Embrace The Suck

It's been so long since I've been a regular blogger I feel pretty sure the people who were faithful followers have gone on to other, more faithful, bloggers. As I struggled to write my last post, I discovered what my writing coach and anyone else who knows about writing, says is true. Writing is like a muscle that has to be used and stretched. I've been working off the other saying my coach told me - you're still a writer if if you're not typing.  Yet, the exercise thing clicked in because I've been following up my twice weekly physical therapy sessions, with morning and evening stretches. My back pain is diminishing somewhat,  my flexibility improving, and my "core" getting stronger. I'm still a far cry from physically fit, but I am proud of how I'm sticking to the regimen. Pain will do that. Pain isn't necessarily involved in writing, but it can be difficult sitting at the keyword, willing my fingers to type out words that don't c...

Yesterday, Sweetie decided it would be a good idea to clean out some of the junk that's accumulated in our kitchen cabinets. I said OK if I could retain veto power. AND if he promised he would not go out and buy more stuff to fill in the spaces. You know what happens when there is a nice clean space  calling out "fill me, fill me." At the back of the cupboard where dad always kept his booze there were several unused drinking vessels - little oriental brandy cups, green plastic cups Mom used when she was taking her daily medications, a jelly jar that Dad used for his nightly cocktail, some oriental brandy cups, one wine glass, and a thermal glass that held first Mom's then Dad's ice tea every day at lunch.  There were also several large plastic cups from Subway, travel coffee mugs without their tops, tops without their mugs. I've parted with a lot of my parents' things. I've tossed some into the garbage with glee and held onto others with a tight gr...

Hold your newborn infant in your arms, wondering "what now" and somehow knowing the answer. Change beds, wash dishes, match socks, scrub Crayola masterpieces off the wall, step on Legos in the middle of the night, and mop sticky Kool-aid off the floor. Hold a little one's hand when crossing the street; wave goodbye when the time is right Unwrap handmade Christmas ornaments and hang them on the tree even when your children have children of their own. Keep plaster of Paris hand prints and bronzed baby shoes on your dresser. Find a lock of auburn hair, a tarnished silver rattle, a paper doily Valentine, track medals, a Letterman's jacket, a graduation announcement, a tattered blanket, a dried out corsage, old report cards, and an envelope full of baby teeth at the bottom of the cedar chest. Wait …  for labor to begin, for the doctor to show up, for the school bus, for a fever to break, for the swelling to go down, for the rash to go away, for for riding less...

Ninety-seven years ago, my daddy was born. A little boy who would grow up to make a big mark in the lives of the people he loved. He's been gone for 3 years. I still look to him for approval, but I'm learning to trust my own judgement. Funny how sometimes they are the same thing. His favorite things can still make me laugh or cry. When the wind blows the back door open, I say, "Hello, Dad," because I think his spirit still hangs out here on occasion. He visits my dreams, but can't see his face. I remember sitting by his bed during his last days. I tried to imagine how life would be without him. It's pretty much the same, without the hassle, except for the missing him. Kind of like an angel food cake. There's a hole in the middle. Sometimes you fill that hole up with strawberries and whipped cream, sweet memories. Sometimes you just leave it empty. Either way, it's all good. Happy Birthday, Dad, Merry ME

Talk about crash and burn. There I was on a writing high. The words and ideas couldn't come fast enough. I wrote my friend Amy that my muse had returned and I couldn't type fast enough to keep up with her. Then my Rx for steroids ran out, and so did my words. My back has been giving me fits. L4 and L5 respectively. Except they show me no respect. They pinch, stab, grab me in a choke hold until I'm at their mercy. Those are my words. The therapist says they are "restricted." Restricted as in doesn't move well, or as in a teenager on restriction doing everything she can to make life miserable for the person who inflicted the punishment. Either way, the end result is the same. Pain. Pain. Pain. It's been almost a month since I visited the orthopedic doc. His first suggestion was physical therapy. If you know me, you know anything with the word "physical" in it will probably not be my cup of tea. But hey, if it'll make the pain s...