Jan 10, 2013 |
Dear Mom,
You know I love you. You know, next to my daughter, you’re the most important person to me on this earth. I love that we are Three Generations of Desert Women: strong, durable. Louis L’Amour would be the first to praise your character. How tough you are, how strong and resourceful and faithful and determined. You are our rock, our foundation, our example. You’ve taught us how to forge our way through instead of turning back to the comfort of mediocrity.
And I want to be just like you when I grow up. And I want to be you for my daughter.
The other day, two lovely old ladies came into the office. Let’s call them Beatrice and Victoria. They were wonderful. I watched them drive up in an older but well-cared for vehicle. The driver carefully stepped out and helped the other from the passenger seat. They slowly, gently walked up to the sidewalk and stepped into the office, laughing at how age has slowed their bodies but not their minds.
I knew instantly they were special. They were friends, good friends. Perhaps the best. They might even have been sisters; they looked similar and age had drawn them more alike in later years. Their crows’ feet were in the same place, their lips crinkled in the same way.
Victoria, the younger of the two, helped Beatrice into a chair then sat in the one next to her. They introduced themselves and it was then I realized Beatrice was the 92-year-old mother to 75-year-old Victoria.
They needed changes to their insurance policy. But they didn’t want one to incur the loss of discount by making the change. I offered several compromises, and as they sat at my desk discussing their options I could only think, “I want to be them.”
These wonderful women finished each others’ sentences. They smiled and laughed at conversations only they were aware of. And in the few minutes they were in my presence, I was enthralled with the closeness they exhibited. Their friendship, their care, and their attitude toward the world. These are two women who made it through many hard times, and didn’t let it get them down. These are two women who clung together and still manage to laugh at life.
Promise me, in another 40 years or so, we’ll still be just like them. Promise me we’ll laugh at these hard times, learn our lessons, and laugh out loud. A lot.
Promise me, when I’m older then than you are now, that we’ll still be best friends. And walk into someone’s office and make them smile.
And want to be just like us.
With much love, hugs, and laughter,
Your loving daughter,
~Me
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 5, 2011 |
by MollyJoRealy @MollyJoRealy
There’s a fairly new song by Andy Grammer that basically says, no matter what, it ain’t that bad. So keep trudging along. The song is “Keep Your Head Up”. Not only does it have a catchy beat, but the words are nifty. I was pleasantly surprised to not hear anything about sex, drugs or violence.
Lately I’ve come to realize what’s really been holding me back from writing. I mean, really writing. From studying the craft, from expanding my vocabulary and resume. From doing what it is I have always known I was born to do. I was born to be a writer. So why aren’t I?
I’m afraid. I’m afraid of a great many things, but to let it influence how I do or do not use my gifts and talents… not much of a role model, am I? I’m not afraid of failure. I have a handful of rejection slips and “no thank you” emails already. That’s not it.
I’m not afraid of not being good enough. If I was a truly lousy writer, it wouldn’t bring me the joy that it does. I’m not even afraid of needing a “real” job to make ends meet.
It dawned on me a few weeks ago, and try as I might to push the thought away, to drown it out with the common sense mantra of “that’s so ridiculous!”, the fact remains . . .
I am afraid of success.
I’m afraid of leaving my foundation and flying. I’m afraid of the ghosts in my past coming back to haunt me. I’m afraid of reliving mistakes that I’d left behind. I’m afraid of people not understanding, of reminding me of who they think I am, of me not being able to stand tall and look ’em in the eye.
I’m afraid of becoming everything I know I can be . . .
Because that means things would change. It could mean meeting new people (a skill I still haven’t fully mastered). It could mean traveling. It could mean people counting on me for more. It could mean the opportunity to fail bigger.
It definitely means the unknown.
I used to have this joke-mantra. I’d say, “Change is bad.” To which my friend Jeff would tell me, “Change is change. It’s not good or bad. It’s just change.” We’d argue a lot on the subject. Nobody won, because we couldn’t convince the other.
Of late, I can see that he was right. And I’m ready. I’m ready to change for change’s sake. I’m ready to take the bull by the horns and do what I need to do to be the writer I’m supposed to be.
Today’s church sermon was about “Rejecting Old Excuses”. Let’s just say it was one of those puzzle pieces that is fitting neatly into the arrow God is building for me.
It’s time to stop wishing and hoping and thinking and praying. It’s time to act. And write. And submit. And be rejected. Over and over. And over again.
A few months ago, I was speaking with a close friend who was lamenting the lack of call-backs for job interviews, when it seemed others were getting so many. I quickly told him, “Why do you want so many? You only need one!”
I guess it’s time to take my own medicine. I can’t be kicked out if I haven’t stepped in.
So this is me. Back on in the saddle again. Writing it out. Keeping up with the To-Do List. And getting rejected.
It’s the best feeling, ever.
I promise.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
