Wednesday, December 31, 2014
I'm normally very sappy and sentimental when it comes to the New Year. There is something about an old year dying and new one giving birth that makes me almost wistful for what could have been - or maybe what SHOULD have been. Nitpicking on what what I should have accomplished does nothing, really, but serve to make me have regrets.
This year I have none.
I left a job that I held for close to four years and started a new, scary venture that had me sitting at my kitchen table crafting and creating posts and tidbits for clients. I love what I'm doing and the scariness has washed away along with the routine and normalcy. That's just it. We MUST put scary things on our agenda because if we don't, we stay the same forever and ever. My husband runs a successful paint/texture business and is living out his dream of making things new. I am safe in the stretch of his arms if I need him, yet we have a system worked out that gives each of us responsibilities - not just one of us. I left the safe job to start the scary one knowing that I needed to make X amount of dollars to keep up my end of the bargain. Nothing drives you like knowing you are being depended upon to keep certain things functioning in the household. It's a good deal.
I lost several things this year that I loved. My weekly column I wrote for a local newspaper was ditched suddenly and with no warning. It threw me, literally had me on the floor for a few days before I figured out that there is more waiting for me. That I need to pursue and find and track down the opportunities I'm meant to find. That I'm not meant to stay in the tiny box of comfort I had crafted for myself. The scariness was pursuing me and if I didn't get up off that floor and keep moving, I would be lost to it - destined to stay small.
My highest goal, along with gathering enough clients to keep me growing (and them as well), is to put finger to keyboard and bang out the first words of that ever-growing novel inside my head. My husband's story taunts me with its list of lost years, packs of wild children, abuse and neglect, and wild rides underneath trains. I believe the haze of drugs and violence he experienced scare me and tell me I can't write the story. The prostitutes with their clacking heels and deep rivers in the dark of night make me feel as if the story cannot be told with any semblance of order - that I will fail. It's time to face that little lost boy, crying on the street corner. That teen so street-wise and jumping into danger with shadowy figures. That man I met who turned into the love of my life. His story needs told and I'm the one to tell it.
Tonight we greet the New Year as she arrives with all her finery and glitter. I will meet her with a vengeance and a fierceness to never stop...to pursue...to redeem and meet what I know I am.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thanksgiving morning is gentle and warm like a baby's breath against your cheek. Snow is falling ever so softly and I'm snuggled up with coffee contemplating the day. Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is on and show tunes fill the living room with their merry voices. Snores are still being heard from upstairs where it has been so vacant the past three months. It's now filled, if just for a brief time, with footsteps and laughter and the creaking of the floor. My heart is full and expectant with looked-forward to things.
I am also weary and heartsick for things that have happened in our country this week. I am even more weary and heartsick because of responses I have heard from people who are called to love, not pronounce that they are so tired of the 'race' card being played. If you're tired of hearing it imagine living it. Because you're tired of it doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Tuck your white privilege back into your pants before it starts dragging on the floor.
I digress, though.
Today I am so very thankful. My house is loud and rambunctious once again, and the fridge is packed with food to eat. Oreo pudding and stacked chicken enchiladas were partaken of last night, and a movie was watched late into the night as we fell asleep under the lull of a warm house and people we love.
I do not take these emotions lightly. I enfold them and stash them away neatly to take out when the house is again quiet. I get up to make another pot of coffee and ready the cream sticks for when the tribe, including an extra nephew, tumbles down the steps - still bleary with sleep but looking for sustenance. We will huddle on the couches and watch the parade, take a nap, watch another movie, and ready ourselves for the huge family meal at my sister's house tonight.
Thanksgiving is a personal holiday replete with things we take for granted. Today, though, I look past what I hold dear and pray for healing. For eyes to be opened. For FB posts that don't try to put people in their place. For understanding where we haven't tried to understand before. To look at pain and really SEE it. To see violence and not say, "See, that just shows their character."
To not just look at what WE have and say #Blessed and #TooBlessed and #thegoodlife.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Spend it well, love deeply, and remember to look outside of your happiness to sometimes see others pain. And to embrace it.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
I'm sitting here staring at an empty yogurt container, hair uncombed, and crumbs on the counter. My belly is full of coffee and I'm contemplating a second pot. Laundry is spinning and I have a long series of docs that I need to be working on but don't have all the info as of yet. It can wait another day. Right now I'm contemplating Christmas lights and how I might have them up the first of December. From my Facebook feed it seems I am a month behind.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
**Minor spoiler alert**
I felt like I was in a cathedral, vast and dream-like, sitting on the edge of my seat. Hurtling through not just space and time, but another galaxy on the cusp of a raging black hole. My breath grew shallow as the actor was swallowed up and entered a place no one can explain with any real certainty. My popcorn was hot and the drink went down cold. The movies, my friends, are alive and well.
4) Space movies kick @$$.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
I read voraciously as a child. I read books picked out at Little Professor Bookstore, and I read magazines plus newspapers. When commercials for wacky products would come on in the middle of Scooby Doo, I would repeat the addresses at the end to see how many times I could read it before it cut back to the program. My bookshelves groaned with title after title, even at a very young age. Dad built each of us floor to ceiling shelves and mine was packed tighter than tight. Needless to say, I am a reader/book hoarder.
Monday, November 3, 2014
No, waiting isn't an option so I've slashed open the veins and let the words and phrases pour our. Spill out voraciously so that I can become empty of them, so they can breathe and stir about - simmering in a rich stew of longing and having. The longings, which come so often as younger versions of ourselves, reaching and conforming and not yet seeing who we are as women. I find the having to be satisfying and satiating, I'm not reaching into the abyss of small children and toys scattered about. It's such a change of trying to find yourself in the morass of age and youth and the needs of a family young and wanting.
Why not? Why let them go gray and feel yourself aged? Some can embrace it, but not me. My husband is one of those that ages like a fine wine, falling deeper into his features more handsome than ever. Gray would only make me feel like someone else, so I paint....and will continue to do so.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
|Must be time to turn the page?|
If you're new to my blog then welcome! If you're an old friend then welcome back. I've had this blog for over seven years. Seven years. I wasn't even forty when I started this deal. I almost had to re check that fact because I couldn't quite believe I've been blogging that long. My aim here at Women Who Eat Chocolate is not to ply you with pretty words. I'm real and am getting more adept and letting it all hang out. Since my column was eliminated from The Bargain Hunter, I want to continue giving you my writings - and on the plus side since they aren't for a company, and just for me, you'll get more of the real me.
If you like hard-hitting truth then you've come to the right place. Because I'm a woman in her forties who stopped caring what people thought about her right around the 40ish mark. Whoa, let's talk a bit about how freeing that is. In the words of my blogger-in-training/niece McKenzie, this is the quote she uses to describe my writing:
Hey, this is her description of my writing ... not mine.
*secretly rubs hands together laughing like Vincent Price*
Join me as I try to keep this blog updated, and also as I maybe, just maybe, get that book started that needs written. We all have a book that needs written.
Here's to turning the page.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
|My little hippie, witch, and valiant warrior circa 2000.|
|My 'Dia de los Muertos' picture. This is how sugar skulls are painted in Mexico.|
|The masks of my youth.|
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Friday, October 3, 2014
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
Insatiable, yes, that’s the word. I have been infused with the insatiable need to purge my house—every corner, every closet, everything. If you know me, you know that I have become more streamlined over the years. I no longer yearn for heavily decorated knickknacks lining every shelf in a whimsical fashion. I want spare. I want clean. I want minimal. When I was newly married, I was out buying all sorts of things from thrift stores that we needed. Garage sales, clearance racks—if it was on sale and we needed it my house enveloped it. I think envelop is the right word because when I go through things now, I don’t remember buying half the stuff I find. I’ve purged a lot over the years at our garage sales and by selling online, so my home is nothing like it was then. But, something has taken over me and it wants to clean it, all of it.
I’m thinking it has something to do with the empty house. For nearly 24 years there were children running amok in the home so we always were careful what we had sitting around. Now that they’re gone, I think Missy’s sense of style and spatial reasoning is coming back. I’ve got projects in my head that are popping out. I’ve already cleaned the kitchen cupboards and thrown everything out of the pantry. Folks, you do not want to know what was in the back of that thing. I have cranberry-dark chocolate trail mix that I now nibble on, and black corn tortilla chips that we dip in hot salsa. It is filled with things that our palates crave, and everything is arranged with clean lines and non-sticky surfaces. I cleaned out my coffee nook and threw away a myriad of containers. It is now spare and pleasurable. My bedside stands and shelf have been cleared of books I don’t need, as have my library shelves. I have a laundry basket full of books that I need to take somewhere to sell or trade, and I have my eye on more as my shelves groan a little less heavily now. I am planning on clearing all the shelves of my library and painting the insides a bright color, then arranging my books in an artful way.
I’ve already cleaned out some of the boy’s stuff in his room he no longer needs and posted it online. The girl had her pile ready to go as she kept her room fairly spotless. I have a few things left from our eldest, but it’s bits and pieces of her life that no longer have meaning to her—except for the fuzzy pants she keeps here to wear when she comes home for Christmas. Those are neatly folded on her closet shelf. Three heaping closets, made when we created the dormers upstairs after the fire, have somehow become dens of iniquity and they are next on my radar. My fingers are itching to sort through the rubble and see what I find to sell or get rid of. This new phase of actually wanting to sift and sort is a tantalizing surprise to me. It was never something I enjoyed doing, but now I feel it’s just the shifting of the years and the wanting for things to be in order. It’s putting your life into a semblance of things that are within your control and tangible to your touch. With each piece I am gaining peace and making my world spare and clean so I can go out and do more with my life. I can’t feel as if the home is in tatters as I’m making a new way in a child-less world. I press onward, garbage bag in one hand and steely mentality in the other. With each item thrown away or sold my heart gets a bit lighter.
You can find this and my other columns on The Holmes County Bargain Hunter.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
I've been silent. I've been pensive. I've been letting the dark shadows curb my writing. Silent demons, stop your scratching at my neck. I'm tired of you and the way you make me feel.
It's a salient process, this thing called writing. My focus, when I left my desk job to set up a nook here at home, was to find time to start the novel inside me. For so long I've let those demons tell me I can't write it.
"You will never finish it."
"You can't even start it."
"Just do it tomorrow."
Adjusting to the warm niche of home, along with the added benefits of coffee and food on hand, has taken some time to get used to. I have found love for home, kept inside, that now flows out of me. I am doing what I'm meant to. I'm sharing a passion and spreading it around, though thin in spots, that is ever progressing and changing with each day.
Losing inspiration sucks.
I feel as if I've lost a spark and can't find it.
Yesterday I got a text from my niece McKenzie. She's always told me how much she loves to read what I write be it my newspaper column or a blog piece. She says she can get lost in my writing and I always just smiled and said, "I'm glad you love them" never really realizing how much she meant it.
She started a blog. Because she was inspired. You can find her at Just Your Average 20 Year Old's Blog.
This has quite blown me away not just because she started a blog, but because she felt like she was never good enough at writing to start one. But she said "screw it" and created one. And she wrote. I believe she has lit the spark inside me once again. Sometimes we just need to say "screw it" and start doing the impossible.
In listening to those demons speak we give them life. We give them power. We make them bigger and scarier than they really are. Really, we just need to tell them to go back to hell where they came from. Slip your bad selves back into the pit because I don't need to listen anymore. Sincerely.