Biting The Bullet

I used to post bullet point blogs frequently. When my brain felt jumbled that seemed the logical way to sort it all out. I haven't written one in a while. Am I less jumbled? Well, not today. So, here we go...

• My mom bought some Red, White, and Blue decorations for Memorial Day. They will probably hang until July 4, but that is A-Okay. We are NOT big decorators here, so I am talking about a plaque for the door and a wind sock, just in case you were picturing yard decorations and lights.
• At dinner over a week ago, right after mom put the wind sock up, she said to me, "When I came home the wind sock was hanging off the roof, like it was holding on by its fingernails." That struck me as very funny. As in ironic funny. Do you ever have moments, hours, days, months when you feel like the entire country (maybe the world) is holding on by its fingernails?

• That night I took the photograph above and then pulled the wind sock down.

• It clung to the gutter. A bit of water caught its legs. As I yanked it down it occurred to me that maybe that is all it takes... people with initiative giving a good yank.
• Last week, Jasmine's What If Wednesday question was this: What is your wildest dream? I wrote an extremely lengthy comment only to arrive at the conclusion that I have discarded my wildest dreams as I have journeyed through this migraine-filled existence. Perhaps the thing now holding me back from complete recovery is the lack of a dream. If you have nothing to reach for, aspire to, aim at... what are you?
• I think I wrote here before that we can live more easily without hope than purpose. Purpose will keep us moving forward even when hope is gone. Or hanging by its fingernails.
• Writing my novel gave me purpose. 
• Revisions plague me.
• The thought crept in (and continues to linger) that I am just not good enough of a writer to keep working at this project. What is the point? I read recently at Writer Unboxed that the writers who succeed aren't necessarily the most talented. They are the ones that don't give up. They get better by continuing to write and rework their story until it is good.
• Is writing my wildest dream?
• For years, my wildest dream was, after I found my way back to health, helping people who fell through the floor. I envisioned a website, houses, and creating an organization that didn't just offer a hand out but a help up. 
• The problem? People with chronic pain and no tissue disorder suffer from emotional pain. 20% of the afflicted accept that diagnosis and get better. 80% insist on a surgery, pill, or Anything Else. 
• The truth is that people don't want to clean out their emotional garbage. It is stinky and painful and HURTS to root around in that particular trash bin. Plus, it *seems* incomprehensible that broken relationships and/or emotional pain of any kind could result in very real physical pain.
• On my HERE'S TO YOU post, Stephen T. McCarthy wrote in the comments that God spoke to him via his Inner Voice that morning. I know just what he was saying because that has happened to me. Back in 2008 God spoke to me one morning and told me that every single thing I was going through happened for a reason. It was the catalyst that would bring me to a career that would bring me more joy than I could possibly imagine. So, I needed to start meeting this journey with acceptance, rather than resistance.
• I have been so-so with the acceptance vs. resistance concept. But, I BELIEVED that God had a Purpose for me. One that would bring me joy beyond my imaginings. Not long after My Idea (sound byted above) began to form.
• Since Jasmine's blog and Stephen's comment I have been thinking a lot about my wildest dream and what God whispered into my ear. And I ask myself, "How can I help people who don't want to be helped?"
• The answer became obvious. I can't. But, there are 20% who will say Yes. So, I need to spend some mental energy figuring out how to help that 20%.
• And I want to spend time writing my novel. No, I don't think it is the Great Giver of Joy that God talked about, but I LIKE it. I will only improve with practice.
• .... and that all leads to less time spent blogging. I can't spend hours every single day reading blogs and still accomplish these things. But if I stop doing that, the chances of my putting together weekly HERE'S TO YOU posts dwindles into impossibility. 
• While HERE'S TO YOU gives me tremendous joy, I don't think it is what God was talking about either. And if subverting My Wildest Dream keeps me stuck in the land of migraines... this cannot be a good thing.
• For a LONG TIME blogging gave me Purpose and I am beyond thankful that I started this site and met all of you. You are blessings.
• In the name of pinpointing my Wildest Dream and my Purpose, I am not going to read daily. I will become more hit and miss with commenting. HERE'S TO YOU won't be weekly. It will be Whenever I Can Pull a Post Together. 
• However, I am not disappearing. I am just going to better manage my time.
• Like the wind sock, I was stuck. I am yanking myself down in an effort to be free and find my own flow with nature. As I write this, I see the wind lifting it and blowing through it. If a wind sock can be happy, I think mine is. It is fulfilling its Purpose.
• I want to be like the wind sock.

Are you striving to live your Wildest Dreams? Are you willing to set aside or cut back on things that you enjoy to make it happen?

Z IS FOR ZOE

Since I was an English Major in college, I took several Creative Writing Classes, as you might imagine.  The focus of this particular class was writing short stories that were true (aka non-fiction).  The class would break up into small groups of three or four, and read/critique each other's work.  I remember ONE of those stories twenty years later.  I can recall it in fairly accurate detail.  Let me share the bare bones of the story with you...

It is the story of an 11 year old girl who wants so much to grow up.  She wants to do grown-up things.  She has been yearning for the day when she can shave her legs with the razor that she has seen her mother use.  She knows how to do it.  It is merely squirting out the foam and then gliding that razor up the leg in precise movements.  Until all of the foam and hair is gone.  That act will define her as a woman.  She will leave the hair and childish things behind  her.  Today is the day.  She is finally squirting the foam and using her mother's razor to strip away childhood.  This day isn't the way she planned it.  There is none of the joy that she expected to feel.  None of the freedom.  There is no song in her soul.  After the act is done, she puts on the black dress hanging on the back of the door, and joins her father.  Today is her mother's funeral.  After they come home, her father surprises her with a kitten.  He knows that today was a difficult one.  She nuzzles the new friend to her chest and decides to name her Zoe, meaning Life.  The end.

I was crying by the end of that piece, which was actually several pages in length.  I had nothing for it by way of critique.  It was wonderful.  Until that story, I had never even thought about the impact of a non-fictional short story.  After that, I did.  I knew that a short story of no more than two pages, if it was well written could pull a punch.  It could land one right in the gut.  The fact that I remember that story is a testament to its power.

Will I ever write anything, long or short, that impacts a person the way that story did me?  I don't know.  However, this blog is me exercising my writing muscle so that it doesn't get flabby.  I might not knock out gems here every day, but I try to write *something* every few days just to stay toned.  That way when I jump back into the Writing Game of Life I will be ready.  Thank you Christine (the writer of the awesome paper) for the inspiration.  Thank you, too, Zoe!

Rating: Life Lesson

Who has inspired you to be a better writer?  What stories do you still remember twenty years later?