I AM A NEW YORKER

We collectively mourn today, in varying degrees of separation. Those families who were directly affected "that morning" five years ago, loosing husbands, wives, sons and daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends and coworkers....first responders, there to save others, and just ordinary people, trying to make a living.... who vanished into thin air...we can't feel the depth of the pain that their families experienced, yet we can understand it.

We can understand the anguish felt by emergency personnel who spent hour upon hour, days upon days, searching in the massive pile of smoking, pulverize rubble......their mission always to save....... and knowing that would not be the case.

We mourn in degrees of separation.....those who can still smell the burning jet fuel, or who walked the area of lower Manhattan, pictures in hand, endlessly searching for their lost loved ones. They mourn the most fiercely.

We mourn in degrees of separation....those of us who watched helplessly on our televisions...further removed, yet mourning nonetheless. No, we could not smell the smoke, nor *feel* the wailing of the sirens....yet we mourned too.

We mourn in degrees of separation.......those of us who live in tri-state area, but especially those of us who are New Yorkers. We mourn in a different way than the rest of the country. Just as those in Washington D. C. and in Pennsylvania, and all those with loved ones on four planes mourn. We collectively mourn together in a way that the rest of the nation cannot. Oh, yes...the rest of the nation mourns....but from further away....Separated by many degrees from the anguish that we, as New Yorkers feel.

The following was posted on My Space as a bulletin. The author is unknown....

I AM A NEW YORKER
-author unknown

I am a New Yorker. I was raised on Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and Rockefeller Plaza, the Yankees or the Mets, Jones Beach or Smith Point, or one of the beaches on the sound or the bay. I know the "THE END" means Montauk. Because I am a New Yorker.

I am a New Yorker. When I go on vacation, I never look up: skyscrapers are something I take for granted. The Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty are part of me. Taxi's and noise and subways and "get outa heah" don't rattle me, because I am a New Yorker.

I am a New Yorker. I was raised on cultural diversity before it was politically correct. I eat Greek food and Italian food, Jewish and Middle Eastern food and Chinese food because they are all American food to me. I don't get mad when people speak other languages in my presence because my relatives got to this country via Ellis Island and chose to stay. They were New Yorkers.

I am a New Yorker. People who have never been to New York have misunderstood me. My friends and family work in the industries, professions and businesses that benefit all Americans. My firefighters and police officers died trying to save New Yorkers and non-New Yorkers. They died trying to save Americans and non-Americans because they were New Yorkers.

I am a New Yorker. I feel the pain of my fellow New Yorkers. I mourn the loss of part of my beautiful city. But then I remember......I am a New Yorker.

And New Yorkers have:
Tenacity, strength and courage way above the norm
Compassion and caring for our fellow citizens
Love and pride in our city, in our state, in our country
Intelligence, experience and education par excellence
Ability, dedication and energy above and beyond
Faith--no matter what religion we practice.

Terrorists hit America in its heart but America's heart still beats strong. Demolish the steel in our buildings, but it doesn't touch the steel in our souls. Hit us in the pocketbook; but we'll parlay what we have left into a fortune. End innocent lives leaving widows and orphans, but we'll talk care of them, because they are New Yorkers.

Wherever we live, whatever we do, whoever we are. There are New Yorkers in every state and every city of this nation. We will not abandon our city. We will not abandon our brothers and sisters. We will not abandon the beauty, creativity and diversity that New York represents. And most importantly, we will never forget.

Becasue we are New Yorkers.

And we are proud to be New Yorkers.

Me and Gloria

For some time now, I’ve been wondering about Condoleezza Rice. Wondering why her name has all those e’s and z’s in it? Don’t they seem unnecessary? One each would certainly do. I’ve been wondering other things too though. Like why she never looks happy. Or why I’ve never heard her speak about women’s issues at all….even in the context that one might speak about women’s issues as a Secretary of State. Yes, it’s possible she’s done so and I’ve just missed it, but I read the news on a daily basis and don’t recall reading anything she’s ever said in this regard. And even when she’s smiling, she just never really looks happy.

However, she does play the piano well… and we can all assume that she’s a very smart woman, considering she is the Secretary of State. We, as women can be proud of that accomplishment. She does not appear to be one of those warm and fuzzy people though and she certainly does not seem interested in women’s issues. Here she is, this really smart woman, who seems so out of step with the rest of her gender.

Gloria Steinem is wondering similar things about Condoleezza.

New York Times Magazine, September 3, 2006, “All About Eve” an interview by Deborah Solomon (excerpt):

“Q: Is Condoleezza Rice and ally of women?
Gloria: I wish someone would write an article called ‘How Did Condoleezza Rice Get That Way?’ She’s so separate from the welfare of the majority of Americans and especially the female and African-American communities to which she belongs.”

How weirdly cool is it that Gloria is in her house thinking about this, and I’m in mine, doing the same thing? (And she looks damn good for 72!)

Fortune Cookie Fortunes

My order of steamed vegetable dumplings from the local Chinese restaurant came with the best fortune tonight!

"Life is not a problem to be solved but rather a mystery to be lived."

How cool is that? I’m going to tape it somewhere so that I’ll see it on a daily basis. Sometimes *my life* gets in the way of my ability to remember these more inspirational points. I wonder if it might be possible to live your entire life, based upon these little strips of paper that inhabit fortune cookies. I imagine that one would have to eat a whole lot of Chinese food in order to collect enough of them to make it worth while. Maybe not though……I think I might possibly be able to live the rest of my life based upon that one little fortune that is written above.

I wonder who thinks up these little sayings and who decides if they’ll make it into a cookie.

I’ll bet there’s a book out there somewhere in the world that is just filled with the sayings that pop out of fortune cookies. I must admit, the cookies themselves do nothing for me. Mainly because there’s no chocolate in them. They don’t really have any taste at all. Actually, they might rival the taste of a Communion wafer….and somewhere out there, there’s a Christian Fundamentalist from the Bible Belt, saying to themselves, “She's goin’ to hell talkin’ like that.” Once again I have digressed though. Christian Fundamentalists are an entirely different story.

I break open fortune cookies, trying to make as little mess as possible, slip out the strip of paper, and read. If I were a gambling person I might also consider playing the numbers written under my fortune. Has anyone ever won the lottery based upon the use of those numbers? All these questions that have come to mind, all because of a little piece of paper, hidden inside a stale, hard, very crunchy item, that pretends to be a cookie. I have just spent way to much time thinking about fortune cookies….and now writing about them as well. Possibly I should move on, get out the tape and find a place to immortalize my one and only cool fortune cookie fortune, and continue on, living my mystery.

The Gym...and Salt & Vinegar Potato Chips

How I wish I were one of those people for whom a love of exercise came naturally. I am not. I’ve learned to appreciate it over the past two years and think that I can say with all honesty that I like it, but doubt that I will ever love it. I am not one of those chicks that dress in their color coordinated spandex outfit and do an hour on the elliptical, while their pony tail swings back and forth to the rhythm of their work out. Having a sense of fashion in the gym is not high on my list of priorities, although I am really into wearing cool sneakers.

My first priority in regard to the gym is to get in the car and drive there. Once I’m there then everything else falls into place. That is unless the battery has gone dead in my mini disc player leaving me without the Goo Goo Dolls, Matchbox Twenty or Third Eye Blind to work out with. Then, I either have to go and buy batteries… or go home. Without something other than the Dance Party music they play in the gym, I can’t concentrate on what I’m there to do. It’s hard to work out when you are perseveratively thinking about how crappy the music sounds. My second priority would be making sure I have a pony tail holder so that as I sweat, my hair is not sticking to my neck, driving me crazy and causing me to loose my concentration, or the Zen place I sometimes manage to achieve as I climb treadmill hills. And my third is to work hard enough to actually sweat.

Tonight was the first night I’ve been to the gym in a month. It’s been a long *gym vacation*. The longest I’ve had in the two years that I’ve had a membership, and I’ve missed it. Some of what I consider my best writing has started in my head while on the treadmill. After walking up and down hills anywhere from two to four miles I find myself sitting in my car, scribbling down all the random thoughts I’ve thought about while sweating. I’m not sure why that happens. Maybe it’s because I walk with my eyes closed, music in my ears and no other distractions, allowing my mind to free associate and go where it wants…. running amok without a mother to say “stop that…you can’t possibly think you can do that!”

My original purpose in joining the gym was to become healthier. I made a decision that I did not want to become permanently imbedded on a couch, only to get off of it every ten years to shop for a new one to sit back down on. I did not want to wake up at 60 with diabetes and a heart condition and not be able to participate in my life, nor end up with the osteoporosis that the women in my family seem to be prone to…..so the only choice was to get off my butt and get to the gym. A recent consult with a cardiologist, that required me to participate in a bit of torture called a Thallium Stress Test, has proven that the gym works. (And I do thank all of you who I moaned and groaned to about “the test,” calling you all to say my final good-bye’s, thinking I might die of the side effects of said test. I would like to add here, that for me this particular test rated right up there with child birth, and I’m still not sure which I think was worse.)

I am in excellent cardiovascular shape. That alone should be enough to keep me going, and actually it is. Yet, the benefits for my mind far surpass the benefits for my body. In the first year of my “getting a new life,” I cried….a lot. Without the gym I would probably never have gotten out of bed. Some days, other than work, the gym was the only place I went, at times working out very late at night in order to be exhausted so that I could sleep. Physical exertion made me feel better. I even experience from time to time “runners high.” I may not run, but I work hard and once through that wall of resistance I feel as if I can go on forever. I think…. I meditate…. I visualize my new life…a new job….a new apartment….new people in my life….I write. I do all of this with my eyes closed, music in my ears and beads of perspiration trickling down my neck.

Yes, there are some days that the only thing I’m thinking about is that Quizno’s is next door and they sell small bags of Salt & Vinegar potato chips….which I really love and rarely ever buy. Once in a while I'll play “Let’s Make a Deal”…….walk 800 calories worth and buy a bag of chips. It’s not like buying the big bag in the grocery store. I can have the small one and be content, knowing that I didn’t just consume 800 plus calories worth of a food item that is horrible for me. And, that’s OK. I like the gym and I like the Salt & Vinegar potato chips and if I want, I can have both. My days of thinking about all the other things I think about, far outnumber the Salt and Vinegar Potato Chip days. And, it’s probably a good thing that they do....

Building sandcastles

This afternoon as I sit here on the beach, sand sifting between my purple polished toes, I am watching as the sandcastle that is so diligently being built by a young father and his children continues to wash away a little at a time. Yet, it seems to matter not to them. They dig the trench around it deeper, and pile large buckets of sand onto it in order to shore it up; squeals of laughter from the children and smiles from their father, neither caring that the waves steals bits of their ocean front home with each roll onto shore.

Sitting on my borrowed sand chair, I watch three, thirty-something father’s play with their young children. One holds his daughter who looks no more that four on a Boogie board as it skates around atop the small waves that curl near the shore line. Little boys, also with Boogie boards run out to meet these waves and ride them back onto the beach, future reflections of the older men who are playing with them now, and I wonder…..how do my children feel about their *not so long ago* childhoods? Just the other day my daughter declared that she does not think she like’s being an adult and I felt a sense of relief after hearing that.

I’ve been wondering lately if my children missed that they didn’t have parents who “played” with them. Sure, we had fun from time to time, but most of what I remember was tinged by stress, those foreboding feelings that always existed for me as an adult. If I could go back and rewrite any part of my life and theirs, this is the part I would rewrite….the childhood of my children. I would go back and try to have more fun with them, not letting those adult stresses that I felt so acutely in the past, impact on them, or at least trying not too. Yet given the fact that my daughter would like to go back to her childhood, maybe my stress didn’t affect her or her brother as much as I fear that it did.

Do my children remember their childhoods with fondness? Perhaps they do. Erin could not wait to grow up and become an adult and do the things that adults get to do. And here is she, now an adult, wishing to be a child again.

I’m hoping to be in a position to one day have fun with my children, even if they are grown. To do some of the things I would like to have done with them when they were young, but that for reasons beyond my control and theirs, we did not. To one day be able to take them on a great vacation and have fun with them, free of the worry about what shoe might possibly drop next.

Erin’s desire to go back to that place and time gives me hope that both she and her brother did have childhoods that they will cherish as they grow older. Maybe it’s the *mother guilt* that I suffer periodically from that colors my perception of what their childhood was like?

For now I’m just going to enjoy watching these young men playing with their children and hope that one day, my adult children will be on a beach somewhere, playing with theirs, and that their children…my grandchildren, will have a grandmother who has learned how to laugh and have fun and play. (Let me just add here though, I am not in any rush to become a grandmother!)

Stop messing with our staute!

In today’s New York Times there was a story about a church in Tennessee that took it upon themselves to remake Lady Liberty….you know, *The Statue of Liberty.* I understand the concept of this being a free country and people are at *liberty* to express themselves as they wish, as long as they aren’t endangering others that is, but this make over is just WRONG and I doubt that the Ms. Liberty would appreciate what they’ve done to her one bit. Jane and I certainly don’t.

“As the congregation of the World Overcomers Outreach Ministries Church looked on and its pastor, Apostle Alton R. Williams, presided, a brown shroud much like a burqa was pulled away to reveal a giant statue of the Lady, but with the Ten Commandments under one arm and "Jehovah" inscribed on her crown.

And in place of a torch, she held aloft a large gold cross, as if to ward off the pawnshops, the car dealerships and the discount furniture outlets at the busy corner of Kirby Parkway and Winchester that is her home.” (July 5, 2006, NY Times, Shaila Dewan)

Jane is a New Yorker who through no fault of her own, has had to relocate to Tennessee. To the Memphis area of Tennessee which is where Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi and Tennessee meet. For Northerner’s this part of Tennessee is a forbidding place to live. For months now, Jane has sent all of her friend’s horrifically humorous emails about what living in that part of the country is like. I sent her the NY Times article this morning to see what she thought and found out that this particular version of the lady, is five minutes from her house and her husband drives by it every day on his way to work. Needless to say, she is less than pleased.

As New Yorker’s I think we have a special affinity for the Statue of Liberty, after all she does live in New York. Collectively we have become very protective of our landmark statuary and very possessive of it all. I also believe that after 9/11 we became bigger New Yorker’s (if that’s possible). I often wonder if that has any bearing on this huge desire I have to move to the city. That I can’t truly feel like a New Yorker unless I have actually lived in NYC. Jane is a big New Yorker who for now, lives in Tennessee. Here are her thoughts on the recent make over and what it’s like to live in the Bible Belt. Keep in mind please that Jane is a very religious woman, much more so than me:

Given further thought...I have some observations about the "Bible Belt".

Living in the Bible Belt seems to give people license to create new religious sects that single out certain people either for an "Up" elevator ride or a treacherous "Down" trip upon their demise. Proximity to "The Belt" allows you to express very twisted, prejudiced and in many cases outlawed ideals by which society should abide.
Perhaps my affinity to Lady Liberty as she stands was reinforced the day I cried for our lost friends and feared that some unknown, perverse enemy might fly a plane into her next. To mutate her for religious cult purposes seems obscene.
We sat at dinner with a lovely couple we met last year. They never appeared to be substance abusers or in any other way criminal. All of the sudden, in the middle of a sentence, the gentleman took his beer (the only beer he had all night) and tucked it behind the salsa and chips in the middle of the table. He hastily explained that their pastor had just walked into the restaurant and if he wanted to be allowed to volunteer for any groups in the church, he'd better not be seen drinking. And I thought "Or cavorting with sorts like us!!". He explained that Southern Baptists only drink in their homes so as not to be found out by their co-congregants. There are a bunch of restaurants down here with little sectioned off rooms for privacy. I thought it was for the old Southern gentleman's discretion with his mistresses (which is probably also true), but our friend explained that the little booths were designed so that your neighbors couldn't see you imbibe. The rooms are still very much in use.
One of my male friends from work (another director) made several rude jokes and comments about homosexuals while in my company during our training in Chicago. I said to him at one point that I found the jokes unfunny and that we had left a church in Memphis due to anti-homosexual remarks made during a sermon. It took him 4 months to tell me that he is gay; he was afraid if anyone knew they would ostracize him. He acted in a self-hating way because of the sick, antiquated ways of the South. I found that so painful. If I was him, I would get in my car and drive North or West or East...I don't know-anywhere but here.
I hate that so many down here truly believe that they have more rights, deserve better access to services and luxuries... freedom to speak their minds (no matter how narrow they are) based on the color of their skin. And it's the same color as my skin and I am embarrassed by that.
So, these are some of the serious reasons I would like to leave this area someday soon. I have met people from Georgia, SC, NC and Oklahoma. They all feel the same way, as though we are caught in some kind of time warp. Memphis as Time Warp....sounds feasible. Even people from Nashville claim a different mind set entirely. We are in the vacuum that is Arkansas, Alabama, Mississippi. Places where time stands still.
Beam me up, Scotty!!
-Jane

The Meaning of Peace

Someone sent me this in an email. It hangs on the bulletin board in my office so that I can glance over at it, and remind myself that yes, despite how overwhelmed I feel at times, I really do feel peaceful.

There was once a King who offered a prize to the artist who could paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two that he really liked, and he had to choose between them.

One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for the peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.

The second picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, and in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.

But when the King looked, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest…..a perfect picture of peace.

Which of the pictures won the prize?

The King chose the second picture.

Do you know why?

“Because,” explained the King, “peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace.”

That is the REAL meaning of peace.

-Author Unknown

Red Corvettes and Yard Sales

This is my third "guest column" as published in the Long Island Advance on June 22,2006.

“IHD2HVIT” was what was written on the license plate of the red Corvette that pulled out of the 7-Eleven parking lot in front of me. It took me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it meant, and when I did, I laughed out loud and thought to myself, “how very creative.” While riding down Roe Boulevard behind the “I had to have it” guy, I continued to smile and decided he would be my act of bravery for this day.

Recently a new friend suggested to me that in order to continue down this path I’m on; there are some things I need to do, with becoming fearless in the forefront. Although much braver than I have ever been, I’m still nurturing this trait that in some ways is so foreign to me, yet in other ways, not. My friend suggested that I could either ask myself in certain situations throughout my day, “What I would do if I were not afraid,” or I could actually do one brave thing every day. I haven’t actually done one brave thing every day, but on the days that I haven’t, I do ask myself that question.

My act of bravery for this day was to pull up next to the man in the red corvette, lean out of my car window and compliment him on his license plate, telling him that it made me laugh. I should also have thanked him for giving me something to write about, but at that time had no idea he’d be making an appearance in this piece of writing.

I am much more comfortable initially being an observer, a watcher… prior to opening my mouth to express an opinion. I like to have a sense of who people are and where they’re coming from before I reveal myself. But, certainly there’s no reason to hold back complimenting someone on an item such as an amusing license plate, or a cute dog they might be walking, or in my case a really nice pair of shoes or a bag they’re carrying. My friend Nina will chat with anyone, on any line, at any time, and by the time she’s done paying for her purchases, will know all kinds of things about them. I have not completely developed this skill, and I’m working on it as a means to change old patterns. And although sometimes just a little stressful, it’s very exciting as well.

The same friend who suggested that I might want to try being brave on a daily basis, also recommended that I clean out my closet. Somehow, at least in my mind, these two ideas go hand in hand. She said that I should get rid of anything in my closet that is no longer “me,” regardless of what it is, or how much it may have cost, and to wear what I want to wear, no matter what anyone else may think or say. This would have been my sister’s philosophy as well, so I’ve decided to adopt it and think that I may very well shop for that black tulle skirt and combat boots, an act of a woman not afraid to be who she really is. Maybe they won’t be items of clothing to wear to work, but I would certainly wear them to lunch in Chelsea.

Also in that closet are many, many boxes filled with items from my old life. For some time now, I’ve been thinking that I needed to go through them as I cannot possibly take all that’s in them, to a small apartment somewhere. The other reality though, is that so many of those items in those boxes, no longer “fit me,” physically or emotionally.

So, I’m going to continue to compliment creative men in red corvettes, women who have their own sense of style and don’t care what others think, and practice chit-chatting while waiting on lines. I’m also planning a really big yard sale in July in order to finally divest myself of all those items that are no longer me. And, if I see the man in the “IHD2HVIT” red Corvette tooling around town, I might just have to beep my horn and wave at him.

One year ago..it began

I started this blog one year ago today. And, I'm still here. I've looked back at this past year of writing and realized just how much I've changed. How much more confident I am about where I'm going and what I'm doing. I'm finding that living my life on the edge is a very cool place to be. I've grown so fond of edges over this past year and have a far greater appreciation for those people in my life, who have them.

Once you start to take the risks, they get easier, and in my case, have become a part of who I am *becoming*. I just joined a writing group, and am looking forward to writing and reading my work, out loud and in public. The idea of possibly reading something I've written, out loud, would so not have been me one year ago, yet now I find myself open to the possibility of doing so. To surrounding myself with others who can appreciate what it's like to have something to say and a huge desire to say it in a more public manner. To be able to say, "Hey...here I am. Listen up....please read me."

I can look back on this year's worth of writing and see how I've grown and how happy I've become. I am jazzed about my life and about all the possibilities that still remain. I love all of you, my old friends........those of you who read me and cheer me on and who have so many times dried my tears and called me to make sure I've left the house once in a while, or fixed me tea. And now I add all the new friends I've made over this past year, those of you I'm still getting to know and whose potential I see, even if you may not see it in yourselves or have reached it yet. I adore each and every one of you, old and new....and hold you all, close to my heart.

And my children, who know nothing of this blog filled with writing....maybe this will be the year I share it with them. They, who have become so supportive of me and who I am hoping have come to the understanding that I was not abandoning them, but trying to save myself. And that by saving myself, I will always be here to catch them if they fall. Dramatic..yes, I know. But, that's who I am....I am dramatic. I have lived my entire adult life, not being who I was meant to be.....I was the person who never made waves, never expressed an opinion, never felt as if she really existed.....that person is gone now, she exists in memory only....how wonderful it is to be free! And, yes.......it is....dramatic!
~Susan~

Memorial Day 2006

Although very small compared to the protests of the 60’s and 70’s, peace groups have sprung up all over Long Island, as well as all over the country since the beginning of the war in Iraq. One hour before dusk on the last Sunday of each month, those riding through the four corners of Patchogue will find members of Pax Christi, South Country Peace Group and Women in Black, standing vigil. For two and a half years they’ve stood on this corner, holding signs among lighted candles and reading the names aloud of all who have died as a result of this war. And on this night before the national celebration of Memorial Day, with its waving flags and marching bands, they are a much more poignant reminder of why we honor those who have died in the service of this country. Through the reading of those names, these people standing here on this one small corner of America..... as evening turned to night; remembered in a much more concrete way, than the most of us ever will.

For many of us, *war* is just a word. For those who have lost someone they knew or loved, or who have never been the same since *coming home*, it has a far different meaning.

New adventures in food....

You know, I'm living my life on the edge these days. Or probably pretty close to the edge. Here is a helpful hint when dining out with new people, and in places that are sooo not suburban. When the menu says "pan seared tuna," that does not mean it's cooked. It really means that it's more sushi-like, than not. I also had edamome (which I am sure I have not spelled correctly). Edamome sort of look like a bigger version of snow peas. They arrive at your table steamed with some salt on them and you suck the soy beans (cause that's what they are) out of the shell. Another food adventure yesterday included a piece of fried calamari...can you imagine that? And I think I should learn to use chop sticks. Having the basic idea, is just not enough. I will need to practice with everything I eat from now on...it's going to take me a while to perfect that technique. (Can real sushi be far behind?)

Once upon a time....

.....in a lifetime far, far away, someone saw me and "saved me from myself." The song lyrics below are very special to me. It's as if they could have been written about me. How grateful I am that someone saw me then.

Yes, I know this is cryptic and someday maybe I'll write the story about it, but for now it will remain inside of me, still tangible and bittersweet, and slowly fading into the past. Yet when I hear this song on the radio, I can't help find myself back in that place and time, remembering what it felt like to have someone who had the capacity to see who I really was. To be seen for the first time was such a profound experience. Oh, I'm seen now....there is no hiding.... no..... *not being who I really am*. Maybe it was a question of finally finding someone who not only saw who I was, but who woke me up and gave me the ability to see her as well.

bring me to life

how can you see into my eyes like open doors
leading you down into my core
where i've become so numb without a soul my spirit sleeping somewhere cold
until you find it there and lead it back home

wake me up inside
wake me up inside
call my name and save me from the dark
bid my blood to run
before i come undone
save me from this dark nothing i've become

now that i know what i'm without
you can't just leave me
breathe into me and make me real
bring me to life

wake me up inside
wake me up inside
call my name and save me from the dark
bid my blood to run
before i come undone
save me from this nothing i've become
bring me to life

frozen inside without your touch, without your love darling only you are the life among the dead

all this time i can't believe i couldn't see
kept in the dark but you were there in front of me
i've been sleeping a thousand years it seems
got to open my eyes to everything
without a thought without a voice without a soul
don't let me die here
there must be something more
bring me to life

by Evanescence
Copywrite 2003 Wind-Up Records

Title of the Book

So…today three people who I did not know, but ran into through the course of the day, wanted to know the title of the book I wrote about in my second column. How absolutely cool is it that people other then my friends and family actually read that piece?!

People that I… do…not…know…read the column! And really liked it. WOW.
The title of the book I refer to is “Dancing Naked at the Edge of Dawn,” by Kris Radish. For those people needing or wanting to get a new life, it’s the perfect start to being able to picture yourself in a different light.

Living Outside My Box

This is the second of my two guest appearances filling in for Brian Curry in the Long Island Advance. I'm hopeful that there will be others.

My life over the past year has been one of risk taking. It’s been a process of finding out who the woman is that’s buried deep inside of me, just screaming to get out. Well, maybe she’s not screaming, but she’s knocking very loudly for me to open the door.

Last summer I read a great book that had a significant impact on my view of life. I could not resist the temptation to break out the yellow highlighter, normally reserved for text books, and turn lines and paragraphs of that book iridescent yellow. It was a story told about a middle aged woman who one day finds herself in the position of having to get a new life. Wow, how familiar did that sound?

While sitting around reading with yellow highlighter in hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to hang out with this woman. And as I read, the realization hit that I didn’t have to go looking. I was this woman, that somewhere inside of me, she already existed. I just had to figure out how to open the door and let her out. It also made me realize that I did not have to limit myself to the box I was living my life in. That there is an entire world outside of my comfort zone and I needed to go and find it.

I’m a planner, which also leads to a tendency to over think things. I’ve discovered that if you want to be a risk taker, sometimes you just have to “do,” instead of think and plan, and then think some more, to the point where you have “thought” yourself out of doing whatever it was you wanted to do. Planning is not a bad thing and I still do it, but I don’t “think” myself out of things anymore. If my intuition feels right, my new policy is to just forge ahead.

For me, the gradual method of risk taking works best. I’ve spent this past year looking for activities that are of interest to me, but yet are things that I have no experience with and have hesitated to do on my own. Taking the train to New York City alone and making my way about using the subways and buses was a huge undertaking, as was my recent field trip to City Island, which required me to drive over a very large bridge, also alone. Sure, sometimes I get turned around and a little lost in the city, but I keep managing to find my way back to Penn Station, and as it turned out, driving over the bridge was a breeze and not one of the many car dilemmas I have feared for so long came to pass.

Writing as a freelancer for this newspaper is yet another example of doing something risky. Encouraged by a friend to write for someone other than myself, when I saw the ad for a freelance reporter I applied, even though I had not one shred of experience with news reporting. So often we limit ourselves by never taking chances and risks and in no way, taking the smallest step outside of our boxes. It was a big risk to step outside my comfort zone in such a public manner, but has turned out to be great fun and has been a wonderful new experience.

So far, all these steps outside of my box seem to have worked out. I now travel to and from the city by myself without giving it a second though. My drive over the Throgs Neck bridge gave me the confidence to believe that I can now drive myself anywhere, and here I am for a second week, writing in “Brian’s box.”

The most valuable lesson that I’ve learned over the past year is that I can dream big, but without an ability to take chances and risks, that’s all they’ll ever be, dreams. It’s not easy to live outside the box, but so far it’s been well worth the effort, and it gets easier with each passing day. Many small steps later, I have left the box I use to live in. It’s so far behind me now that it’s no longer visible.

Stepping into My Space

The other night, instead of doing homework, I took a tentative step into the world of “My Space.” It wasn’t tentative for very long though. In a matter of minutes I was hooked. Just the idea that I might actually have a blog on a website that did not require me to know HTML (Hyper Text Markup Language, or language of the World Wide Web…..which I have recently learned about in my Computer Applications book, but cannot read, write, nor speak), was exciting.

I joined My Space last September when my son’s band, New Piracy, put their website on there. I joined so that I could comment to them, but then never did. The login process was easy once I remembered what my password was, or rather, tried a few of them until I hit upon the right one. And there it was…..a blank profile page, just waiting for me to fill it out. All I need is a profile form asking me questions about myself, and I seem not to be able to shut up. Actually I think I did a pretty good job of describing myself and what I wanted from my, My Space experience. (I secretly love to fill out forms and am usually very thoughtful and thorough. However, in one portion I was just a little too detailed.)

My daughter came over with the digital camera and we took pictures. Since I’m going to be a guest columnist in the Long Island Advance for two weeks, my editor thought a picture to run with the columns would be a good idea, which was the reason for the picture taking. Not one who really enjoys having my picture taken, I figured if it was OK, I might be able to use it for any number of reasons….to run with the column, to finally post on this blog and on My Space, and to use for online dating…should I ever choose to get back on that Merry-Go-Round. Apparently though, there are many people on My Space just for that reason, the Merry-Go-Round ride. And I had slipped up and clicked on “Serious Relationship,” along with “Friendship” and “Networking.” Big mistake….

I had no idea men were really going to try and be my “friend!" There was one who lives in Denver, one in Florida, and a few more, mostly from the Bible Belt. Most were “Christian, God-fearing men, looking for a good woman.”

“OMG…have they not read what I wrote,” I asked myself?

“Do I sound like some chick who wants a God fearing man to take care of her?” I think not, and besides….who wants to “fear God,” not me.

Three earrings in each ear and purple polish on my toes should speak volumes about me….and how did they miss the part about me wanting to move to Brooklyn, Queens or Manhattan?

“They cannot read…that must be the answer,” I though.

Please believe that truly, I am not making fun, or being mean. I’m sure they are lovely men and hopefully they will find a “good woman” to hang out with, but that would not be me. Being a bit of a Goth woman (this would be a good place for me to insert a link back to “She Wants to be a Goth Girl….maybe one day soon), a geek and loving rock concert-going, my attraction is for the verbal, well-written, smart geeky men, or the verbal, well-written, smart rocker guys. I’m not into bowling, hunting, or fly-fishing, nor am I looking for someone to take care of me….in my opinion, that should be a mutual endeavor. Plus those of us born and raised in a Blue State do not transplant well into the Red ones…my friend Jane can attest to that.

I have now un-clicked Serious Relationship on My Space. It’s not that I don’t want to eventually have one; I just want it to be with someone who has read and actually heard what my profile has to say.

I will continue with my Computer Applications class in the hope of learning a little more about how to personalize this particular blog. I have managed to insert my picture into this profile and all it really took, was an ability to read and follow directions. Links cannot be far behind. In the mean time, feel free to check out www.myspace.com/crazygoogrl. That particular space really does rock. There are family photos, music and the start of some writing. I’ll probably post a few things on there that will also be here, but this particular space is still my favorite….and I’m confident that one day it may even look the way I see it in my head.

Writing life

Tomorrow I'll be a guest columnist for Brian Curry in the Long Island Advance. I'll be published for the first time having written something *in my own voice.* No, it's not Newsday or the New York Times, but who knows.....it's a place to start.

Writing is all about just that, writing and then rewriting, and rewriting again, often times discovering that no matter how many times you’ve printed and read you still sometimes have a stray typo. Or rewriting to the point that the original idea, or piece you started out writing, has become something very different from what you expected it to be.

Life is sort of like writing. You start out going in one direction, and then at some point in time you’ve found that you’re either completely lost and have no idea where you are, or that despite the wrong turn you took three, or five or ten years ago, you’ve somehow managed to end up somewhere cool anyway. Life is like writing in the sense that there are things you can change, or do differently, in order to affect the outcome of the story. You just have to be brave enough to do them. To risk rewriting a story that is not going in a direction you intended, or expected, or wanted.

I’m not really sure how novelists do it. Do they see the whole picture in their heads and write their way to the end? Or, do they just sit down and start writing, hoping the story will end up somewhere? The nice thing about writing is if you don’t like the direction you’re taking; you can throw the piece away, or hit the delete key and start over. Life is a little more difficult to rewrite though. It takes effort and can be dramatic and heart breaking, yet often times, the rewards can be great.

I’m spending a lot of time rewriting these days, articles, essays, term papers and my life. The rewriting on paper, or in my case, on a computer is much easier than the rewriting of my life. Changing the outcome of a life story is much harder than catching those annoying typos, or eliminating a line or a paragraph that just is not working. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing. It is worth taking the risks and chances that are necessary to write a great article, or essay, or book, or even a life.

No, I can’t hit the delete key, or go back and erase, nor actually would I even want to, but I can choose to take my life story in a different direction. I can keep some of the old characters and many of the story lines, add some new ones, and not continue to develop others. Sometimes writers block gets in the way, which is where trips to the gym help, as are reminders to do things like breathe. But, despite the stumbling and writer’s blocks, I am writing myself into a new life story that I could never have imagined before. Just look at where this piece of writing ended up. I have just written a guest column for Brian Curry. I’ve somehow managed to write myself here, so I guess I’ll just keep going. I’ve always just taken life as it comes and never really given any thought to the direction my story was heading. Now, I’m visualizing what I want it to look like and will write my story in that direction. Sure in life, as in writing, there will be stray typos and deleted lines and paragraphs along the way, but it’s all about the rewriting anyway.

The World Community Grid

“World Community Grid's mission is to create the largest public computing grid benefiting humanity. Our work is built on the belief that technological innovation combined with visionary scientific research and large-scale volunteerism can change our world for the better. Our success depends on individuals - like you - collectively contributing their unused computer time to this not-for-profit endeavor.” -World Community Grid Website

The above is a very, very cool idea. I was hesitant to participate, of course always being afraid to download anything onto my computer, especially something that will somehow, do things with my computer when I’m not looking. But, I decided what the heck….live dangerously and maybe even help humanity out while doing so. I downloaded the program a few nights ago and am now completely fascinated with this whole process. I check the points I’ve earned and I become engrossed watching the screen saver-like box travel slowly around my computer monitor. Of course I have no idea what exactly I’m looking at, but it really doesn’t matter…researchers know what it all means, so that's what counts. What I really want is to start a “group,” or join a group, but for now I can be happy to just have my single little laptop computer, hooked into this huge worldwide community grid..... helping to solve complex problems that could effect us all. It's globalization at its best.

Visit the website. Think about joining. It’s easy. Believe me, if I can do it, anyone can do it.

www.worldcommunitygrid.org

Life, Dreams, Realities, Choice, Happiness and Sailing

"Let us think of Life as a process of choices, one after another... at each point there is a progression choice, and a regression choice. There may be a movement toward defense, toward safety, toward being afraid; but over on the other side, there is the growth choice.
"To make the growth choice, instead of the fear choice, a dozen times a day, is to move a dozen times a day toward self-actualization."
ABRAHAM MASLOW


"To have dreams is the first step toward making them realities. Once you have squared yourself with your past, approved of yourself, and committed to seeking self-fulfillment, next allow yourself to dream. Chart your course. Envision yourself achieving those dreams. Once you have dared to dream, I believe you MUST pursue that dream. If you do not pursue your dreams they will consume you; the knowledge that you had a dream but did not pursue it is killing knowledge. Consider it absolutely necessary to go after your dreams." - Les Brown, Best Selling Author, Life Your Dreams


"If you step back for a moment and witness the choices you are making as you make those choices, then in just this act of witnessing, you take the whole process from the unconscious realm into the conscious realm. This procedure of conscious choice making and witnessing is very empowering. When you make any choice - any choice at all - you can ask yourself two things: First of all, 'What are the consequences of this choice that I'm making?' In your heart you will immediately know what these are. Secondly, 'Will this choice that I'm making now bring happiness to me and to those around me?' If the answer is yes, then go ahead with that choice. If the answer is no, if that choice brings distress either to you or to those around you, then don't make that choice. It's as simple as that." - Deepak Chopra, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success, Best Selling Author


Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
-Mark Twain

The Women In Black

Yesterday while in Bellport doing an interview, I heard that the Women In Black were going to leave their corner. The one they've been standing on since the war in Iraq began. I first met them last summer when I stumbled upon them after covering a regatta for The Long Island Advance and wrote a story about them for the paper. I have no idea if the story I wrote about them yesterday will make the Advance, but my editor has been very good about letting me find my own stories.... so, I'm hopeful. I took some great pictures of them too, but as stated many times previously, my lack of ability to do things like post pictures can be a hindrance at times. Below is the story that I'm hoping will make this weeks issue:

Women In Black, Standing for Three Years
3/18/06

For three years, the Women In Black have been standing each Saturday morning on the corner of South Country Road and Station Road in the Village of Bellport, silently protesting the war in Iraq. This past Saturday marked the third anniversary of the beginning of the war and on this day, as all the other Saturday’s, the Women In Black stood. They have stood in spring rains, in the heat of the summer sun as it baked the concrete sidewalk, in the windswept fall as leaves blew all around them, and continued on into the winter months bundled up to ward off the cold. For three years they have stood on this corner with their signs asking for peace.

On this particular Saturday, the Women In Black were joined by members of the South Country Peace Group and Pax Christi as they left their corner and silently walked single file across the street and down the sidewalk to the Bellport Fire House. Crossing the street again, they made their way back to Station and South Country Roads where they again took up their vigil.

Eve Sokol, a founding member of this particular Woman in Black group said about leaving the corner, “We are so stressed that this illegal war has gone on for three years that we wanted to raise the consciousness of as many people as possible.” She said, “It’s our constitutional right to be here,” and added “We didn’t disrupt traffic and crossed at all the corners,” when talking about the short protest walk that the group took. It was clear that they made sure to follow all the rules when venturing off of the spot they have stood on for the past three years.

Women In Black is not a formal organization, but an international peace network that was started in Israel in 1988 by women protesting the war against Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. Since 1993 Women In Black New York have been standing in silent vigil in protest of war and in support of other peace groups throughout the world.

For more information on the Women In Black you can visit http://www.womeninblack.org/ or http://www.womeninblack.net/

It's All About the Wine....

OMG…it was such a crap week! Especially toward the end. Not wanting to go into the details here, let me just say that as I write this, two bottles of wine are sitting on my computer desk next to me, while I listen to the hot bath water as it runs into the tub that is now filling with lavender scented bubbles.

Yes, it was an awful week. One in which I could almost not breathe from the anxiety of it all. Possibly the wine will cure that though. Not being much of a wine drinker, I have difficulty choosing what to buy. I’ve decided to stay away from the box kind of wine, ever since the date I went on early last spring with the guy who was a wine connoisseur. Sitting across a table from a man who had his napkin tucked into his collar, and was interrogating the waiter as to exactly what time that day that particular bottle of wine was opened, then asking to have a new bottle opened, I found sort of humorous. I had to control my impulse to laugh when thinking “hmmm…at my house you’d probably get wine from a box,” and imagined the look of complete and utter horror on his face at the thought of that. It was at that time I decided to maybe avoid buying the box kind of wine though …just in case a wine connoisseur that I actually liked appeared at some future point in time.

So, there I was in the liquor store, a place that I am almost completely unfamiliar with. As I walked up and down the aisles becoming more and more confused, I decided I needed to narrow my search. Since becoming much more health conscious, I thought if I was going to drink, it should at least be healthy wine…therefore red could be the only choice. Since life is about compromise, I would compromise taste, preferring white, but choosing red.

There is actually one red wine that I have bought from time to time, Pindar Sweet Scarlet. Originally I bought it because the word “sweet” was on the label and I love anything sweet. As it turned out, it wasn’t a bad choice, and I wondered what the wine connoisseurs would think of it. The description on the label read as follows: “A kinder and gentler red – semi-dry (good thing, because I hate “dry”), with rich fruit flavors. Probably too simple a wine for his tastes I imagine.

The second bottle I bought was Yellow Tail, Shiraz-Cabernet. Now, this wine came with quite a description. “This classic Australian blend of Shiraz-Cabernet Sauvignon leaps (my italics, not theirs) from the glass displaying rich plum, cassis and raspberry aromas. Subtle mint and chocolate notes are complemented by vanillin oak. The pallet is bursting (my italics again) with red berry flavors and soft rounded tannins. This wonderful wine is perfect for bacon wrapped lamb fillets with pesto.” Yes…but is it the perfect compliment for the Nestlé’s foil wrapped, Butterfinger Chocolate Easter Eggs I will be unwrapping to have with it? The only logical choice to accompany the wine for me, especially at a non-dinner hour, would be the chocolate Easter eggs. (We all know the reason I bought this wine was because the word “chocolate” was on the label, right?) And besides, vegetarians do not eat bacon wrapped lamb fillets (although if I were not a vegetarian, just the sound of “bacon wrapped lamb fillets,” might make my mouth water.)

The next thing to do in my quest to relax was to actually open the bottle of wine and have something other than a coffee mug to pour it in. Since I already knew what the Sweet Scarlet tasted like, I opted for the Shiraz. I located a cork screw in one of the kitchen drawers that also had a hammer, a box of electrical staples, some duct tape, a few rubber bands and an aquarium fish net in it. In this “guy house” that I live in, it’s not always easy to find things in the places you might logically expect to find them. I did however manage to find a wine glass, so as not to have to pour the wine into a Christmas coffee mug.

As I soaked in the lavender scented bath tub, I looked at the deep burgundy color of the wine in the wine glass as it sat on the edge of the tub, and was reflected against the white tile of the bathroom floor. Beads of water from my wet hand had collected on the glass, forming little tiny pools at its base. Lifting the glass to my lips and taking a sip, I held the warm liquid in my mouth, trying to taste all the subtle flavors as described on the label. Did I taste mint? Maybe. Did I taste “red berry flavors and soft rounded tannins?” Nope. I’m not really sure exactly what a “tannin” is, let alone be able to recognize what one tastes like.

Wine is obviously not my forte’. If you wanted me to tell you the difference between Diet Coke, and Diet Pepsi, I could. Or how about the difference between the three major brands of artificial sweeteners…the pink, the blue and the yellow? I’ll bet I could do that too, but wine, I don’t think so. I don’t like it enough to really care. I’ll probably never own a wine rack (besides, if I end up in an apartment the size of a closet, there won’t be room for one), nor have more than two bottles on hand at any given time. But that’s OK; I can live without being a wine connoisseur.

For now, I can breathe again. My trip to the gym earlier this evening, the glass of wine, the chocolate Easter eggs, the lavender scented bath and powder afterward….. all did the trick. I am relaxed and feeling very mellow. Possibly it’s time to lay in bed and practice Zen Meditation, trying to clear my mind of every thought….I think the wine might actually help me perfect this technique. That in itself might be a valid reason to actually become a wine drinker, even though I’m still not crazy about the taste. Just how bad is white wine for you anyway? Maybe I should consider that flavor next.

Who wrote that very lovely description on the Shiraz label I wonder? Reading those words was better for me, than actually drinking the wine. It always amazes me the power that “words” have, and I so easily get sucked in by them, on book jackets, in personal ads…….. or on wine bottles.

My Bedroom Window

The window in my bedroom, the only room that is really mine in this house that I live in, is of medium size as normal windows go. It faces the south, so most of the day the sun shines through it. It’s nice to have the sun shinning in my room during the day in the winter. I think it’s nice to have the sun shinning anywhere in the winter

This is an attic bedroom, so the window actually goes almost from the floor, to not far from the top of the ceiling, as it becomes the eave of the roof. It was built into a wall that comes to a point at the top and in which it is perfectly positioned. Because of the size of the window and how it’s situated... directly across from my bed, there is a white mini blind that covers it; closed at night, open during the day. There is also a lovely curtain, of the valance variety, hanging on a curtain rod from the top of it. It’s made of a sheer white material that is sort of a V shape, the lowest point of the V hanging just in the center of the window. A trim of clear beads about two inches long each, hang down from the edge and sparkle as the sun touches them. Seeing the sun glint off the edge of this curtain is my favorite part of living in this bedroom.

Hanging down from the left hand side of the window, in a long vertical line from the curtain rod, is a string of shells tied together on fishing line. I strung these shells together years and years ago on a day spent at a friend’s beach house. For maybe 20 years this sting of shells hung from my kitchen curtain rod in the house I use to live in. Now they hang from my bedroom curtain rod and will hopefully hang from yet another one, in another place, at some other time in my future. I love this string of sea shells. They remind me of the summer, of the beach and the ocean, and how wonderful it is to sit by it, close your eyes and listen to the surf as it rolls onto shore and to smell the scent of the ocean salt in the air.

Also hanging from this curtain rod is floral swag of green leaves and a few large, very really looking, white roses. I hate those tacky plastic floral pieces… The flowers start out hanging down from the left side of the window, along the edge of the frame and are hooked to the top left hand side of the curtain rod with a Christmas ornament hanger. They then follow the direction of the curtain with the lowest point midway between the bottom of the curtain and the rod, the other side hooked in the same manner along the right side of the window frame. Twined through the flowers is a small set of white lights that I light when I feel happy, or sad, or just for no reason at all. Sometimes I light them just because I like them and they make me feel good, and because I really do like things that sparkle.

A pretty wreath of pink, blue and white hydrangeas with green leaves, hangs between the top of the window frame, and the top of the wall, which is actually one of the many ceiling peaks in this attic room. It’s a good thing that I’m not overly tall for a woman, as I do tend to occasionally (when not paying attention) bump my head on one or two of the funky ceiling peaks.

I have managed to fix one window in my life exactly the way I want it to be. It’s calming to look at and is really not overly *girly*, despite my description of white lights, beads and flowers. Sitting in my bed and looking at this lovely window, in the middle of the Robin’s Egg Blue wall, makes me feel encouraged. I do however, often wonder where the other windows in my life will be located though, but figure I’ll find them eventually.

Now if I had a digital camera, I would take a picture of this one window and post it with this piece of writing. But I don’t, so hopefully I have described it in enough detail that those of you who read this might actually be able to see it as I do….

Those damn doors again.....

Once again, I have come across words of wisdom on the Internet. I wish I could remember where I found these though.....

"Don't spend so much time looking behind you at the closed door, that you don't see the ones that are opening in front of you."

I'm not looking at the closed door. Yet, I do still have trouble seeing the opening ones...I know they're there, I can sort of feel them....I just can't see them yet. That would be because I'm still making my way through the hallway in between....I still dislike this hallway, but at least I'm not hating it anymore.

"Ever The Same"

This song speaks to me. I want to have this one day. Do you think it’s asking too much?

"Ever The Same"
By Rob Thomas

We were drawn from the weeds
We were brave like soldiers
Falling down under the pale moonlight
You were holding to me
Like a someone broken
And I couldn't tell you but I'm telling you now
Just let me hold you while you're falling apart
Just let me hold you and we'll both fall down

Fall on me
Tell me everything you want me to be
Forever with you forever in me
Ever the same

We would stand in the wind
We were free like water
Flowing down
Under the warmth of the sun
Now it's cold and we're scared
And we've both been shaken
Hey, look at usMan, this doesn't need to be the end
Just let me hold you while you're falling apart
Just let me hold you and we'll both fall down

Fall on me tell me everything you want me to be
Forever with you
Forever in me
Ever the same

Call on me
I'll be there for you and you'll be there for me
Forever it's you
Forever in me
Ever the same

You may need me there
To carry all your weight
But you're no burden
I assure
You tide me over
With a warmth I'll not forget
But I can only give you love

Fall on me
Tell me everything you want me to be
Forever with you
Forever in me
Ever the same

Call on meI'll be there for you and you'll be there for me
Forever it's you
Forever in me
Ever the same
Forever with you
Forever in me
Ever the same(Ever the same)

Nope. I don't think this is asking too much and this is what I'm going to aim to have. After all, my dreams are really big, but hopefully not unrealistic. (I do wish I could write like this though...)

Passion, Newsletters and Taking Risks

I’ve never considered myself a big risk taker. With that said though, I guess my whole entire life at this moment, and for well over the past year has been one big gamble.

I’m big on getting self-help info. AOL sends me a newsletter on all kinds of motivational stuff. Today’s was about taking risks in order to find things you’re passionate about. For the first time in years, I feel passionate about my life, maybe too passionate, which I think is what causes me no small amount of stress on certain occasions. Unfortunately, I don’t feel the same passion in my work. I love what I do; it’s valuable and makes a difference in people’s lives. Sadly, working in the not-for-profit world does not bode well for being able to afford a place to live. I love the people and place that I work, but it’s not creative enough for me and it’s no longer in the sort of environment that I crave…..

Here are some of the things that I learned from the AOL article:

Passion is “what’s important to your soul.”

“You have to feel your way to finding your passion.” In other words, it’s not good to over think it. (Very hard for those of us who have made *over thinking* into a championship sport.)

“Focus on the things that you fantasize about doing.” (I’m pretty focused; I just wish I knew how I was going to do them. Where is that darn Crystal Ball when you need it??)

“At some point you want to stop dreaming about it, and give it a shot.” (OK….I can do that.)

“Take a step forward. Recognize that you only need to take a tiny step.” (This is hard for me….I want to take the steps in leaps and bounds…all the while, being scared to death.)

When I got to work today I found that someone had installed Microsoft Publisher on my computer. A few days ago, the Director of Program Operations asked me if I might like to take over the agency newsletter. My freelance writing for The Advance, the rebuttal letter I wrote to the Riverhead News Review, who wrote a story about group homes for the developmentally disabled and had a nasty quote in it from some nasty man about group homes (opps….this is becoming a rant), and my article for the agency newsletter about Service Coordination (take a breath), he thinks somehow qualify me to put together a newsletter. You all know how not good I am with technology and figuring out this kind of stuff, right? Along with this deal, I would also be able to let go of half my caseload too, which at his point is really kind of appealing to me. But, like anything else where I work, things take time, some times lots of time to actually happen. Sooo, imagine my surprise at finding Publisher in my computer this morning!

Even though I’ll be terrified about publishing the newsletter, I’m going to do it. Hopefully, the current newsletter person will be available to provide technical assistance. (At the moment, I don’t think I’m on his good side….I didn’t let him take my picture to go along with the newsletter article I recently wrote.) When campaign season is over in the Village of Patchogue, maybe I’ll go and apply for some part time, minimum wage job at the local library in order to see what it would be like to work in one, a library that is. That might be the first step on my way up all the others. The steps I’m dreaming about are located on 5th Ave in NYC and have two very large lions sitting at either side of them, or they might possibly be the steps up to the entrance of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, as a museum archivist….who knows? I’ll never know unless I take the first one……but right now, I’m going to take a nap. This is going to be a very long climb.

Zen Meditating, or yet another exercise on Living in the Moment

Tonight I went to Zen Meditation. It was me and four men, none of them of the *eligible variety* I might add. I was just discussing with Joan (my person who helps me try to be sane) tonight, the lack of eligible men in my life. Primarily working with women does not bode well for meeting men and possibly having a date. You would think that with all the stuff I’ve been doing, one would wander my way in the real world, as opposed to the Internet world, but nooo. That would be way too easy.

Despite the lack of eligible men at Zen tonight, it was still pretty cool. I don’t think that my daughter would have enjoyed it, nor my mother. It was just a little too *eastern* for their tastes. Things of this nature appeal to me these days as I seem to be just slightly off center. Which is fine with me…life is so much more interesting when you view it from a different angle. Now that I’ve made it through Christmas and almost to the New Year, I can get back to my normal-abnormal self. ….the self that I still don’t recognize, but who is becoming more and more familiar to me as time passes.

You have to be able to sit still in order to Zen Meditate. After 20 minutes, fidgeting is something that I longed to do. It’s mind over matter though. There’s bowing in the beginning and then the difficult choice of sitting on pillows on the floor, or in a chair with your feet flat on the floor, back straight, hands folded in the *Zen manner*, as if holding the world on your lap. Then there is the recitation of a prayer of sorts, done in chant style, which is just something that I am not good at. I just do not get the whole chanting thing. Possibly if I do this enough times though, the chanting will begin to make sense. After the chanting is over, you must concentrate on looking at the spot you’ve picked out in front of you, feel yourself breath in….and then out…counting 1….then 2…..then 1….then 2…with the idea of not having a thought in your head. Do you have any idea how difficult this is to do?? Each time your mind wanders, and mine wandered a lot, you are supposed to bring yourself back by concentrating on your breathing, and counting, until you are not thinking about anything again. I am NEVER not thinking about anything. Which is probably one of my problems and possibly why Zen Meditation might actually benefit me. It’s all about being in the moment. A theme that shows up throughout this blog from time to time…. if you’ve been paying attention.

I made it through the first 25 minutes of sitting and breathing and trying not to think, and trying not to fidget, and trying not to scratch the itch on my finger, and trying to relax the muscles in my back, and then in my jaw (of all places). I managed it fairly well…managed to continually stop myself from thinking and figured out how to relax my muscles. After 25 minutes, two wooden blocks were slapped together to indicated that we should get up and proceed to follow the Zen leader (I’m sure there’s some special name for him). We walked very slowly out of the room, through the door and out into the main area of the house that doubles as a church. Very slowly, almost like bridesmaids walking down a church isle, we made two circuits of the front foyer and two other attached rooms…this is where my concentration waned….I can never resist reading the titles on books sitting on bookshelves. As we very slowly walked by a floor to ceiling book shelf, I peeked at the titles, glanced at the pictures of sunsets hanging on the walls, saw the baskets with little signs asking for coffee donation money, admired the evergreen and candle centerpiece on the sideboard, the wreath on the door to the restroom and the handmade ornaments on the Christmas tree in the front foyer. I also could not resist looking at the information stuck on bulletin boards, pictures of Martin Luther King Jr., articles about The Women In Black and how their silence speaks louder than words (my article I think), and right smack in the middle of one of those boards, the very large article on the Victorian Tea that I wrote as well. It was a little cool to see my writing on display, but not as cool as having one of the Zen men tell me that he loved the way I wrote.

After the two very slow circuits of the outer rooms, it was back into the main room, for more sitting. By this time I was already writing this piece in my head and had difficulty staying in the moment. I glanced around to see what the other guys were doing, already feeling as if we were buddies. They were much better at the sitting than I was, all of them in the Lotus position, and so very still, except for their breathing. All I could think about was that by then, I would have had pins and needles in my feet, were I sitting in that position. I did however, manage to get myself back into the breathing and clear my mind, even if only for the last minute or two.

All in all, it was an interesting evening and I think I’ll go back. Anything that helps me to focus on being in the moment, even if it is only sporadically, is a good thing to do….and I just love the Unitarian Universalists….but that will be the subject of another blog post. This one is already way to long……..

Don't You Just Love Andy Rooney??

I have no idea if this is fact something that Andy Rooney said, but I do love it. It makes being close to 50 pretty damn cool....

Since I have had no time to write I decided that I'll let Andy speak for me in this post.

Women Over 50 By Andy Rooney - CBS 60 Minutes.

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 50 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:
A woman over 50 will not lay next to you in bed and ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think.

If a woman over 50 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it's usually something more interesting.

A woman over 50 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 50 give a damn what you might think about her or what she's doing.

Women over 50 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.

Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated.

A woman over 50 has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. Women over 50 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 50. They always know.

A woman over 50 looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women or drag queens. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 50 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk or if you are acting like one! You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 50 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman of 50+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 18-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free. Here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why?
Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage.

No Time!!

NO...I have not forgotten about this web blog. I have just been very busy with things like work, school and getting the new life....but I am thinking, writing stuff in my head and jotting ideas down on little scraps of paper.

The Scent of a Bookstore

What is it about the scent of a bookstore that is so appealing for me I wonder? I just love the way bookstores smell and could just go inside to browse, and to take very deep breaths, inhaling the scent of all the written words that exist in them. Maybe it’s because they smell like libraries that I like them so much. From the time I was very young I have also loved libraries. There weren’t too many bookstores around when I was growing up, so when it came to reading books, the library was the place to go.

My siblings and I grew up with a mother who read to us. We would sit on the couch at night next to my mother, who would read us all kinds of stories. We would often beg, “Please, just read one more chapter…please.” Fairy tales, nursery rhymes, short story collections, children’s novels, my mother read them all. I can vividly remember sitting snuggled up right next to her, tears streaming down my face as she read for probably the twentieth time, The Little Match Girl. I would plead with her to read that story, even knowing that the outcome always made me cry.

The Little Match Girl was part of a Christmas short story collection that we had in our home when we were growing up. It was the story of a little girl who was so poor, she had to sell matches to survive and how one night… she didn’t…. survive that is. I would cry as I listened to my mother read how this little girl gazed longingly into windows where families sat in warm homes, with food on the table and she had none. I would sob when suddenly she felt warm and before her, appeared her grandmother, taking her hand and leading her off. Initially I had no idea exactly what had happened, until my mother explained that in fact, the little girl had died and gone to heaven to live with her grandmother, where she would never feel cold or hungry again…..that’s when the sobbing began. Even knowing the outcome of the story, I would cry over and over again. Looking back on this, it must have been torture for my mother to have to read this story that always made me cry. That was not the only story I cried through though, there were others….and often I think my mother was probably inclined to cry a little bit too.

Every summer we joined the summer reading club at our local library. Weekly and sometime even daily trips there were common for us during the summer months. Take out books, run home and read them, write the report, then back to the library to hand in the report and earn your points toward the prize of your choice and the end of summer party. I would often lie on my bed in my hot bedroom and read hour after hour. But even without the prizes and the parties, I would have been in the library. Because of my mother, I learned to appreciated written words at a young age and have loved them ever since….as well as the scent of those words as written into books.

I’m not sure when, but at some point book clubs became popular and still may be. For a penny you could join and order ten books, along with committing yourself to purchasing four or five more at full price in a one or two year period. Purchasing the additional books at full price was never a problem for me. The problem would be purchasing too many of them and then having to come up with the money to pay for them all.

Book clubs were when my book collecting really started. By then I had a part time job, so I could afford to actually buy books, as long as I was able to limit myself…it was for me, a little like being a drug addict….I was addicted to books. Over the years, my book collecting tastes have changed. Most of the books that I bought when I was much younger are gone, having been sold in yard sales or donated, or been given away. I have held on to a few of my childhood books that amazingly enough, are on a book shelf in my transition home right now. One day I’m hoping to sit on a couch somewhere and read them to my grandchildren. They now sit among my collection of mysteries, thrillers, novels, books on how to garden, home medical books, true crime books, the Harry Potter books, cook books, how to teach yourself *whatever* books, social work books, text books and history books…..and I just love the way they smell.

Currently I have forbidden myself from purchasing any more books. I do not go down the book aisle at Costco if I can help it, nor do I venture into bookstores of any kind…..well, almost. I try to remind myself that one day in the hopefully not to distant future, I will have to move all these books that I own to a home of my own again…even if it is the size of a closet. Moving them to this transition home was a monumental task as they were so damn heavy! As I was struggling to lug box after box of them up the stairs, I was asking myself why the hell I needed all these books. Why couldn’t I collect something lighter? Since I never seem to do anything the easy way though, it makes sense that I collect books. Nothing that I do seems to be easy, so of course I would collect the heavy things… and then have to haul them around with me in the course of getting a new life. With the exception of my clothes, my books were the first things that I unpacked. Boxes and boxes of my stuff remains, piled in empty bedrooms, waiting for a permanent home in order to be unpacked, but the books, they sit on shelves in the living room, waiting too for a permanent home, but not left in boxes to languish in the dark until that time arrives. Somehow, looking at them gives me hope that not only will they have a permanent home again one day, but so will I.

I fell off the wagon today and went into a bookstore. I’ve held out since Bargain Books opened a few weeks ago, but my car drove it self there today…it was like it had a mind of its own. One minute I was on the road, the next I was in the bookstore….and how wonderful it was to stand there and just inhale the scent of all those books. Of course they did not have the particular book that I was looking to purchase, but I did manager to buy four of them for other people. How perplexing that I had to go home and order my book from Amazon.com…a bookstore with no scent at all.

They say that our sense of smell is a strong memory trigger. When I inhale the scent of books in a library or a bookstore, I remember sitting on the couch, snuggled up against my mother while she read us story after wonderful story, even the ones that made me cry. What a wonderful gift that was that she gave to my siblings and I…the gift of how written words can take you to so many places and teach you so many things. I remember my children when they were little, snuggled up against my side while we read scary stories and stories about *very bad bunnies* and Shel Silverstein poems. Just walking into a bookstore and smelling the scent in the air, brings those memories and those moments in time, to life again. I think I’m finally getting the idea that not matter where I am, all those very special moments in time will continue to live in my memories, no matter where I end up……

Walking Down Pathways

A childhood friend of her daughter’s got married today. A young woman she had watched grow up since the age of 6 months old. This is the second of her daughter’s friends to get married this year. Another of her “from birth,” friends got married last December. If she weren’t so cynical about marriage right now, would she feel differently about these young women getting married so young? Probably not. She’s happy that her daughter is not even close to getting married. Having gotten married just prior to her 21st birthday, she thinks people should spend some time getting lives, prior to attaching themselves to others. Then, should things not work out, 1 year, or 5 years, or 20+ years later, one would remember that they did have an independent life of their own at one time. Maybe the struggle to get an independent life would not seem so great if at one time in the past, you actually had one. It might be like riding a bike, or *other things*…… activities that even if you haven’t done them in a while, you still remember what they were like.

The Minister at the wedding spoke about taking pathways through life. Of course he was speaking in the context of two people entering the church from two different entrances and both leaving together, using one. This metaphor aptly describe the journey into marriage that these two people will take together. Despite the fact that she’s in the process of becoming *un-attached* the symbolism of traveling down pathways was not lost on her.

She realized while sitting in that church this afternoon that she too, is on a journey. Not one that she really wants to be on, but is on nonetheless. For 20+ years she careened down a path, going top speed, with no thought to where she was going, or why. Now, she has to carefully make her way down a pathway that at times is blocked by large boulders, rivers of tears, fallen trees, uneven sidewalks, traffic jams and classes like Statistics. She’s hoping that there are no forks in this pathway since then a major debate would ensue….and God only knows for how long that might go on.

Yup, she’s on the pathway…that much she does know. Where it’s going to lead is a mystery. She’ll just have to keep walking and hope there are some 7-11’s along the way. Diet Coke and Iced Coffee are very important when you’re walking down a path to who knows where…….

To wallow, or not to wallow....

To wallow, or not to wallow, that is the choice. This past week has been a major wallowing week….and boy, does she know how to wallow. If wallowing were an Olympic sport, she would be a gold medal winner.

Most of this past week she has spent either sitting in her computer chair, crying…..or laying in her bed…..crying……or sitting on friend’s couches…… crying. Now it’s freakin’ time to be done crying. Certainly in her mind, she has plenty to cry about. After all, getting a new life is hard. She does feel guilty about all the crying though. Certainly she hasn’t lost all her worldly possessions or any of her family members in the aftermath of the biggest natural disaster to ever occur in US history, Hurricane Katrina. That would surely be a reason to cry. So why couldn’t she stop herself she wonders? Maybe it was the birthday, or the job interview that only paid a pittance, maybe it was her ability to over-think her life, or just the time of year it is. The time of year when her life as she knew it, started to unravel…. when she finally woke up and didn’t recognize where she was. Maybe it was because she didn’t go to the gym this past week. The gym functions as her mood stabilizer. For about five minutes she thought maybe she did indeed, need a prescription. That thought seems to have past, especially since she’s made it to the gym the past two days….and really does feel better. Maybe it was just *all of the above.*

Wallowing is a choice. She can choose to do it, or not. She has instead decided to follow the *thinking positively for 15 minutes per day* plan, the *going to the gym as often as possible* plan, the *planning fun things to do with people you like* plan, the *you must stop projecting yourself two years into the future and worrying about it* plan, and the *let’s maybe have a small glass of red wine before bed* plan. Then there’s also writing all this stuff down as a means to remind her about all the plans she’s made. It’s good to write it all down; this way when you’re wallowing you have somewhere to go that will remind you how to stop the insanity. She thinks there’s a chapter on that topic in the “Living in the Moment” manual…you remember, the manual she doesn’t have but that she’s still looking for…..

(If she were any kind of computer genius she would be able to insert a link back to the “Where Is the Manual” piece, but she is no computer genius, which is why this blog sounds like her, but does not *look* like her…it is a huge dilemma…)

September 14th, 2005

Today was my birthday. Thank God the day is almost over. It’s not the actual *having of a birthday* that I mind, or even the age that I’m at. It’s the continued feeling of disruption, of feeling homeless and lonely and unsettled.

Goals for the coming days, weeks, months and year:

To spend at least 15 minutes tomorrow, thinking positively about the many good things there are in my life, and there are many.

To spend at least 15 minutes each day next week, thinking positively about the many good things in my life, and there are many.

To spend 15 minutes each day for a month, thinking positively about the many good things in my life, and there are many.

To spend *time* each day, for the next 12 months, thinking positively about the many good things in my life, and there are many.

In the next year, to stop having to consciously think about thinking good things and just be able to enjoy them.

(Do you think repeatedly writing about thinking positively, will work? I guess we’ll see.)

Stuck in a Hallway

Tonight she is so grateful to have gown up in this small town that she still lives in. This truly is small town America. A town that could be describe in novels by writers much better than she. Tonight the sights, sounds and smells overwhelm her with joy and a little bit of nostalgia, tinged with some sadness too.

Walking across Smith Street she hears the crack of a bat hitting a ball at the ballpark and hears, before she sees, the cheering as men run around bases. This is baseball playoff weekend for the leagues that play on this field. Picnic things are laying all about the grass as she power walks on by. Women, children and older couples sit in the bleachers watching, talking and laughing while the ballplayers continue to play this game that to her at times seem boring. Not tonight though, tonight she can feel the excitement in the air as she hears the sounds of the game and smells the dust in the air as a player slides on into home.

She heads further into the park, past the playground filled with young children and families…..children running, jumping, and squealing with laughter and delight as they fly toward the moon on a swing or zipped down to the ground on a slide. As she walks onto the track at the park, she takes it past the 9-11 Memorial, a place she will sometimes stop and sit for a minute. It is a very small garden area connected, yet separate, from the walking track that winds its way in a quarter mile circle through the shore front park. Two benches, in the shade of newly planted young trees, sit, looking out across the bay at Fire Island on the other side. In front of the benches are two big native granite boulders, sitting in the middle of bunches of Montauk daisies. The boulders are inscribed in memory of not just the two men that she knew who died, but all the others who perished on that day as well. On occasion she has been down here and seen the elderly parents of one of the men in whose memory this little garden memorial is dedicated, sitting on a bench, gazing out over the water. She knows the story and knows that there is no cemetery for them to go to, as their son just never came home that day, like so many others...... like so many others, he vanished, like vapor into the air.

She hears the deep droning sound of the engines on the ferry as it makes its way across the bay and listens to the waves as they slap against the bulkhead. A light southwest wind whistles through the rigging of the sailboats docked nearby and she remembers what it was like to sail out onto the bay with her family. She always had mixed feeling about sailing with her father, who at times might rival Captain Bligh. Leaving from, and returning to, the dock was always a challenge, with orders begin bark at people who initially, had no freakin’ idea what they meant. After a couple of years of sailing, they all sort of got with the program and were able to do a half way decent job of knowing what to do. Recently she covered a sailing story for the newspaper she works for and decided that maybe next summer, she will think about treating herself to sailing lessons. It might be fun to relive that experience again, only with a more patient skipper this time.

She winds her way out onto the L- Dock, a place that has been in her life forever, the place where her brother once caught 40 blowfish. She wonders whatever happened to the blowfish; it seems that no one catches them anymore. Incredibly odd creatures they were. After being caught, they would puff themselves up like small balls in order to be more intimidating to others. She doubts that it ever worked as a defense mechanism against fishermen, but thinks that in the world of fish it might very well have been effective at keeping the larger ones at bay. It bothers her to know that now they’re gone. Just like the clammers that use dot the bay as far as the eye could see. When exactly did they disappear she wonders?

As she walks back up the dock she looks in the pails of water as she passes, seeing fish and crabs of varying sorts and sizes. She’s never been one for fishing and only likes the idea of it, but not the reality of it. Her way of fishing would consist of sitting on the dock with a fishing pole in her hand and gazing out over the water. It would not include baiting a hook, or even actually hoping to catch a fish. She would be hoping not to catch a fish and would just enjoy the scenery. It’s lovely out on the dock in the early evening and she finds it very relaxing to watch the stars as they start to appear gradually in the darkening night sky. She has difficulty *relaxing* these days as her mind tends to go into over-thinking mode quite easily. Sitting on the dock with an un-baited fishing pole, might just do the trick.

Up past the large French restaurant where a wedding is taking place and to Nancy’s Crab Shack she goes. Small and quaint with outdoor tables and a snack bar to sit at, Nancy’s is the place to be in the summer. The smell of grilled hot dogs and burgers mingled with the salt smell in the air is the scent of summer to her; a scent that on certain days in the winter when you stand on the porch with your eyes closed, you can almost still catch a whiff of. A guy with a guitar is playing for the diners and she chats with people that she knows as she walks on past. Nancy’s is the place to go to chat with all the people you know from your neighborhood that you don’t see anymore, because everyone is too busy to stop and enjoy their lives….but for a few minutes at Nancy’s they do.

Now on into the quieter parts of the neighborhoods, with the smells of the back yard grills cooking burgers, and the sounds of televisions and radios, cars and motorcycles, the ice cream man in his truck that now plays that annoying electronic music. She dislikes that electronic music and the way the tunes become stuck in her brain, to play over and over and over again. The jingling of the bells on the old ice cream trucks was so much less invasive to the mind. Softer and almost joyful she thinks. So what if the old fashioned style bells can only be heard from three blocks away. Children can hear the ice cream truck from wherever they are, so why not play something that does not irritate most of the population in a ten block radius.

She slows herself down now as she continues past the house that has a Gargoyle on the roof and the one that always flies the very interesting flags, many of which she has no idea of their meaning. Back in July that house flew the Union Jack right after the London subway and bus bombings. At the time, she thought about what a wonderful show of support that was. She wonders where these flags all come from and thinks about how she use to have a house that she flew flags from.

By now the fire flies are lighting up the air around her and she heads on past the house she use to live in, a house where the lawn and her beautiful flower beds have not been watered once during this very hot and dry summer. She thinks about how she would have been out there every day, watering the beautiful plants that use to live there. The fragrant miniature lilac bushes she had planted, the azalea that she bought 20 years ago in the grocery store and that survived all this time, until she moved away. The mass of black-eyed Susan’s, with yellow petals and brown centers, the purple cone daises and the large clematis, that over the course of the summer would have wound it’s way up past the dining room window, and in the late summer would be covered in small, fragrant white flowers that she could smell through the open window. She could have taken some of these things with her when she moved, but she just did not have the energy, or the heart, to do so. Now she is sorry as she mourns the loose of all these beautiful things that use to live in her garden. Now they are dry and brown and dead. It makes her sad to walk by there, but it’s not her house anymore. Maybe she’ll garden somewhere else one day, or maybe she’ll never garden again….who knows.

She finishes her walk at the house she now lives in. A place that she’s grateful to have, but cannot view as more than a place of transition. A place where she continues to stand in the hallway, with the door behind her closed and the door in front of her, not yet open. She hates standing in this hallway. How many moments, hours, days or years will she stand in this hallway she wonders, until the door in front of her finally opens so that she can walk through it….

In One Year......

In one year…….she,

Lost a car…. got a car back
Gave a car back….bought a car
Left a home
Left her children……
…but not really
Lost her patience…..found her patience…..lost her patience….found her patience….a never ending saga...
Found a gym….lost a bunch of weight
Lost sleep...and still hasn't found it...
Found some very interesting new friends
Lost the rest of her stuff ….it went elsewhere to live
Lost three cats…kept one (the whiner)…
Lost her mind...found her sanity...maybe
Lost her groove…found her groove (Thank You God!)
Found her *Twinkle*
Found school
Found a *sort of* new career
Needs a much better paying job
Lost her whole entire life as she knew it..
Needs to find a whole new one...
Lost herself…found herself…lost herself…found herself... a never ending battle…with her mind...