Freedom

 

Freedom is another one of those words like love. It means entirely different things in different contexts. 

Beyond the freedom to live in a place where you are respected and allowed to have a voice is the freedom of your personal life.

For some people that seems to be the freedom to make yourself the center of attention, or monetarily rich, or house proud, or a million other things that require someone or something else to conform to some expectation.

For others it is a personal thing. I am one of those.

My sense of freedom comes from having a space where I can be absolutely me. Naked and unafraid of any kind of criticism or judgement or even company if I choose. That does not mean I run around without clothes on or hide away from people at all. 

I love company. Invited company.

It means that I have a space where I feel safe from unexpected interruptions of any sort for as much time as I can manage. 

Imagine a three year old rambling around the house. Reading, writing, painting, re-arranging the furniture, napping, cleaning when the spirit moves me, or as it becomes necessary, wearing only those clothes that feel soft and comfortable. Happy. Creative. Free!

Now I suppose you can have that with people running freely throughout your house, but I have yet to find a grown-up who can resist having an opinion about me and I just don't want to even think about that in my own space if I can avoid it.

Some people may call me a loner, but I love company. Good interesting company. A person, occasionally two maybe, who want to get into deep lovely conversations over a cup of coffee or tea. But it is the space between us that allows us to have these conversations.

That is freedom to me.

Love

 

Love.

Touted as the be all and end all of everything, love is so over used it is an almost meaningless word.

According to many romance novels, television shows and movies, love is all you need to do anything. 

But love really is a simple thing.

You don't have to be president of the United States to be loved. You don't have to be beautiful to be loved. You don't have to clean your house, wash your windows, paint your friend's house, or do anything else to be loved.

You are lovable. 

Someone, somewhere loves you for exactly who you are with all your failures, all your shortcomings, all your problems, because that is what real love is. Nothing can change that.

Being loved will not make you anything you aren't already. It will not guarantee you will live happily ever after.

It can give you that warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel happy, but remember happiness is an extreme, not a constant, and it can give your self confidence a boost, but you have to realize two things first.

1. You have to love yourself for who you are.

2. You have to recognize that you are loved and worthy.

So, I guess the secret to love is just to live honestly and fully. Drop the pretense. Lose the need to impress. Don't try to be what you are not, but be the best that you are.

A beautiful life

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Words from one of my favorite stories as a child about a little engine who thought he could and so he did!

There are other cute stories with the same premise. All good things to hear and learn.

So why do so many adults do just the opposite?

They come up with a million excuses and reasons not to do something. It is honestly counterproductive in every way.

In my life I have discovered I can do almost anything if I want to badly enough. I may have to be extra creative. I may have to make careful plans. I may even have to force myself to start, but that is the kicker.

Once you start something it is often not as difficult or awful as you imagined it to be while putting it off.

They old athletic rah rah thing, "Just do it!" is good advice. 

Then? "Just keep going." Make that your mantra.

Make a plan. Have priorities. Get to work.

Don't let anyone, or anything get in between you and good choices and you will be amazed at how much better life can be.

Living in disarray and clutter is hard on the nervous system and if you've never tried to live without clutter and mess you should test this theory for yourself.

Peace reigns. Depression lessens or disappears altogether. Life gets easier without things looming over you. You think you don't notice these things, but your brain registers them. Your eyes see them. Your hands and feet work around them. It's sunshine of the mind in real life.

Second hand Rose

 

Second hand Rose. A song. A movie. All kinds of things come to mind.

But the first thing I think of is a woman who I think of as second hand Rose or the widow maker.

This person has gone through husbands and boyfriends like most people go through paper cups. She doesn't outright kill them, but she would drive me insane and my blood pressure would do the rest.

She collects "stuff." 

From the alley. From the side of the road. From moving sales. From any place where something can be picked up for free. 

She "plans" things. Without much thought. Haphazardly. Cheaply. (Made and done.)

She makes promises that she has no notion of keeping in this lifetime.

She is needy and will say, do, or promise anything to make someone "love" her in the moment.

She is an enabler of lost dreams that never really materialize.

She is not poor financially, but mentally? Something is not right.

We've all probably met someone similar to her, but if she were your best friend you would be in a world of hurt.

Waiting

  

Forty years ago today at this very moment I was sitting in a waiting room at a hospital in St.Louis. My mother had collapsed the day before and been flown in, not in a helicopter, but in a small plane in a sling because there were no helicopters available in Springfield. There were also no available cardiologists because one was in surgery and the others were at a convention. St.Louis was our closest hope.

I sat there all night with my grandmother, father, Aunt, Uncle, brothers and sisters and our spouses, waiting. It gave new meaning to the name, waiting room. We waited in silence mostly. Each of us channeling our best prayers, wishes and hopes, for a good outcome. I nodded off now and then, but almost immediately woke up. Once I thought I heard my aunt say, "Corrine!" That was my mother's name and they were best friends, but it was a dream. My aunt was as silent as the rest of us. We just waited in the waiting room.

In the morning we each got five minutes to see her in pairs and I remember trying to say something hopeful. I said, "It's all downhill from here." I meant the hard part, the worry, the waiting, was over, but when I said it she looked startled and said, "What?" I barely had time to explain before my aunt said to kiss her, our time was up. It was someone else's turn. Little did I know that this was the last time I would kiss my mother or see her alive again.

We all lined the hallway as they took her down to surgery, so the last thing she saw was a sea of loving faces, all wishing her the best.

And then the hard waiting began. We drifted in and out of the waiting room, getting something to eat, or coffee to drink. I had the notion that maybe I should go to the chapel, but when I got there it was under construction and closed. My father had the same idea he told me later.

After hours of waiting a woman took us all into a tiny room to tell us the surgery went well. A whole team of surgeon's had done their best and they just had to take her off the machines.

Not that long afterwards the same woman took us back into the little room to tell us they had not been able to do that. My mother was dead. I will never forget the piercing cry my grandmother made hearing that. She keened, "Nooooooooo. Corrine." They said we could go see her if we wanted to, that they would cover her up so we could look at her face and my grandmother wanted to go, but my aunt talked her out of it.

We left the hospital. Right outside the door my father stopped and hugged me. He said, "Your mother is dead." I will never forget that. He was not a hugger, but he was thinking of me.

What followed is another long story, but today I remember sitting in that waiting room the day my mother died.