Embrace The Suck

My father was an avid crossword puzzler. Every morning he'd sit at the breakfast table, sip on lukewarm coffee, and fill in little squares with words he'd pull from some ancient dictionary in his brain. There was a time when he complained of being lonely so I'd sit at the table with him. I'd read or write and he'd puzzle. On occasion he'd ask me for the name of a movie star or song title. Mostly I didn't have any idea. I can't say why or when it happened, but one day I picked the newspaper puzzle to work on. Dueling crosswords, only there wasn't much of a fight! On the days we went to a doctor's appointment or someplace where there would be a long wait, I always took a book to read and a stack of word puzzles. Dad's handwriting got pretty hard to read the last few years. But that didn't stop him. He told me he didn't like it when I worked on one of his unfinished puzzles because my "e's" weren't legible. (For those

I read something the other day that stuck with me. I continue to go back to it. I wanted to share it here, but I'll be danged if I could remember where I read it. I spent at least an hour going through my history files, checking blogs I follow, re-reading posts then hopping on to others. Finally I gave up and decided I'd just try to put the thought in my own words. Actually, I didn't give up for good because I tried one more place - the trash bin - and voila! there it was. An article I threw away when I should have saved it. Right after Christmas I signed up for an on-line workshop called Breaking Into Blossom facilitated Paula Josa-Jones. For a variety of reasons, none of them good, I have read the exercises but not followed through with assignments or community conversations. One of my excuses really belongs in the Too Dumb to Count category. See Jones is dance person. She writes about movement, improvisation, rhythm, "opening doors to an unpredictable aliveness in

I'm stuck. Not sure why. Not sure what to do about it. Ideas for writing/speaking come into my mind early, early in the morning. By the time I'm actually awake, they have retreated into sleep oblivion. While I flounder, other people's thoughts, cross my path. Perhaps, like tulips under the winter's snow, during this quiet time, I'm being nourished and fortified. In time I will peek out of my hidey hole and blossom. In her blog post on Feb. 18, Paula Josa-Jones wrote of "horse time". I've never heard of it have you? "Horse time," writes Jones, "is biologic, sometimes even geologic. It does not have to do with any kind of human time measurement. It has to do with listening and waiting. I got very good at waiting. One day when I came to work with him, Nelson would not let me anywhere near him. So I sat against the fence for about 2 hours until he finally came close enough to get a treat. I had a lot of time that day to think about taking th

Two of my favorite people are ladies I've known since they were two years old. Identical twins, I watched them grow up yet rarely could tell them apart! Today they are mothers with children of their own. As we all know raising children is no easy task. But for these friends it is especially difficult. Janie has two sons with Juvenile Diabetes and Jamie has a son with a form of Autism. Like cancer, mental illness, and alcoholism Type I diabetes and Autism are family diseases. Moms, dads, and sisters soon learn that the disease runs the show. Every day is challenge that those of with "normal" kids can't even imagine. Recently I got an email from Janie with this article: "Things I wish you knew about Type I diabetes. " I'm posting it here for others to read because I think it's really valuable information. "Things I wish you knew about Type 1 diabetes…" 1. I wish you knew that there really is no controlling blood glucose. Blood glucose is a

It's the day before Valentine's Day - that Hallmark card holiday that started before the Christmas 50% off sale was over. Poets, lovers, and secret pals the world over are putting the final touches on their tributes to the one they love. Moms and dads have combed heart-filled aisles for just the box of school-aged Valentines - nothing provocative, nothing sugary sweet, nothing that will make 4th grade boys throw up or 3rd grade girls start making wedding plans. Let's hear it for Scoobie Doo, Disney Cars, Mickey Mouse and Little Kitty cards. Unless, all those people are procrastinators like me. In that case, they are starting to sweat bullets and make excuses for the delay in their heart-felt wishes. It's not that I don't feel the love. And it's not that I don't want to share my love with others. I think it's more about not feeling comfortable with making a big deal of love one time a year. I don't believe candy, roses, balloons, stuffed monkeys wi

As with most things it is probably not a good idea to talk in generalities. That said, I'm going to do it anyway. My family has always owned a variety of pets - dogs, cats, birds, fish. Seriously what family hasn't? When I was a child my parents divided up the job of pet care. Dad would take whatever animal that needed it to the vet for shots. Female dogs (which we favored) were spayed. I found out in Dad's last days that he had a strong aversion to castrating male dogs. In my memory we only had one, a pedigreed black poodle. He was the stereotypical miniature that you would love to hate. And he never, ever quit peeing in the house. I know, gross. He was my mother's dog, gifted to her on a birthday. Even when everyone else walked a wide berth around the stinky, flea-bitten, pee-er my mom took good care of him, and probably stretched the definition of love to its maximum potential. If there was a dirty pet job that needed doing, my mother was the female version of Mik

I haven't been blogging for awhile. Not sure what that's all about. I was sick for awhile and recently went out of town. Mostly it just didn't seem like I had much to say. Writer's block? Perhaps. Or maybe just taking a break. Over the weekend, I took a walk down memory lane while spending time with the family for whom I was a nanny for 4 years. I think I've said before, Robert was only a month old when I began taking care of him, last Friday he turned 16. As we said many times over the weekend, where does time go. It was a great delight to sit for hours watching old videos of the little man I remember so clearly. I can't remember much that happened yesterday, but I hadn't forgotten the Robert's chubby little cheeks, the fun he had in the bathtub, his gingham outfits and blue Keds, and the times he splashed in puddles with rubber boots that reached his thighs. At 16 he was reticent to have his picture taken a hundred times by a crazed woman wanting to c