Apr 22, 2014 |
I’m afraid of my own success. What if achieving my dreams means changing everything I know about my life?
I am my own worst enemy. I love stability of structure and I’m not one to shed the security blanket easily.
But often, blank pages hold just as much accusations as they do promise.
Blank Pages are the World’s Canvas
I play the “What If” game too often because, in the past, the “What If’s” happened. The bad ones. The oh-my-God-this-could-only-happen-to-me and the I’m-one-in-a-million-and-not-in-a-good-way ones. The I’m-being-sabotaged-and-no-one-will-stand-up-for-me ones. The life-will-never-be-the-same-again ones.
And I really love stability.
So when anything comes along that can upset the apple cart, I get nervous.
I’ve had to learn to recognize my anxiety triggers. I know to avoid too much coffee on those high-adrenaline days. I have a “smart shopping” checklist on my iPhone for those necessary eat-out-but-not-fast-food days. The older I get, the better I am at listening to my body. My emotions may want chocolate ganache, but my bloodstream craves caffeine-free Gatorade.
Better sleep + better foods = better emotions.
So the anxiety doesn’t get to me like it used to. Of course, there are certain elements that are no longer around. That helps, too. You know what I’m talking about: those button-pusher people who are as good at backstabbing as they are at infiltrating. Those situations that belong on a soap opera and not in my life. I’ve been lucky to distance myself from the hurts and the hurtful. But their shadows remain.
I’ve had to retrain myself to not be afraid, the way others wanted to keep me afraid. Of sharing myself. Of living authentically. Of being the Me I’m supposed to be. Their false condemnations that who I was wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough. That I had deep, dark secrets to be spilled instead of forgiveness to be shared.
But now I know.
I’m better than that.
I’m better than what they said.
I’m better.
But I’m still afraid.
I’m still okay with the bad “What If’s”. The ones I can’t control.
But . . .
What if I am successful? What if I achieve everything I know I’m meant to do?
What if I conquer it all . . .
And I win?
The last few years were so hard. You’ve heard my poverty stories before. I know I’m not unique. I know there are many more people out there fighting just like me to save their homes and feed their families and do a thousand dollars worth of repairs on a nickel budget. People who don’t have the resources that I have, people who don’t have other people to come alongside them and cheer them on or pull them back on to the path.
And I’m not trying to complain. But my life is such a dichotomy between the dregs of the economy and the elation of my soaring words.
I don’t want to be stuck here any more. I don’t want to whine and complain and worry and cry.
But I do.
Yet, I see my way out. I see the path that I’ve laid, and I see where it’s going.
I no longer put the word “aspiring” before “writer” when I tell people what I do. I am a writer. I am a good writer. The rest of the world will soon discover how great a writer I am.
My “new” workspace ~ a real desk!
In the last two months, just eight short weeks, my writing universe has grown by leaps and bounds. I have my desk. I’ve met some wonderful people who are turning out to be great connections. I saw the need for a position with my writers club and asked to create it. [The result was a resounding yes: I’m now the official Social Media Manager for the California Writers Club, High Desert Branch, come join the fun on Facebook.] All four books are progressing fast. I might soon have The Unemployment Cookbook on local bookstore shelves. My critique group is essential to me in a craft capacity, and a fellowship.
All these are the beginnings of what I have always prayed for, always held my breath and crossed my fingers for. All these are essential to me being Me.
To be able to put food on the table and gas in the car and pay the bills on time and stop these damned collection calls and not “borrow” money that everyone knows until I win the lottery I will never be able to pay it back.
And that scares me, too. It scares me because it’s possible financial stability is on the five-year horizon. If I don’t need my family, my mommy and brothers, any more, will they still need me?
If Megan and I obtain all we’re reaching for, do I have to give up being home every night with Dot and our FurFamily?
If I don’t have to worry about tomorrow as much as I currently do, what will I do with that happiness?
I don’t want to be arrogant or a celebrity. I just want to be the best writer I can possibly be. I want to share my stories with the world. And yes, I would like to know that my stories make a difference.
And make money. Let’s be real. This is how I want to pay my bills. This is how I long to provide for my family.
For my family.
MoJo & Dot
And so I write my stories. My poems. My blogs. My thoughts and suspicions and dreams and nightmares. And I share them. And I collect them for future publication. And I keep on writing it out. Because I can’t be the only one who thinks like this, right? I can’t be the only one who feels so incomplete and so uplifted at the same time . . . right?
This is my calling. To be the best writer I know how to be. To tell the world about life in a way that can only be told by me.
But I’m not there yet. I’m still taking the journey. And at times it’s dark and twisty and scary. My heart pounds inside my chest and I can’t catch my breath.
What If I’m wrong? What If my path is a dead-end? What If those shadows are still waiting to sabotage me? What If I lose the house before I earn enough to save it? What If more bad than good happens?
Can I keep going on?
Yes.
So I let my light shine. From inside. Whatever light I have, I broadcast it.
Sometimes it’s a candle. Sometimes it’s the sun.
The end of the path will never be a reality. I’m thankful for that. With each step taken, there’s another step to take.
While I’m still here, still bringing with me the pains of the past, still glimpsing an uncertain future, I do know this: I have something to say.
And I can say it well.
I just need the rest of the world to listen.
As I sit here drafting this post, trying not to complain, trying to look for the light and not worry about tomorrow or the distractions it brings, my friend Janice posted this on her Facebook profile:
“Strength & resilience emerge by your own will to become a better person, no matter what downfalls happen in your life… be your own hero.”
Thanks, Janice. You are, as always, the right person at the right time.
How do you like them apples?!
How Do You Like Them Apples?!
“Then Jesus said to his disciples: “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothes.” [Luke 12:22-23, NIV]
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
Apples
Poverty: My Story
I am Defined. And I am a Mystery.
This post is linked up with Shell at Things I Can’t Say. Because sometimes, we just can’t.
Dec 17, 2013 |
It’s been a month since I’ve posted. I’ve never gone this long before; and I apologize. I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten you. No, far from it. But I really have been Just.That.Busy.
I turned my focus to amplifying my Amazon Author’s Page as well as finishing The Penny Parable for eBook publication. I’ve been attending my monthly Writer’s Club meetings, and I’ve joined a critique group. Every other week, nine of us gather to review our works. We email them out a week before each meeting and go over notes and suggestions in the group. It’s quite a great experience, and if you are a serious writer I strongly suggest you find such a group.
Last weekend, the High Desert chapter of the California Writer’s Club was honored to hear Aura Imbarus speak. I was lucky enough to meet with her during the break. She is someone I want to know: She is inspirational, comical, truthful, adventurous, enduring and most of all, a writer.
Aura and MJ
Her story is captivating and thrilling. And she’s nice. She’s one of those people who make you feel you’ve been friends forever, even if you’ve just met. Her energy is just so positive! Yeah. I want to know her.
And yes, that’s me on crutches. I have no dramatic story to tell. I got into my car. I got out of my car. I couldn’t walk. Okay, it’s not quite that simple. But it is. You’ll remember I’ve been in ten car accidents and hit once as a pedestrian? Never my fault, honest. But still. A knee can only stand so much trauma before it starts to fail. And every once in a while, my knee likes to remind me. Which it did last week. Normally I can just ice it and kick back in the recliner for the weekend, but there was no way I was going to miss my Writer’s Club meeting and subsequent Christmas party. So I did the only logical thing. I hobbled into CVS and bought a pair of crutches!
You would think with my prior injury history I’d have a pair around here somewhere. Well I did for a while. But then I got cocky and figured I wouldn’t need them again, so out they went. That’ll teach me.
As each day passes, I find myself wanting more. More time. More energy. More money to do/fix/buy/go. My wish list is getting greater, yet simpler. I want to be a writer. A well accepted, published, known, respected author. I want to have a beautiful yard. A healthy, colorful, desert-enduring yard. I want to fix my house. Bedford Manor is lovely, but in need of some repairs. I want better health for me and those around me. Too many people are suffering with so much. My heart aches every day to see it.
I’m not sure what the New Year will bring. But I already have my word picked out, and I can’t wait to share it with you!
Just today a dear friend reminded me that whatever comes, whether it’s in my plans or not, it’s going to be okay. All I can do, is all I can do. She reminded me to hold firm to what I already know, which is my Faith. It was one of those Kismet things, thrown in my face from many angles. I was reminded of what I have often reminded others. That God is in control and it’s okay that I’m not. As long as I still have Faith, Hope, and Love.
Jeremiah 29:11
And someone else gave me this tidbit of wisdom a week or so ago. I asked if I could share it, and he said yes. So here’s a great thought to get you through those times that we’re all going through:
Sitting Around
And it hurts. And it feels like failure. And it doesn’t work.
So I try again. To make ends meet. To write something blockbustery. To breathe.
And it still hurts. And it looks like failure. And it doesn’t always work.
But sometimes it does.
So I keep moving. And working. And writing. And breathing.
And living.
And smiling.
Because I’m alive. And breathing. And working. And writing. And feeling.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
More or Less: 29 Words
What’s Your Writing Style? Creatively Overcoming Writer’s Block
Why I Write. Every Day.
Doing Something. Good.
Poverty: My Story
TGIF
May 9, 2013 |
There’s a plethora of news articles discussing poverty as it relates to society as a whole. There are Government studies, prejudices, and surveys. There are misconceptions, stereotypes, classes to educate those in the throes, assistance programs that help (or don’t), and people fighting every day to overcome the odds.
Let me be very clear at this point: I am not a statistic.
My Social Media brand states quite simply, “I’m a Christian. Writer. Mom. Single. Daughter. Friend. Worker. Chef. Believer.” I’m also a baseball nut, coffee drinker, Disney lover, cat owner. I’m sympathetic, empathetic and at times extremely temperamental. At no point have I ever been a statistic.
I am a person. My home is where I live and where I raise a family. We are not charts on a piece of paper or a spread-sheet column.
The very first thing you should understand about me is that I am blessed. I believe in God, I have felt His hand upon my daily moments and I know without Him I would be lost. I am poor by the world’s standards, but definitely not by His.
Trying to live up to the world’s idea of how my life should be is utterly exhausting. Working long hours while running a household can be overwhelming. And so rewarding.
I am deeply bothered by the stigma that my life brings to me and my daughter. I’m often overwhelmed at the inconsideration pushed upon us for lack of funds. I’ve prayed and thought long and hard about writing this post. There are some things that private. And then there are times when my voice may be the only voice someone hears. For others who can’t speak for themselves.
Poverty is not One Size Fits All or even Most. Poverty is deeply personal, intimate, and unique to each person. Not each family. Each. Person.
This is my story.
This is by no means a complaint against the world. Nor is it a cry for help. It’s not meant to take away any other person’s individuality or be thrown to the masses. This is simply My Story. Or at least the parts of it I can share.
I can’t say I was born into poverty. I think maybe I was, myself and my brothers. But we didn’t know different. Dad worked hard for income, Mom worked hard at keeping a home. At some point in my youth, both worked. We all came together for dinner around the table. We went to school, did our homework and worked our chores. We played games. We talked. We went to Church. We were a family. When my brothers were each old enough, they found part-time jobs to supplement their own pocket cash. I babysat the kids across the street. We didn’t know what poverty was.
We had a clean house. Home cooked meals. We didn’t know we were poor. We knew we didn’t always have as much as the kids down the block. But we always had more than we needed. And we were okay with that.
When I was 13, my dad passed away. Mom chose to move us closer to her sister, also a widow. Thus we transplanted from Michigan to California. My mom has always been an extremely strong, hard worker. If we were in Laura Ingalls’ days, she’d be known as a Pioneer Woman. When there’s a problem, she finds a solution. Even though the word “No” is often a part of our vocabulary, the word “Can’t” rarely is. Her home is immaculate. Her yard is landscaped. She’s always found a way to take care of what needs taking care of. I am very proud of my mom, and just as proud that my daughter inherited that same “Can-Do” spirit. We are not poor people. We are just people in poor circumstances.
We live in the largest county in America. Currently, our unemployment rate averages between 12 and 14%. That means one in seven people who used to work or can work, is not working. That doesn’t take into consideration the dependents that person is responsible for: a spouse, child, or other dependent. I don’t like the game people play with these numbers.
I’m blessed to have a job. I work 35 hours a week. It’s not much, but it’s honest work. It feels good to have a job I can go to. A place where I can contribute back to society and be a part of the outside world. I enjoy paying bills. I do! I like the feeling of writing out checks and buying my own groceries and putting gas in the car. I don’t like knowing that the payments I make aren’t always enough. I don’t like the calls I get each day asking me for money I don’t have.
But I like that each week, the calls are fewer. I like that each payday, I can afford to put just a little more money toward paying off the smallest debt. And maybe next payday, a little more. It’s not easy and there are often times when I’m unable to do anything more than the minimum payments… and sometimes not even that. It’s embarrassing. And that’s a stigma I face a lot. The stigma that being in poverty carries an attitude of apathy.
I want to be self-sufficient. I’m not there yet. I don’t know that I ever will be. But I’m learning a lot on this journey. I’m learning every day. How to cook differently. How to juggle a budget where the outgo always exceeds the income. How to get by for less than what society tells me I need. And how to ask for help when I really need it.
I’m blessed with a wonderful support system. I have family and friends and church and community. I’m not alone. I have people. My people. People who come alongside me to lighten the load however they can. A grandpa who constantly teaches Dot maintenance and farming. My mom who shares cooking secrets. My boss consistently trains me to be better at my job, and gives me opportunities to grow and not be just the stagnant front-desk person. I have people who see me through my struggles. And, yes. I have struggles. Who doesn’t? But I don’t struggle with life. There are worse things than not paying off debt in a timely manner.
For my family, Poverty is a matter of perspective.
My yard is still 90% dirt. That’s not because we’re poor. That’s because I live in the desert. That’s because I don’t know gardening. But I’m learning. Some day, my yard will be completely landscaped. For now, we’re taking it one square foot at a time.
I still treat Dot to the occasional pizza or Starbucks. We need that treat once in a while. When I was growing up, Mom had this saying on a bookmark:
“If, of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves
alone to thee are left,
Sell one & from the dole,
Buy Hyacinths to feed the soul”
– Muslihuddin Sadi,
13th Century Persian Poet
I remember asking her what that meant. She smiled as she told me, it’s another way of saying “Man cannot live by bread alone.” There must be more to life than physical needs. We must also take care of our spirit, our soul, our emotions.
Imagine my delight when in the first Spring of my somewhat fixer-upper home I discovered Hyacinth growing in my front yard.
Grape Hyacinth
We all need a time of refreshment. Being in poor circumstances no longer allows us the luxury of Disney passes or even a weekend getaway. My mom has another great wall hanging in her kitchen. It reads
Do What You Can
Where You Are
With What You Have.
And that’s why I still try to make time for Family Game Nights. Why we scrimp and save for our Girl Dates to Starbucks or McDonald’s. That’s why a 40-minute drive to Casey’s Cupcakes and the Mission Inn every few months isn’t indulgent ~ it’s necessary!
Because I refuse to let my daughter think she lives in poverty. Because she doesn’t. Because poverty is a temporary disposition that I refuse to settle into comfortably, and I will fight tooth and nail to make sure she doesn’t know what she’s missing.
I believe this poverty is temporary. I refuse to be a societal statistic.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
There’s Hope for Bedford Manor
“Be Not Afraid”. Yes, I’m talking to YOU.
How To Eat For Free And Have Fun Doing It (Or, How Printing Coupons Gave Me a Really Great Weekend!)
WinCo Wins: Lunch for a Dollar!
Dear God, I Owe You An Apology (Quit Helping Me!)
Winco Wins
May 4, 2013 |
I had a beautiful Jade Plant. It started out very small. It was a housewarming gift from my mother over three years ago. The back story is, nearly all my life, my mom’s had jade plants of her own. They’ve come to be a symbol of our family. When we moved, the plant moved with us. So it was only natural for her to buy me my own when I got my first house.
Last summer, the beautiful plant grew bigger. I transplanted it to a larger pot. And it continued to grow. I was very excited. As we worked to beautify and fix Bedford Manor, my Jade plant planted its roots and grew. It was very symbolic.
This last winter was one of the coldest we’d had in many years. It stayed colder, longer. The temperatures dropped below freezing at night, for many nights. I decided the smart thing to do would be to bring my Jade plant in from the elements and protect it. I was wrong.
It sat, lovingly, on the counter between the refrigerator and kitchen sink. As I would do dishes at night, I would remember to water it. I’d talk to it. Take care of it. But after a few weeks I noticed it wasn’t so healthy any more. And then I noticed it. I thought it was a sort of water stain on the succulent leaves. But it wasn’t. It turned out to be what’s known as Powdry Mildew.
Now, Jade plants are hearty, resistant plants. Hardly anything can get to it. Except, of course, this Powdry Mildew. It infiltrates the plant and can even infect the soil. Since the days were now sunny and warmer, I’d placed the Jade back on the front porch. But it was too late.
The Jade Plant.
The desert sun wasn’t as sunny as I’d needed. The warmth wasn’t as warm. My plant began to crumble. The leaves dropped and fell like, well, like leaves. Like the dead leaves that they were. Was there a connection that during this time I was going through some strong struggles at home? Finances and health are always at the top of my Prayer List. And neither seemed to be going in my favor for quite some time.
I did an internet search. “Jade plant disease”. And discovered the nasty Powdry Mildew. Thankfully, since Jades are hearty, there was hope. But it would take an extreme cure. Especially not knowing if the soil itself was infected.
The simple start is to concoct a mixture of 1 gallon water, 1/2 tablespoon liquid soap, and 1 tablespoon baking soda. Pour the mixture into a spray bottle and use it. Every morning. Spray the leaves and plant and topsoil. A very simple, inexpensive remedy. For days I sprayed the Jade. I sprayed the leaves. The trunk. The soil. But nothing helped.
On to the not-so-simple Part Two: I had to cut it back. I had to prune back and remove all of the dead and infected growth, and hope the Jade would survive.
I cried as I cut stem after stem after stem. What was left was just a few inches of trunk, sticking up from the pot like… well, like this.
My Poor Pruned Jade Plant.
Nevertheless, I was hopeful because I could still see the moist green inside the trunk. After a few days, some of the cut ends shriveled up and dropped off. I was heartbroken. This plant that was once strong, big, beautiful, gorgeous… this plant was dying. And it’s possible I killed it by bringing it inside for the winter. Jades aren’t meant to thrive inside except for short periods of time.
I refused to give up. Day after day for the last three weeks, I watered it on alternate mornings. I sprayed every cut, every trunk, every grain of soil each morning and sometimes in the evenings.
It stayed green.
And something else was happening. My finances started to improve. My health started to improve. The anemia is fading. The eczema is manageable. I’m sleeping a little better at night. The bills are getting paid. I don’t know how. But through much prayer, the bills are getting paid.
Last week, I began to pray for my Jade. It’s not just a plant. It’s a symbol of Bedford Manor. Sure. I could get another Jade. But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be the One that’s been here for all the improvements and changes. It wouldn’t be the One my mommy gave me out of love. Anything else would just be a replacement.
Please, God. Don’t give me a replacement plant. Heal the original one. It’s symbolic. It’s history. It’s mine. Heal the one I have. Please.
And as I went to spray the Jade this evening, I saw this.
Wonderful New Growth!
Wonderful new growth!
My Jade is coming back to life. There are not less than eleven new buds just beginning to bloom. My euphoria is understated. If my treasured plant can endure, so can I.
There is Hope for Bedford Manor.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Mar 15, 2013
It’s TGIF time. It always seems to work out that when I’ve been blog-absent and finally have much to say, it’s a TGIF post. I like that. Blog and I, we work well together.
And believe me, I have oh-so-much to say. The first is, I’m learning how to not say everything. As a writer, I’m a bit cavalier with my words. That’s not always a good thing. I see a story everywhere, but that doesn’t mean I should tell it. Some stories aren’t mine to tell. Others are mine, but not worth telling. Still more are shared stories, and to be told in different avenues than the Blog. I’m finding a Magic Filter that makes it okay to write… and okay to not write.
I’m making much better use of my daily organizer. Not only am I keeping track of appointments and writing assignments, I’m also keeping track of accomplishments. “Ordered mugs.” “Writer’s Group 10 a.m.”. “ICL Assign #4”. These are only a few of the entries for this month. It’s my goal to have at least one entry each day relating to writing. So far, so good.
Now that the Cookbook is in production and I have an actual inventory, it’s time to work on production of my next project. A Study on the Ten Commandments is a work I’m humbly proud of. The writing is finished, the cover is designed, and yes, there’s a Kickstarter campaign for pre-selling and raising funds for publishing.
Ten Commandments Cover
My newest writing project is half done. Broken Girl and Other Stories of Redemption: A Collection of Parables, Poetry & Prose. I’m very excited about this one for many reasons. Even in my journals, I’ve written creatively. This is a collection of moments in the past two decades as I stretched my wings, flown the coop, and raised my own family. Lessons learned and failings felt. It will also feature photographs from my big brother, Mark. His photography skills are astounding, and last year he gave me carte blanche to use them as I see fit for this publication. I was so happy to call him this week and let him know this project is finally under way.
Broken Girl cover
I don’t know how the entire project will come together, but I intend to use this beautiful photo as the cover. I call it “Desert Beauty” and I’ve used it on my Blog before. Of course, he has such a plethora of nature photos that by the time I’m ready to produce the book, I may change the cover… oh, who am I kidding?! I love this photo and I’ll use it nine ways to Sunday if I can!
Oh, sure, I could complain about my nagging fears and personal woes. But, as I so often used to say, “Everybody’s got something, y’know?” The specifics of my trials and tribulations don’t matter. The history of how I got here is insignificant. All that matters is the goal, and whether I reached for it. That, in itself, is a great accomplishment.
I have much to write over the next week:
- My views on the Vatican and Pope Francis.
- Joshua Tree blooms.
- How to score birthday freebies.
- Philippians 4:13.
- My Morning at the DMV and Why Appearances Aren’t What They Seem.
I may not get to it all in the next week. But you know what? I’m okay with that. Because I’m also learning to not sweat the small stuff… and, as Pastor Tom often says, “It’s all small stuff.”
Whatever this week brings your way, Be Blessed!
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
