Random Thoughts

Maybe I should call it Day 2. Just getting here, to Blue Ridge, GA, was an adventure in and of itself. 3 women, a wheelchair, enough food to keep us going for weeks, if caught in some kind of natural disaster, water, coke, tea, Red Bull, art supplies, blankets, pillows, clothes, computers and 2 bottles of Absinthe at my feet. It was touch and go whether we'd even leave Jacksonville. But 8 hours, 3 stops - which included unpacking the car in order to get the wheelchair in and out of the Ford Focus - we pulled into the steep driveway of a wooden cabin hidden in north Georgia mountains. My writers group, Chat Noir, is on retreat for three days. Retreat, I'm learning, means different things to each of us. There is writing to be done, for sure. But mostly we're here to unwind, to soak up the serenity provided by the cabin's seclusion, to refuel our creative tanks. I'm pretty sure drinking and laughing are at the top of the to-do list. When I say cabin in the woods...

You simply will not be the same person  two months from now after consciously giving thanks  each day for the abundance that exists in your life.  And you will have set in motion an ancient spiritual law:  the more you have and are grateful for, the more will be given you. Sarah Ban Breathnach Simple Abundance It wasn't that long ago that I was bemoaning the fact that I had too much time on my hands. I needed some routine and structure in my life or I would slowly turn into a giant slug. (Okay, maybe I never voiced the part about the slug, but my body was giving me the high sign to get off the couch and get moving, as in work, not exercise. I don't pay that much attention to my body!) After reading an email that touched my heart this morning, I began to feel overwhelmed with all the things I have on my plate. Not the kind of things I want to ignore, like dusting and weeding. Things That make me feel all atwitter inside. Things that make me we...

A guest at our annual Chat Noir Extravaganza a few years ago, told me I remind her of Erma Bombeck. Seriously? Me?  I think I stopped listening after that, imagining myself in the same humor stratosphere as Erma made me dizzy. Not to mention a bit puffed up. I just read an article from The Erma Bombeck Writer's Worshop by Polly Scott*. In the article the author lists 5 ways to write a funny blog post.  Sadly, I'll have to change my whole style of writing if I am to follow Ms Scott's rules.  First she suggests keeping posts under 300 words. Dang. I'm just getting started at 300 words.  And she says to use short, choppy sentences. Come on folks, I've never met a run-on sentence I didn't like and want to bring home to dinner.   And one-sentence paragraphs? What's up with that? I'm all for learning new things, but the truth is I like my way of doing things better. Guess I've got a long way to go to be in the Erma Bombeck league. Photo by So...

I've felt like crying for most of the day. A few tears have leaked out, but mostly I've just had that feeling I get when the flood gates are about to be opened and I'm not sure if they will ever close. I wanted to cried around midnight when I called Weneki to say happy birthday. She wasn't home, so I left a birthday song on her voice mail.  I usually cry on Weneki's birthday. I cry joyful tears at the memory of the day she was born. I cry missing her tears. I cry tears of pride when I think of all she's been through in her lifetime, and how, even when it hasn't been easy, she's risen to the top like sweet cream on fresh milk. I wanted to cry as 64 year old Diane Nyad climbed out of the water after swimming 103 miles from Cuba to Key West. Not so much for her success, but  for the her triumph after several failures. All those "not this times" spurred her on and made her try that much harder. Truth be told, I felt like crying because I'v...

September 2, 1971. The day my life changed forever. I knew where babies came from but had limited knowledge of how they are born. "I think something's happening down there," I said to no one in particular. Shortly thereafter, my plump-cheeked, bald-headed baby girl was born. Fast forward 42 years. That baby has grown into a woman I'm proud to call daughter. She is beautiful, wise, and witty. She adores the color green, crows, movies, and books. She has never met a quilt she didn't like. She eats beets, drinks Kentucky bourbon, and makes a mean guacamole. She loves deeply and dislikes mean people. She has a warm spot in her heart for furry four-legged creatures, a good pen, Las Vegas, and John Denver songs. She is a Tough Mudder, swims like a fish, dances when the mood hits and takes naps. She is a sister, wife, niece, cousin, friend, manager, co-worker extraordinaire. I think it should be against the law that mothers do not live close enough to t...

When Dad was alive we rarely missed going to church. Even toward the end when he couldn't make it, I'd go. I'd sit in the front row, right next to the place reserved for him. [It wasn't really reserved, but pretty much everyone agreed it was Dad's seat.] Sometime in the last two and a half years I moved to the back.  There was no particular reason, I just moved. You get a whole different perspective of church from the back. You can slip in late and no one notices except Delores who stands at the door handing out bulletins and smile. I suppose you can sleep if you want, without catching the preacher's eye. And you can raise your hands in praise without others seeing you. That's not as big a problem as it once was. Before the Hispanics came, our Episcopal church was pretty staid, the prayers rote, the hymns .... well let's say they were what hymns are supposed to be - hymny. When Fr. Miguel brought his "happy band of Christians" into our chur...

This past weekend, I noticed how full my home feels when my sisters are there. Most of the time the place where I live is "my" home. When my sisters visit, it morphs easily back into "our" home. I may own and maintain it,  but its spirit will always belong to the whole family ... my four sisters, their children and their children's children. I like where I live well enough. I'm grateful for having it. But sometimes I wish I could pick up and move somewhere smaller, closer to my faraway family. I love the homey feeling I get when I know that family sits around the table, or congregates in the kitchen.  I tend to have issues with loud noises, they kind of freak me out. But the sounds of pan lids rattling, dishes clicking together and Coke cans popping, accompanied by my sisters' laughing is music to my ears. The the ocean's siren call lured Jean from the mountains to her favorite place by the sea. The magic of sea air and sunlight is the elixir he...