Oct 11, 2012 |
I’m not gonna sugarcoat this: Life is hard. I mean, it’s hard. And it’s easy to slip into the “I have it harder than you do” mentality. Trust me. Been there, done that.
It’s not much of a surprise that I’ve been pretty bitter about Life’s Lemons. Long-term unemployment. Chronic injuries. Financial fiascoes. Throw in the struggles of family and friends, and my heart is heavy with the weight of the world.
When we were young, my older brother was a wise-cracking, joke-telling genius. One of his favorites (that for some reason I played along with every time, even though I knew the ending) was when he’d say, “I can teach you a foreign language. Repeat after me.”
“Owah. Ta-jer. Kay-yam.”
Now. You say it. Out loud. Fast. Faster.
Get it now?
Here. Let me change the spelling a little bit for you:
“O-wha-tajer-kiam.”
One more time. A little more clearly.
“OH, WHAT A JERK I AM.”
Yup. That’s it. And that’s me.
I’m the Queen of the Party. The Pity Party, that is. I can feel sorry for myself quicker than you can nod your head. And it comes oh-so-naturally, I don’t even know I’m doing it.
Maybe it’s because I’ve always been more sensitive than others. Maybe it’s because I feel things deeper and harder and stronger and longer than others. Maybe I overthink or underthink or just don’t think at all.
Maybe it’s just me.
I haven’t been sleeping well for a few nights. The worries float around keeping my eyes busy with visions of things yet to come. Noise isn’t a distraction, and silence isn’t soothing. I just can’t seem to sleep very well.
So by the time I was functioning this morning, I had to remind myself that I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t angry, there wasn’t anything wrong. I was just tired. Just tired. Nothing else. And when I took the other non-possibilities out of the equation, the day seemed easier to manage.
I could drive, go to the grocery store, balance the checkbook, make dinner, clean house… all those things I didn’t want to do but should do. I did them. Because being tired isn’t an excuse to not take care of business. I wouldn’t call in sick to work just because I was tired. And right now, home is my work. And I’m the boss. I did not give myself a sick day.
And for that, I’m thankful. I’m really thankful. And I want it to show.
I still have my house. I still have my car. Dot is a full-time college student. I have family and friends. We have our health. And we have food in the house.
With all of these blessings, it struck me that I was still asking God for more than I was thanking Him for.
How’s that for gratitude?
Do I really trust Him to provide for me if I’m whining about not having milk for one day? We were able to put a full tank of gas in the car yesterday. I’m thankful we could afford it. When I ask God to give us our Daily Bread, is it honoring to Him for me to wish for more than what’s on the table? Instead of complaining that cleaning out the fridge is not our favorite meal, I’ve become extremely thankful that we have food in the fridge to begin with.
God is doing a most wonderful job of taking care of us. In ways I’m not even aware of; in ways I’ll probably never know.
I woke up this morning. In my own home with my family around me.
I’d say I’m pretty blessed.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
“Give Us This Day…”
The Adventures of Will Power and the Basket of Blessings
My Thanksgiving List
Aug 23, 2012 |
I know I shouldn’t. I know some people say worry is a sin. That I’m either not a good Christian, or I need to let go or… whatever it is you tell people when they say they’re unreasonably afraid.
But I am.
Often.
I’m afraid every day of the unknown.
I’m afraid that I won’t get a “real” job and I’ll lose my house. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to support my small family. I’m afraid of what would happen to the cats if something did happen to the house. Dot, notsomuch. She’s young. She’s got relatives. She’ll be okay. But I worry about being separated from her and the felines and Bedford Manor. I worry about it all the time.
I worry about car accidents. I’ve been in ten plus hit as a pedestrian. All in the last 27 years. None my fault. But I worry about more. I’m afraid of being injured again. I’m afraid of never being fully healed from past injuries. I’m afraid of being without a car, and I’m afraid now that Dot has a license.
I worry that my past concussions will interfere with my future. That I might someday need assistance to be mobile, or worse: to remember.
I worry about bad things happening to my family. What if they get injured, or worse? What if we’re separated for some reason like moving away, or death? I’m afraid of someday not being able to have coffee with my mom or talk to my brothers on the phone or watch TV with Dot.
I’m afraid that Dot’s chance for a future, a really good future, is lessened because of me. Because I’m an unemployed, single mom and we are a statistic on the poverty threshold. I worry that she’s never really had a chance to succeed, and it’s all my fault for not doing more. I worry that we won’t be able to afford the transfer to a four-year University when the time comes.
I worry that choices I made in the past about people, places, events, and opinions will affect her future.
I’m afraid of always being in debt and never being solvent. Of not being self-sufficient. Of being a burden to those around me and never being able to pay it back, or pay it forward.
I’m worried that I won’t always be able to write well. To share my thoughts, my stories, my inspirations.
And I’m worried that I will.
I’m afraid that I’ll be successful and it will change everything.
I’m afraid that my past will always haunt me. That certain people will try to sabotage me and tell me I’m not good enough. I worry about expending more energy into proving them wrong than doing things right. I’m afraid the wrong people will care and the right ones won’t.
I’m afraid of the freedoms that being a Good Writer means: publication. Payments. Solvency. Recognition. Freedom to move, to travel, to explore. Obligations to work and opportunities to play.
The chance to be balanced. To give my family a future.
To live. To live the life I have planned.
I’m afraid of trying because I’m afraid of failure. But I’m also afraid of never trying.
I worry about saying, “I don’t know what to do,” and being laughed at. I’m afraid of being mocked.
I’m afraid of being alone.
And never being heard.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
This post is linked up with Shell at
Feb 8, 2012 |
NEW BUSINESS > otherwise unemployed
no place to go < NO TRAFFIC
DRIVING TO SCHOOL > adventures in parenting
parenting issues < BEING A MOM
HAPPY HOUSEHOLD > just getting by
missing muse < WRITING IT OUT
FREELANCING > wrong opportunities
time on my hands < TIME WITH FAMILY AND FRIENDS
FRIENDS AND COFFEE > something to do
lots to do < GETTING THINGS DONE
SETTING MY OWN SCHEDULE > working in sweats
dropping resumes < EARNING INCOME
TAKING CARE OF OBLIGATIONS > frugal fun
learning to save < EARNING A GOOD NAME
WORKING HARD TO GET NOTICED > waiting in the shadows
stepping out < HOLDING MY BREATH
LAUGHING IN SUNSHINE > pushing off the ground
dirt in my shoes < FLYING HIGH
balance <> BALANCE
Balance.
[Today’s post was inspired during a conversation with my good friend, Janice. Life can be quite the teeter totter at times. It helps when you have people who know the fine art of balancing.]
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Feb 3, 2012 |
We’ve all heard it before. You can’t predict your life. Things happen. What you have designed for your life is not what God has designed for your life.
Blah.
Blah.
BLAH.
When I was a child, I lived in Michigan and planned to live in California and become a famous actress. Or a teacher. And I’d write about my dreams.
When I was a teenager, we moved to California and I planned to work at Disneyland. Or marry John Stamos. And I’d write about my dreams.
When I was in my 20’s, I went to college and planned to become an award-winning news journalist. And I’d write about my dreams.
When I was in my 30’s, I was a single mom trying to make ends meet. I planned to marry rich and spend the day being a carefree housewife. Or live in New York. And I’d write about my dreams.
Now I’m in my 40’s.
I thought by now I’d be married. I thought by now I’d be published. I thought by now my name would be known. I thought by now I’d be fairly debt free, fairly financially stable, fairly living where the grass is greener.
Life.
I still live in California.
I’m still a single mom.
I still believe in God.
And I still write. About my dreams. About my memories. And everything in between.
I write.
All the time.
“Life is what happens when you make other plans…”
I always tell people, I was born to write. I have ink instead of blood. I keep my fingernails clipped short to make it easier to type. I always carry a notebook and pen wherever I go. I have my own brand of shorthand, and I know how to write in the dark.
I can be inspired to write a sonnet by looking in a landfill of trash.
When I go to a movie, it has to be a really good one to keep me from being distracted with thoughts of “I could write that better” or “this scene should have been written this way”.
I have yet to make a living with my writing. I don’t have any national awards on my resume yet. People aren’t sending me fan mail. Yet.
But this I know:
I’m not settling for a change of plans.
I was born to write.
And I am really good at what I do.
I’m just waiting for the rest of the world to realize it.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Jan 15, 2012 |
Almost everyone’s familiar with the Tortoise and the Hare: that arrogant, got-it-all rabbit taunting the always-trudging turtle in a race to the finish. In the end of course is the predictable winner: the turtle. Why? Because he kept at it. Whereas the rabbit thought he was so far ahead he could chill out, relax, goof off. Well too much partying left him in the dust and that little turtle kept on trucking and made it through the challenges to cross that winning line first.
I think sometimes I’m that turtle. There are so many people that not only know what they want to be when they grow up, but have what they need to get there from the get-go. People my age have children (even grandchildren!). They’ve already had a 20-year career at something. They started young and zoomed ahead. Some will continue, but some will fall asleep at the wheel.
Then there’s me. I’ve always known I want to write. But I was pretty sure I also needed to pay the bills so those two tasks have been mutually exclusive.
Until now.
Because now I’m serious about writing. And being published. And supporting my family that way.
I’m taking baby steps. I’m learning my way. I’m stumbling a little but running a lot. And I don’t know where the finish line is. I just know I’m going to cross it.
Soon.
I have no regrets about waiting this long to even get into the race.
I’m just happy I get to finish this one… then move on to the next.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
