Short Musing: 15 Minutes

In talking with a friend today, I realized that it's too easy to feel overwhelmed by the world. And when a person feels overwhelmed, it is easy to feel stuck or trapped by our circumstances. I see this over and over with people I know, and have felt this way from time to time too.

But if we can just spend 15 minutes just doing something that will improve our situation (cleaning out one cluttered drawer), tapping into our creativity (taking 1 sheet of paper and writing down whatever pops into your head) and/or spending time on oneself (soaking in a warm bath), we are improving and investing in ourselves. If we can do this every day, we are changing the narrative of life. We are showing that we do matter. 

It's too easy to say that we don't have time. And yes, sometimes there really is no time. But overall, if one is not kind to oneself, why should others be considerate of us?

Other people might think that this is time wasted. True, if I write, maybe no one else will enjoy it or even read it. It might never be published, but who's to say all writing has to be published. 

When we just keep our heads down and work, are we contributing to our souls dying a little bit each day? 

I've spent too much wasted time worried about what other people think. I am going forward in the world with peaceful and positive intentions and not wishing harm to anyone. So, I need to let go of being who other people think I should be. I need to be true to who I am. 

And yes, last night when writing I figured out something. When I shut off the writing, I feel a little less alive.

I don't know what the future has in store. I'm done hiding in the shadows. It's time to embrace life, appreciate my eccentricities, and just find my way.

Thank you for sharing this 15 minutes with me.

Just a friendly neighborhood gathering

As a divorced woman in a small town, it’s a rare event for me to be invited anywhere. So, of course when the girls and I were invited to a neighborhood potluck, I RSVPed. It should be a positive experience and an opportunity for the girls to expand their (as well as my) social circle.

The girls stuck by me as we ate. “I don’t know anybody here,” my eldest complained. “I don’t know many people here either, but that’s how you get to meet people,” I replied.

Later on, after my encouragement, the twins went and introduced themselves to another girl close to their age. My eldest later decided to play with them, since she wasn’t interested in video game playing.

I wandered over to a table of adults, who welcomed me to sit down. I spent some time listening. One of the guests talked to me briefly and the host did go out of his way to say a few encouraging words.

Later on, the hostess stated to a friend her theory that children of artists see art differently than other children, since they see the business side of it. That may be true, but in my mind they would also see the fulfillment of creating, which most people in our world have lost. 

Just a sideline into “who is an artist”: Last night made me understand what Sinclair Lewis was saying in “Work of Art.” Art can be in any profession, as long as the person has passion, conviction and soul-fulfillment in what they do. One does not have to have the word “Artist” stamped to their forehead to be one. {Regarding Lewis’ work, don’t take this comment as a recommendation to read “Work of Art” unless you want to get lost into the minutia details of hotel management and hollandaise sauce.}

The kids all played and enjoyed themselves. At one point, the group of boys ran outside to a nearby park. The adults all mused, “Boys will be boys.” 

I noticed the tree swing keeping busy the whole evening. Several boys were swinging on it wildly. The adults didn’t seem to notice. Later on, one of my twins was on there, twisting around. I walked over and told her to not twist the chain, it could wreck the swing. I went back to the table. After a short while, I heard the hostess state, “Somebody should parent that child.” Sure enough, it was one of the twins. 

I walked over and told the girls we needed to go, since she didn’t listen to me regarding how she was swinging on the swing. My eldest defended her sisters stating, “The boys were doing that earlier.” The twins were merely entertaining their new friends by creating skits and filming it with their new cameras. {In typing this sentence, the true absurdity of the situation astounds me; the artist’s yard is not some place to play wildly and create skits.}

Of course, being raised by my parents, last night I was embarrassed and this morning I was slightly ticked off. Now, I see the humor.

I realize I need to offer others understanding and patience. This mother in a few years will have a better understanding of the repression girls go through in the local school system. She’ll have to deal with things such as I and other moms have. My girls coming home from kindergarten upset; the boys said that they couldn’t be superheroes because “there are no girl superheroes.” So many times girls aren’t called on in math class (even though my eldest is the best math student in her grade). The middle school girl who asked for a flyer to sign up for baseball and the male teacher refuses to give her one. {Fortunately, she was smart enough to outwait him and pull one from the garbage.}

Life isn’t fair sometimes. Life can be repressive for girls and women. I’m looking for ways to encourage all of us (no matter our race, creed or gender) to build each other up, and encourage peace, love and creativity. It’s time to take down the barriers. Who’s with me?

Every day is a new adventure

Sometimes you need to shake your life up a bit; preferably in positive and meaningful ways.

It felt like the right time to invest in me. I carefully planned and signed up for something that would be a fulfilling learning experience.

Sometimes a small change like this can force you to open up yourself in new ways.

I walked to the class this morning and looked around. I was immediately rewarded 1 block into my walk by seeing a gorgeous tall vision in sunglasses, black pants, and shirtless. He was casually holding his shirt like a foreign object in his left hand. As I crossed the street, I smiled to myself.

Later on, during lunch break, I walked around, watching the people and seeing the different restaurants near the school. On one block, I noticed a woman talking on the cell phone. She started sobbing, "It's my first day, and you are yelling at me. How could you treat me this way as I'm just trying to find some place to eat." 

I had turned the corner and didn't hear more. My heart ached to hear her pain, and I turned around to see if I could see where she was. I hoped someone in her life would show her kindness later, or at least give her a hug.

So much information today, I can't really absorb it all. I did take time to relax, and find some quiet time to reflect. I feel centered and at peace. Yes, it's good to stretch your mind and soul from time to time.

Finding My Voice

One of the reasons I've been scarce from this blog is that each time I feel

close to finding my voice (IE: finding my way to writing again), it seems like something shuts me down again.

Sometimes, it's my own attitude towards work; it drags me down and I can't focus on expressing myself in positive ways.

Other times, it's a more deep rooted pattern in my life. When I was a child, besides witnessing my dad's cruelty towards my mom, she told me more than I should have known about her life, and her marriage with dad. I was emeshed for a few years of my life. I couldn't formulate my own opinions, thoughts or feelings. Anytime I tried, it was shut down by mom. {This isn't something I blame her or dad for; it was a traumatic situation for everyone involved.}

I spent my 20s and 30s getting free from this unhealthy bond. However, I have found within the last year, that my mom uses my weekly phone calls as a way to review her life, her childhood.

It's as if I'm her biographer, and she telling me these stories of her life for the first time. She's telling me them with a purpose; as if she intends me to records these stories in a permanent record. I keep telling her she needs to get a notebook and write down these stories - to tell him within her voice.

I keep suggesting this because I don't want the burden of holding her stories anymore. It is not my responsibility to tell her story.

I feel as if I lose my own voice each time she expects me to unravel the mysteries of her life.

I have felt my creativity clog up so many times this year, and I couldn't understand why.

I know in my heart, this has to be why. This unspoken burden of being my mother's chronicler. 

Yet, I know, I can't do that. I can only tell my own story. I could never accurately tell anyone else's. I shouldn't expect myself to do do. 

Now that I realize this, I feel at peace within myself. I no longer have to keep this expectation.

Here's for quiet and quietude

It is definitely what I miss the most. In this house, I can continually hear the upstairs neighbors. I hear when he stomps around, I hear when he "lectures" his elders, I hear when he squeaks his bed. [That is getting very annoying, as he seems to do it continually when I am awake and in my living room. If I get up in the middle of the night and check my email, he starts that damn bed squeaking again. It's something I really don't want to ponder in any way, shape or form...I am most disturbed by it when I have the kids here. I already presume he's not to be trusted around children and that squeaking further cements it.]

I realize; it's all completely my fault. I picked here to live. The choice in this small town is very slim, as far as affordable rent (with fairly safe location) goes. I know that it is best for me to by as close as possible to where the kids live.

So, I need to find my own ways to cope. I have noticed that my creative process has really closed down since living here. A huge part of it is this house. The feeling of being monitored (even just audibly) has shut me down. I'm trying very hard lately to try to work around this feeling of repression.

I hope I can. It has altered me for the worse to not try to be creative in some way.