to help him make it through the long years of his imprisonment, but also because it spoke to me -- myself.

I have not been quite so strong or noble.  I have whined and I have bowed my head.  I have bowed my whole soul under the looming darkness of some times in my life, but the words I once heard my husband say to my counselor, and which I thought were cold and untrue at the time, really were true.

"She is strong.  She always bounces back in the end."

I would not agree that I "bounce back."  Sometimes I have clawed my way back, inch by inch, but I suppose it is the getting back that really counts.

Back to what?  I think it is to my essential self, to the me who finds she does have things to do, people to love, reasons to be.

I still feel fear sometimes, but I know I won't drown in it like I once feared. 

I may not be able to control what is done to me, by fate, or age, or people, or whatever comes my way, but I am able to choose how I respond to these things and even when that is hard it is ultimately what counts in the end.

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

 

Communication

I use my computers every day.  I use my Roku almost every day.  I have two modems, a television and an IPhone.

Communication in today's world is almost always a possibility . . . IF I can make all these things work.

I can email, text, instant message, Facebook message, face time, skype, and make plain old telephone calls.  I can even call and text Greece (or anywhere else) for free too when I use Viber.

The trick seems to be to use all of these things enough that I can troubleshoot when a problem occurs -- AND do it fast enough to continue the communication.

The need to communicate with other people keeps spirits up, brains working and life real.

By the way

There was a time when I  searched for the quick and easy path.  I wanted the recipe for success, the Cliff notes to nirvana, the road to a rich and full life.  I didn't have time to waste on superfluous things.  I needed to know the exact and most direct way to happiness.

It was like walking uphill in deep snow.  In fact I often dreamed I was doing just that.

Since then I have discovered that the way is not a beautiful smooth concrete highway.  It is more like an ocean in which I, along with everyone and everything else, am submerged.

There are signposts, but they say different things to different people and they are not usually big glaring neon ones.  Subtle and placed in places that draw my attention to what is necessary for me, these little asides from the universe come from inside.

The way is long and the choices almost infinite, but the thing I try to remember is that there are choices and I make them with every breath.  Every step ripples my universe in ways I may never fully know.  Sometimes not knowing may seem like a blessing, but the more I am aware the less likely I am to step into discord and chaos.

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote, "Breathing in, I calm body and mind. Breathing out, I smile. Dwelling in the present moment I know this is the only moment." These words anchored me at a time when one of my children was in a terrible place and they have continued to stay with me ever since.  Their meaning has expanded for me over time.  Like everything along the way they flow in and out of me, glimmering and glinting and sometimes falling into shadow, but they never cease to exist.

The road to riches

Friends, neighbors, viewers!  Lend me your gullibility!

Has anyone else noticed that if you have a flashlight, a dark night and someone to man a camera, you have a television show?

It is only necessary to search for your dearest nightmare with the proper amount of awe and fear to draw people in.

Add a few eerie sounds or some uneasy music and the fireside tales you outgrew as a teenager become the road to riches.

It is sort of like being a 3D storyteller.  You set the stage, create the atmosphere and go for it!

"It" can be unicorns, or ghosts, or ruins built by outer space creatures.  It can be anything!  That's the beauty of this kind of show.  No one ever really finds anything.

It's the journey that counts -- or so they say.

My hierarchy

I think all so called "happy" people have, to some extent, chosen to be happy.

Happy is not a continuous state and it certainly is not the same state for everyone.

But more situations than I used to believe, are more tolerable than I thought.

If I can pay the basic bills, rent, utilities, food, doctor, I have learned to be grateful.

If I have some form of social connection with at least one person it really improves my life.

If I have someone I love and for me it is always my children, wherever they are, I can feel what love is.

I try to have some form of creative outlet that leaves me wanting to write, or draw, or DO something.

These are my hierarchy of needs, personalized and honed down just for me.  It took me a long time to come up with them and they can change, but they are mine.

They belong to me and there is something to be said for that.