30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/30/16: Door

“There's a difference between fear and paralysis. And I've learned that I don't have to 'grow up' to be open to opportunity, to be willing to step through doors without being pushed. I just have to be brave. I just have to be slightly braver than I am scared.” -- Victoria Schwab

With only a couple of exceptions, I pretty much have an open-door policy to the people in my life. My heart is a place where they can be at home, until there is a reason to evict them. 

The door is never locked (again, barring the exceptions), and the people in my life are free to roam at will. Whenever they return, the coffee will be hot, the cake freshly baked, and I'm ready to pull up a chair and talk to them for as long as it takes.

This is odd -- normally, I'm very guarded about who I let in. And I still am. I have a huge 50-room mansion for a heart. Most people don't get past the public rooms. But there are the ones who've made it past the bouncers and velvet ropes. They're also the ones who have the keys to the heaviest doors of all because they've earned those keys. 

And doors can close. It is a painful thing to close doors. It's a heartwrenching event to have those doors shut for you.... And to know they can never be opened again. The pangs of a sealed door hurt like no other.

So I'm trying to be braver than I ever have been. To open more doors myself and to try to keep my doors a little more open as well. Because really, life demands it.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/29/16: Crush

"It's called a crush because it's how your heart feels when the feelings aren't returned...." -- seen on Tumblr

I think my first crush had to be Andy Gibb in 2nd grade. Yeah, I always went for the musicians..... I also crushed on Shaun Cassidy. He too sang, kinda. He had "Hey Deenie".... But ohhhh Andy Gibb, so cute. Girls of a certain age will remember Tiger Beat magazine and all the pictures you could rip out and post to your wall or locker.

Junior high? Oh God, Rick Springfield and Duran Duran. My walls were covered with posters, I had all the cassettes -- I told you I went for musicians. But I also had a thing for a young guy named "Jay".... Jay was a pattern for all my crushes, guys who were totally and completely unattainable, out of reach, safe. I could "love" them from afar and when the affections were not returned, it was okay because they were really never mine to have. That pattern continued all through high school and college.

But then came the crush who wasn't safe. He was available and even a smidge interested, at least enough to respond to my inept awkwardness and to begin something of a relationship. But while he was available and safe, he was all wrong.

And crush is exactly what happened to me and to my world.

So these days, my heart is guarded. Not that I really ever gave it easily. You don't give away your most prized possession to just anyone. My heart is crushed but rebuilt and still able to love.... which I find to be miraculous in itself. 

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/28/16: Window

Eyes are the windows to the soul, and there are times I wish I had blackout drapes. Not that I don't like for people to get to know me, but I am totally creeped out by prolonged eye contact. 

I had a professor in college (a psychology prof, no less) who had incredibly intense ice-blue eyes. I could not look at him in class and got freaked when he'd look my way to ask a question. He was a nice person, but I couldn't help but feel as if I were being analyzed. If he'd had brown puppy-dog eyes? Maybe not so much. It was almost as if he were trying to connect to his students to figure them out.... And while I probably needed an analyst worse than anyone, just no.... not like that.

But more than that, I'm always a little hesitant that if you look too much through that window, you won't like the soul you see. For years on end, that thought haunted me.... I so wanted to be accepted and loved by everyone and if that meant being a chameleon, so be it. These days, not so much -- in that, I am who I am, and if you don't like what you see, gosh I really hate it for you. But no more chameleon life for me. I also noticed that I make more eye contact than I once did, because I really no longer give a (rodent's posterior) whether or not you like me.... I mean, I will always hope people do, but if we don't square, then we don't. 

But I wonder if people do see things in me that I don't see in myself -- both good and bad. Can they see the smudges on the glass of my eyes reflecting the dirt on my heart? Can they see the weariness of the world that settles in my marrow? Can they see that I have good intentions even if my methods are a bit rough? And do they see love? For me, that matters more. If they can't, then I have lots of work to do. 

Getting some Windex ready if needed.....

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/27/16: Sin

Well, there's a fine howdy-do......

Guilty as charged to most if not all of those...

Look, I taught First Communion and First Penance prep. I had to explain the concept of sin to second graders on an age appropriate level..... And the whole time, I was thinking, "Kids, you don't know JACK yet about sin. Hell, I still don't know jack about sin. Even with good guidelines, I still have ideas that are very much in the gray areas. And you're looking to me for answers? God help us all..."

And here I am some 18 years removed from that class of 2nd graders (no! cannot be!) and damn if I'm any closer to answers. In some ways, I grew a great deal spiritually. I went through crises (including the 'recent unpleasantness') which never quite destroyed my faith but which dismantled what I assumed about God and rebuilt it..... carefully and lovingly. These days I am more of the persuasion that our biggest sins stem not from a willful disobedience ("I will not ___ ") but from a refusal to open our hearts to love more -- for fear there will be less for us. These sins of scarcity are a slap in the face to the God whose very nature is abundance, extreme generosity, whose answer is usually "okay, we'll just make more..." 

Our other big sins come from a failure to believe that we are soooo deeply loved by that same abundant God, the eager belief that we are so damaged by our transgressions that we have become worthless and can never be restored to goodness. No, again and again the loving God of "there's plenty, more than enough!" says to us that no, you were created as a beautiful child of God, and though the sins you have committed have marred the appearance, a little spit and polish and you will shine beautifully again. And he SMILES when he says this, to you and to me. 

Sadly, too much of Christianity focuses on the vengeful "kill da wabbit" type of God. I grew up with that God. Smoking a ciggy was a sin equivalent to murder. God didn't care, sin was sin was sin. So there. Doomed. 

So glad things are different now..... 

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/26/16: Comrade

So.... How goes the revolution?

Work Harder, Comrade! art print by April Scumacher

I can't say the word comrade without resorting to a cheesy faux-Russian accent. Such is the experience of a child of Cold War times -- and I grew up in detente! Can you imagine what it was like during the height of the Cold War? I think primarily of Boris and Natasha, of Fearless Leader, and of Moose and Squirrel. 

But I do have true comrades. People who stand by me and with me through so much. I'd like to talk about a few of them.....

I have my "girls of the pasture" (they know who they are). These girls have been my dear friends for years, and even though we are spread far and wide, they have held my hand, my basket, my heart, and so much more. I could not survive without them. 

I have my fellow Viking Women -- a special breed of altos known for their fierce voices and even fiercer wit. They too have held my hand through difficult moments. They have made me laugh, hugged me up, cried big salty tears with me..... I love my girls!!! And Marlys, dear one, you are going to be so missed!!!

I have my Spoonie Girls, girls who also live with chronic illness, care for someone with chronic illness, or more often, both (like me until recently). They get it when I say things like "today, I can't even. No, literally." Because there are days they too literally can't even.

I am blessed with awesome comrades and I could name a billion more. I only hope that I am just as trustworthy a comrade to them.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/25/16: Play

Play (n.): anything that isn't work!

This was me in a production of Godspell from 2011..... Good gravy, we had such fun that whole late summer at rehearsals and during the run itself. Several of us already knew each other anyway, so that made it lots more fun.

We as adults don't often consider the power of play (non-work) in our lives. As much as I enjoy physical activity (walking, biking) so often I don't turn it into play -- I'm too focused on competing with myself, trying to see if I can best some personal milestone. I don't always do the activity just for pure fun. I enjoy my musical hobbies (singing, guitar) but even with my lessons, I have been more focused on making sure I have the technical elements I place -- am I holding the pick, the guitar, my arm and hand correctly? Am I getting the chords fingered correctly? Oh crud, I was on the fourth feet with that string and should have been on the fifth. Yes, practice is necessary for proficiency -- and I need to practice more. But am I losing the joy in just playing? (Never a problem with singing. That's always "play" no matter what!)

With all that has happened this year, I need to rediscover the value of play, of just immersing myself in an activity for the sheer fun of it. The hell if the chords sound funky at first. And who cares if my ride is two minutes slower than the day before? 

Or maybe just find myself a good sturdy swing set and have at it!!! Wheeeeeeeee!

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/24/16: Tourist

Tourist (n.): third leg of the traffic problems in Charleston SC; see also native(s), student(s).

I laugh because where I live (SC) ranks pretty high for tourism -- my area because of mountains, lakes, and golf courses (not to mention the amazing downtown revival of Greenville SC, aka #yeahTHATgreenville). Of course, I went to college in Charleston, SC -- well-known tourist destination because of coastal living, a crapload of historical significance, and (God help us all now) "Southern Charm." Pardon me while I gag at the mere mention of T-Rav.

My BFF and I were tour guides for our college, and at the same time, tour buses would often come past the campus. We sometimes wondered how many pictures we might be in from these other tour groups as we were leading around parents and prospective students. "Who are those kids, George?" "I don't know, Louise, but remember they drove us by that college? Guess I didn't notice them in the picture..."

Sometimes it was fun to play tourist there, especially when friends or family would come down. My mom and her bestie came to visit me one weekend my freshman year, and we did all the Charleston touristy stuff -- carriage ride, shopping at the market, meals at the touristy places..... It was fun. A couple of years later, less so when others would visit or Mom would want to go do something again. By that point, it was old hat to me. A few years after I moved back home, I went back to Charleston for a special weekend event, and while we had unscheduled time on Sunday morning, I treated my then-BF to a mini-tour of the town and of my college. Once he saw the campus, he said, "Now I understand why you have such awe and reverence for this place.... This isn't a campus, it's a movie set!" And it was, actually. The Cistern served as the train station in North & South. For him, going to a large Midwestern public university, seeing a smaller Southern public school was quite different. Even Clemson and USC are nothing like my beloved C of C.

And now there are times I like to be touristy in Greenville. Now that downtown continues to grow and develop, there is always something new and cool to see. And then there are times being a local pays -- like last weekend in the afternoon merchandise line before the Pearl Jam concert. The group in front of me began talking about brew pubs, etc. to go to prior to the concert, and asked a couple of questions. I responded with options and they were like, "Local!!!!" and had a few more inquiries. That was cool, to be able to give recommendations and know they'd be good ones.

Never be afraid to look at your town as if you were a tourist, with fresh eyes and a blank-slate outlook. 

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/23/16: Hollow

Bumble, bumble, bumblebee

Bore another hole in the hollow tree....

That was a little rhyme my maternal grandmother would say to me, often while I was sitting in her lap, and with her index finger circling in the air. I knew the tickling was coming, and as ticklish as I was, funny how I didn't mind my grandmother tickling me. 

But today -- especially -- I feel the hollowness instead. Today, and I don't know why, it has been an emotionally excruciating day. I slept over 9 hours last night, something I very rarely do. I have been on the verge of a migraine all day, and frankly if it's going to come, I wish it would hurry up, beat the ever-loving hell out of me and let me sleep it off. Nothing has really made much of a difference. 

And I have missed my mom more in the last three to four days than I have in the other 45 days since she spread those wings and flew. I have determined that from now through Mother's Day, I cannot set foot again in a craft store or the craft section of other stores. I just can't. I kind of want to avoid a lot of places because the "get your mom a ____" blast is on. Even one of the local churches put up a sign the first week of April with "Mom called, she wants you to join her in church on Mother's Day." And I've wanted to call them and say, "(Bleep) you, you heartless bastards, my mother didn't call. My mother knew I have been in church every Sunday, even if it wasn't with her, and your attempts to guilt people into your pews is beyond sad."

The hollow place will always be there. There's a void in my life which will never be filled. It is the mom space. Other spaces will open and close as time rolls on, but this is a huge gaping yawn of a chasm. I won't canonize my mom and I dare say that my dad and brother won't either. Just this morning we were talking about how much she's allowed herself to decline in those years, how we tried to stop it but she seemed to want to hasten her meeting with the Grim Reaper -- while we were begging her to slow down the train. I burst into tears this afternoon in the car (having come out of Michaels Crafts), and I mumbled, "Damn you, you old bat, why did you leave this way? And do you know how much I miss you?"

And I do. Despite all our differences, our clashes (and they were epic), and our inability to really connect on a deep level, there was love. I know she's reaching out to me still, and I'm trying to listen. Those echoes of love will create a gorgeous symphony in a hollow heart.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/22/16: Shaman

shaman
ˈSHämən,ˈSHāmən
noun: a person regarded as having access to, and influence in, the world of good and evil spirits, especially among some peoples of northern Asia and North America. Typically such people enter a trance state during a ritual, and practice divination and healing.

An album title that I always liked was Van Morrison's "No Guru No Method No Teacher".... And if ever there were a true shaman in music, for me it would be Van the Man. Listening to his music certainly gets me closer to the spiritual realm, in touch with my soul essence (and hey, if it gets me in touch with your soul essence too..... then it's a marvelous night for a moondance. Van said so.)

There are a lot of faux shaman out there. A hella lot of them masquerade as people of the cloth..... while people who might be holy gurus lead lives of obscurity because they do not wish to draw attention to themselves or even to their spiritual gifts, knowing they will be misunderstood.

As for me, I believe there's a little shaman in each of us, if we're open to such. I believe each of us has access to a higher spiritual plane, and the price of admission is to love deeply, without question and without reservation. Every religion has a variant of The Golden Rule -- treating others as you would like to be treated. But it goes beyond that. It means to love, to give, to serve, unselfishly. It's not an easy path.... and as humans, we have, can, and will often flunk the tests set before us. I flunk them every day, still. I just hope I'm flunking the lesser important questions instead of the biggies. I hope I'm looking at the redwood growing out of my own eye instead of the toothpick in my fellow human's eye. I hope I aim for the higher truth as I keep going.

I have a faith tradition that I adhere to, and it is important to me, but I learned a good while back not to worship an institution. I love people but I learned years ago not to put them on pedestals. My feet of clay have been all too visible over the years. And especially in the last 18 months of my life, the biggest lesson I've had is to choose love over being right. I know it's supposed to be to choose kindness over rightness... but I can love much easier sometimes than being kind. Love really is a verb, a decision that who the person is underneath is greater than the atrocity committed by them.

And if that's not a little shaman talk then tell me what is. 

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/21/16: Moon

Full moon tonight - how apropos....

That's part of the refrain of "Moonchild," one of my favorite tunes off Chris Cornell's exquisite "Euphoria Mourning" CD from 1999. It is just glorious..... Like the moon. 

I'm a Scorpio, not a Cancer, so I don't get the privilege of calling myself a true Moonchild. But the Moon Lady and I have always had a special kinship. I've never been afraid of the night as long as I could see her light. I can look at her and feel glorious, I can feel loved and safe. 

My first memories of the moon were from the early days of my childhood and when we would head to Georgia to visit Pop John & Aunt Mary. We would usually leave at midnight, after Dad got home from his afternoon shift job at the mill... How he drove the 8 hours having worked a full shift AND having gone to class that day, I'll never know. Yes, I know he was young then and at that age I might have done the same. Nah, I love sleep like a fat kid loves cake. I wouldn't have. But anyway Mom would try to get me to fall asleep in the back seat -- back in the days when you could throw down a blanket across the seat and belts? those were for wimps -- and to help me, she'd say, "Look out the window. See? The moon's following us...." Yeah, just the thing to lull me to sleep. I wanted to stay awake to see how long the moon would follow us!!! 

My next memory of the moon was me around age 6, staring out at a bright moon and trying not to be caught awake. I shared a room with my Granny, and I didn't want anyone else to wake up. I had something in my mind and figured I ought to pray about it. So I got down on my knees next to the window, and stared up into the bright moon, as if perhaps God resided there. I mean -- why wouldn't he? It was such a pretty place, so sure!!! So I stared up at the moon, told God my troubles and marched it back to bed. I don't think I got caught..... but if I had, seeing that gorgeous moon..... Ah! it would have been worth a spanking.

The moon has seen me through a lot. I'm sure she wept on a cool late winter night 25 years ago, when I was my soul was so battered that I could not bring myself to gaze in her light and see the good that was present in me.... when all I thought about was how to end it all. Her heart hurt on nights years later when I cried into my pillows over love gone wrong. 

These days, I've been digging another Cornell "moon" song off his newest CD (Higher Truth) called "Worried Moon":

Worried moon, I'm afraid of what's to come

Worried moon, yeah tell me what you know 

Worried moon, you see further down the road 

Worried moon....

It especially speaks to me now, when so much in my life had been flipped upside down and normal is no more. Well, rephrase, where there is a new "normal."

The moon will be there, shining down her love and brightness...... and "I won't be losing my way, no no no, long as I can see the light."  Thank you, John Fogerty, and dammitall, don't you go dying too.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/20/16: Wash

There's a great meme out there that says "The Never-Ending Story As A Kid" with a scene from the 1985 fantasy movie, and just below it shows an overflowing laundry basket and the phrase "The Never-Ending Story As An Adult"

Word, bruh. 

I had learned how to begin to do "the wash" as my grandmother and mother would call it by separating lights from darks, heavier fabrics from less-weighty ones. Of course back then, we had to figure out how many scoops of powder or capfuls of liquid per load -- and is it a full load or not? Do I add Downy? And if something needed bleach -- hey, kid, nooooo!

Thank God for the pod. Same goes for the dishwasher too. 

The worst part of "the wash" is the folding, the putting away..... Ugh!!! I'll wash and dry all day long but that other stuff is anathema.... And let's not even discuss ironing. I buy as few "needs ironing" pieces as possible. I remember ironing tees in college on occasion so they'd look just right. No way no how these days. If it's not wrinkle-free, it is useless to me!

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/19/16: Summer

Oh summer, I'm so sorry I took you for granted for so many years......

I miss those days of sleeping in until 10:00 or 11:00, with no deeds to do or promises to keep. I miss staying up until late in the night, reading a favorite book while listening to my favorite radio station or a much-beloved cassette (yeah, I just dated myself there). I miss having no responsibilities other than maybe doing laundry or dishes, maybe vacuuming (and mind you, complaining about it the entire time because HELLO?? I'm on summer break but I have a summer reading list!) And oh yes, that much-maligned summer reading list. Can you believe Miss Duncan's NERVE to give us selections with no Cliffs Notes? My summer is ruined. How am I supposed to keep up with Days of Our Lives if I'm stuck reading Dickens? 

Summers as a young child always involved a trip to southwest Georgia to visit my great-aunt and great-uncle. I remember trips into Florida -- to Tallahassee for seeing the capitol building and governor's mansion, and always a trip to Publix with Pop John. And another trip to the Stephen Foster museum in White Springs. I guarantee you I was the only five-year-old who even had an inkling who Stephen Foster might have been, just from the museum excursion. And I beamed when the Squirrel Nut Zippers sang "Ghost of Stephen Foster." Take that! But then Aunt Mary passed when I was 8 and so those trips ended. Later on came summer camping vacations -- torrential downpours in tents and sweating out a summer cold in a pop-up. Good times, good times.....

But then came the days of summer jobs... in my case, during college to have some fun money, if you consider saving it for books fun. I didn't. But it was kind of fun to be out of the house and learning valuable skills in the world of business. I laugh now, because I never wanted a business degree and had no intention to spend a career in corporate America. And except for a nine-year stretch at a NPO, I've done just that. It's enough to make the baby Jesus weep.

I miss you, my carefree summers. I'm sorry I treated you so capriciously then. I wish I could take it all back. If you let me win it big, I'll make it up to you. Yacht in the Mediterranean?

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/18/16: Lips

If mine were like this.....

Well, if mine were like that I might not be writing a blogpost at this very moment, now would I? No, sadly, I got shortchanged in the lip department and I have these poor pitiful things where I could use some Juvederm or other tiny bit of filler. Maybe even some fat out of my abs... God knows there's enough there (and then they could move the remainder to my nonexistent butt as well).

My brother, on the other hand, got the portion I was supposed to be allotted plus his own. We're talking Angelina Jolie  style, the bee-stung look. Such a damn waste.....

The odd thing is that even with such a pitiful set of lips that I have, I love wearing deep dark lipstick.... I mean deadly blood-red burgundies and deep browns. The darker, the better. None of these pale pasty punks or maybes. Nudes and beiges leave me cold. Frosted? Ugh!!!! Spare me!  Years ago, L'oreal had a color line inspired by Titanic (the movie) and one of the lipsticks was this exquisite brown -- and I mean deep rich dirt brown. I fell in love. The color looked great on me -- amazing contrast with my skin tone. It was a matte shade that quickly went matte and stayed in your lips for hours.... It was almost gothic, in a natural way...🤘🏻(bonus points if you get that lyrical reference).

And of course, they didn't bother to keep the shade in their lineup. I've searched in vain for nearly 20 years for something in a similar vein only to be let down time and again. The closest is Burt's Bees cocoa lip balm. And that just wears off too soon. Maybe I'll talk to my doc's aesthetician about recommendations for fillers. After checking the price list, of course. Anyone know the current going rate on Grade A Bee Venom....?

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/17/16: Swim

Truth time: I never learned to swim.

No, I'm not kidding!

My mother had this overwhelming deathly fear of water and she never learned to swim. My father, on the other hand, learned to swim the old-fashioned way -- thrown into the river by a sibling and told "swim or drown." My brother can swim. He's no Michael Phelps and would never make a swim team but he's far more likely to reach the shore before I would.

All of this to say, I need to learn because I adore the water. At the same time, I hate getting my face wet. I hate getting water in my nose. For crying out loud, I even hate facing the showerhead face first! But I just need to get beyond all that little crap and learn how to save my own life.

Because this water girl needs to get back to mother mother ocean soon!

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/16/16: Feather

Feathers have special significance to me lately....

A blood-red feather leaves a scar upon my hand / No longer stranded like a painted bird on a fan.... -- Chris Cornell, "Scar On The Sky"

Feathers and wings have been really important to me in the last 8 weeks or so.  When Mom got really sick, the songs that resonated most with me were songs that had to do with flight, wings, feathers, being airborne..... I think maybe God, the Universe, etc. was preparing my mind and heart to let her go for her final flight. And on her last full day, 6 weeks ago yesterday, I sang "Given to Fly" and "Scar on the Sky" to her. We chose "Turn Turn Turn" by The Byrds (!) as the song for her slideshow -- and I had completely forgotten that Mom and I saw Roger McGuinn (of The Byrds) in concert at the Peace Center Amphitheater back in '92 or '93. Wings, feathers, flight.

Ever since mom's passing, I see birds and feathers nearly everywhere. Stray feathers in parking lots just there in my path. Birds coming near my car -- not in a suicide dive-bomb fashion but just near it. A couple of times, it seemed as if they were going to alight on the car. 

The feathers appear out of nowhere and I haven't picked them up to keep.... Mostly because when I tried to do that as a kid, I'd hear mom saying, "Put that down, oh my gosh, you don't know where that came from or what disease that bird might have had! Are you crazy??" Yep, that's my mom -- I saw beauty and wonder, she saw disease and disaster. 

I had bought a pair of red feather earrings a few years ago, intending to wear them as part of an autumn ensemble. I may pull them out again and wear them as a reminder of mom. Blood red feathers leaving not scars on my hands, but sweet memories in my heart and the occasional sting of tears in my eyes.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/15/16: Song

This one is almost so easy and yet so broad a topic I hardly know where to start....

The gift of song has been a part of my life as long as I can recall. Not just music but singing too. I grew up in a congregation and a faith tradition that -- for every other thing I might consider a negative trait -- believed in singing and that you'd best open your mouth to sing, or at least lip-synch. So from nursery school songs like "Jesus Loves Me" and "Zaccheus the Little Man" onward, I always sang. By age 8, I was joining my parents in the congregational choir. We did not have a choir in the traditional sense -- anyone who wanted to sing was welcome to come to the choir loft. And like my mother, I sang alto because ... well, what else was I supposed to sing? 

I found out in junior high.... That was when I was assigned to Advanced Girls Choir as a first soprano. It was two weeks of misery. I begged Mrs. Campbell to move me, I was an alto! Nope, she moved me to second soprano. Another week of torture. Finally, after I cried enough, she moved me to alto .... and after the Christmas concert, told me, "okay, you were right, you are an alto."

Well, technically I'm a mezzo-soprano. Yeaaaahhhh, after all these years, who'd have imagined? I have finally FINALLY gotten to a three-octave range. It took long enough but I can finally go C3 to C6 but I do have to be really warmed up. 

But more important to me than all that is my voice and how precious it has become to me of late. It was six weeks ago today that I sat at my mother's bedside on her last full day of life. I thanked her for the countless gifts shed given me and especially for music -- and song. I told her that I had her voice and how much I loved it. And I do.

Back in the day, my mother's voice was a booming alto -- and if she had a mind to carry a melody or get really into a song? Oh. Mah. Gawd. Axl Rose-like...... Well, back when Axl was worth a damn. And I can do the same, though I aim to sound more like Chris Cornell (that range!) I laugh because one of my fellow cantors had told me last fall to sing out more -- and I had usually held back because I have such a fear of overpowering everyone.

But most important is what my song is...... It is a song of love, joy, sadness, heartbreak, rebirth, pit stops along the way, and hope. My life is my song. I only hope when the last chord is played, it will be a beautiful resolution to everything.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/14/16: Milk

So what can I say about milk?

Not much, really. I drank it as a child but by the time I got to elementary school, the "white milk" in the carton was gross... I wanted chocolate milk in the brown carton instead! White milk (just regular milk) was reserved for home and what was poured over cereal. Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs, anyone? Mmm. 

When I got to junior high, milk was absolutely no longer cool to drink, at all. Tea, yes. A Coke brought in from the canteen, if the lunch ladies didn't catch you. Coffee, we wish. But milk? That was for babies!! I really think that from junior high probably through my late 20s, if I drank even a gallon of milk total, that would be a stretch.

But then in my 30s I grew to like milk again, but only skim -- not so much because of caloric issues but because of stomach upset. Even today, drinking anything higher than 1% milkfat gives my stomach fits. And lately, I've been drinking more unsweetened almond milk, albeit in protein shakes. I tried it once over cereal and GROSS!!!!!

A lot of people aren't milk fans and I won't try to force them into drinking it. People have their reasons for liking or not liking it and I respect that. 

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/13/16: Ink

I think about ink....

No, of course not this kind. Since Thanksgiving or early December, I've been pondering some permanent ink on my inner arm, nearer the elbow. It would be small and something nearer to skin tone. I had planned for it to be there for me to see and those to whom I choose to reveal it. 

But then earlier this week, I saw where Saturday, 4/16 is #ProjectSemicolon Day. And that's exactly the tattoo I had planned to get.... You see, this year marks the 25th anniversary of my own semicolon story. Funny, I don't remember the actual date. Time didn't exactly have much of an impact on me in those moments. I know it was shortly before spring break so I was thinking late February. Originally I had thought the date might have been 2/22/91 but a perusal of the 1991 calendar showed me that was a Friday. I know this event happened on Wednesday -- that much I recall -- because I couldn't call my parents as they were at church. Funny... The day I was going to pick as my commemoration date ends up being the date we took my mom to the hospital this year. Eerie.

Anyway, the short of the story is that I was trying to figure out how to "accidentally" fall off my 6th floor dorm balcony in such a way that I could not survive. The reason now seems very silly and stupid, but when you're 21 and your whole life is DRAMA..... And you're sure that no one will ever possibly understand, no one will ever possibly respect you again, that you have TRULY disappointed everyone simply by breathing.... yeah. I was convinced this world did not need me sucking up oxygen that could be better used by another person who wasn't such a waste.

One person saw me sitting and staring into the black night and said, "Nettie? You ok?" I think he knew the answer was no, but I shrugged, a long shrug as if to say that I didn't even know the answer. So he asked again. Finally, after what felt an eternity, I rasped out a whispered "no." And when I tell you that I do not remember the next three days, it is because I truly do not. I remember vaguely turning the phone off, sleeping for about a twenty-hour stretch at one point. The next thing I remember is that following Sunday night, telling my BFF and her fiancé the story, the first people I told anything to, even before my family. Because, well, they are family, the ones who understood.

I never got around to falling off the balcony. I somehow managed to figure out a way to live and go through the struggle I faced. It was horrible having to rip off the mask I'd created for myself of always having it all together all the time. What a horrid façade to bear. But it beat dying over something so ridiculous as my image of perfection.

Seriously, if you've never read Dan Pearce's blogpost on A Disease Called Perfection, do so. You can find it at his site (singledadlaughing.com), and it is chillingly truthful. 

It has only been in the last couple of years that I've learned that I've had anxiety and depression most of my life. I cannot remember a time when I was not plagued by the thought that I am not _____ enough. I also discovered shortly before Mom's illness that she too had generalized anxiety disorder. Wow, makes sense, huh?

So anyway, I plan to commemorate my Semicolon Story with a nice semicolon tattoo.... but instead of a plain dot on top, I found one that has wings -- a Phoenix , which is so perfect for me I can't even say. Phoenix, a symbol for Scorpios. That late winter night was only the first of many times I've risen from the ashes. It's quite fitting.

Of course, they say you can't stop at just one tat..... So if I do get another or two, first will be the Soundgarden symbol from King Animal. Then the stickman from Pearl Jam.....

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/12/16: Decay

Decay is a natural inevitable outcome of life.

But that doesn't mean it's pretty.... One only needs to watch an episode of The Walking Dead to see that! But I want to talk abou an uglier decay that I see around me: the decay of a home.

The house next door to mine was at some point purchased and/or built by my grandmother's cousin, as a thank-you gift to my great-grandmother for having raised him in his earliest years. After she moved to live with my great-aunt, it was sold to the parents of my mom's bestie.... so in a way, it stayed in the family (or so it felt). 

A good bit of my childhood was spent in that house and in that yard. It was among several of my homes-away-from-home. I knew its interior as well as my own home. I spent hours in the "Florida room" (as Granny B called it) weaving potholders on a metal loom, and playing grocery store in the pantry with the great-grandchildren. 

When Granny B died, my heart sank. I didn't know what would become of her house. There were some nice renters for a few years, then they sold the house to a young married couple -- in fact, a classmate of my brother. She and her husband did a lot of work and made the house beautiful! It didn't look the same as it did in my childhood, but they made it look awesome.

But then they moved, selling the house to a young single mom. When she lived there, things were great. When she didn't and became a landlord, not so much. She came back after a few years with a new husband and kids, and things again were good while they occupied the house......

They once again became absentee landlords, and the house -- to put it mildly -- fell to hell. A caved-in, decayed, rotting heap of wood and siding. Miss Havisham would even say, "Oh, this is just too much, I can't even...."

And I am saddened beyond belief. The absentee landlords allowed it to go into foreclosure. And while you might get it for a song, it would be a nightmare to rebuild and remodel. The Scott twins (Property Brothers) would even walk away from this one. I would want the property myself for sentimental value but only as an addition to the current property. Fence that baby in and give Maddox free reign. 

But it's sort of indicative of how neighborhoods have changed since my childhood. When I was a kid, we knew everyone on the street (for good or bad) and within a couple of blocks too. And now? I know the Queens (diagonal to us, sweet young family) and the Wilsons (two houses down, known them for years). We know Chris & Lynn, daughter of my mom's bestie, who moved back to her childhood home when her dad's dementia got worse. We know the MacRae's who go to church with me. We still know a few of the old families from around a couple of blocks. But I'd be hard-pressed to give you any other names. We don't know the neighbors and they don't know us. Sad.....

But such is the decay of old neighborhoods and old homes in a very mobile society.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/11/16: Storm

I'm one of those freaks who love storms.

Thunderstorms don't really freak me out unless they are right over the house (as in the china cabinet rattles). Otherwise, meh. I'd just as soon sit out on the porch and watch the thunder and lightning. 

I'm not sure why storms attract me. Maybe it's because I'm a bit of a storm myself. There's always a little darkness, heavy cloud cover, loud rumbles of thunder, flashes of lightning when I'm angry..... And when I'm down, it is deep dark grey with low rumblings. One of my favorite scenes in Forrest Gump is when Lt. Dan and Forrest are on the Jenny in the middle of the hurricane and Lt. Dan is screaming out into the sky, yelling at God, "Is that all you've got?" Yeah. All the feels there..... I've stormed and raged at the sky a few times myself.

And the refreshing cool of a storm! Those of us who live in the South know all too well the joy of a summer storm as the humidity has built all day long, if for no other reason than to give us a momentary reprieve from the unbearable wet blanket of the atmosphere. Yes, we know that with 20 minutes it's going to be just as humid again. We. Know. But for those few precious minutes...... Thank you, storm!

For those of us in the Southern Highlands and Mountains, all the Gulf Coast hurricanes which are so awful for our friends there are so beneficial to us. It's where a majority of our yearly rain totals come from. The Atlantic hurricanes don't do much for us, this far inland, unless they're massive (think an Andrew or Hugo). I've seen the horrible damage those storms can do. I've driven in their outer rain bands when I could barely see the car in front of mine. Frightening and yet amazing. 

And storms of the nonphysical kind do not scare me either. I've been through enough of them. I battle my own mind every single day. I fight memories and words and things I said (or worse, didn't say) years ago that I might regret still ..... And I've lived the horror of losing love, of watching it die before my eyes and hanging on to every fraying fiber of hope, only to have the loved one take out the rusty knife blade and cut those cords.... and never once look back in sadness or regret. That was a day when a storm cloud was born in me. There are other days too.... Each created a beautiful righteous fury. 

Oh yes, I love the storm.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/10/16: Hair

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it
My hair
I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy
Shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen, knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied!

One might say I've had a love-hate relationship with my hair for most of my life. As a child, I had thick but baby fine blond hair. Somewhere along the way it got darker, coarse as all heck, prone to the frizzies, and still straight as a stick. My mom spent a small fortune on me from 1983 on to get perms so that (a) I'd fit in with everyone else getting permed to death and (b) to give my poor hair a little oomph. 

In college, I colored and permed, under the watchful eyes of Tee, then Dinah. But then I got a really bad color job and perm and I looked beyond ridiculous. I got it cut once both chemical processes grew out and vowed never again.

I colored again. I went red, mostly, to enhance the natural red undertones that God forgot to finish bringing out. Occasionally blond highlights but I far prefer how auburn looks on me. But perming, no......

Until...... 

I have some natural wave in my hair but it's not enough to do anything but tease.....  I'm at a point where I'm ready for change again. I've also considered growing my hair out -- something I've not even tried in over 25 years. My hair has never looked right at anything longer than shoulder length. But I've had short layers now for 20 years ..... and I'm getting a bit tired of it. If I go through with the grow-out plan, we're talking a year's investment. Oy.......

The one thing I adore about my hair is the thickness. I don't know where that came from. Mom always claimed that she once had hair like mine but I have yet to see the evidence. I remember she had hairpieces (Suzanne Sugarbaker, anyone?) so I'm not sure how much was her and how much in photos was due to the assistance. My maternal grandmother had thin hair too, so..... Dad has thin hair, and Richard (if he'd let his hair grow) would have thicker hair. So who knows? Mom swears that hers began thinning after she'd had a surgery ...... so I was petrified of going under anesthesia! Not to worry.... I've had a couple of operations since with no adverse effect on the moptop.

So anyway, this week I'm meeting with a stylist to discuss options, especially for some oomph. I need a new look and hair may be just the place to start.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/9/16: Fingers

I didn't give a lot of thought to my fingers until recently. Last fall, after 40 years of making half-hearted attempts to play piano (all self-taught), it dawned on me that maybe I ought to consider another instrument. So I thought about 3 seconds before choosing guitar. It wasn't a far leap. Daddy had a guitar for a few months back in the early '90s, lent to him by one of his brothers in the hopes he'd too take up the instrument and join them in some of their impromptu jams at holidays. I found it and took it up, remembering some basic chords that I'd picked up hanging around Todd, Ernie, and Chris. But soon my uncle got the guitar back and my desire and interest waned -- after all, I had my keyboard.

But I do not have keyboard hands. I definitely do not have keyboard fingers unless you count a computer keyboard. I'm damn good at that. But just maybe a guitar and my fingers would cooperate. I started lessons, bought an electric guitar (and a three-quarter size acoustic) and was doing well until Mom got hospitalized. I suspended my lessons, with my teacher's understanding, and had planned to start again this month. 

I've bumped it back until later .... One, I'm out of practice. I truly have not picked up my guitar since the day I took it to play for Mom in the hospital. The lovely callouses I'd built up? Sweet and soft now. 😫 Gotta build those back up!!

But more than just making music, my fingers help relieve my headaches (well, to a very small degree) .... type up stories, letters, reports, you name it ... make jewelry... and probably a million other things that I take for granted. 

And we think of them so infrequently.....

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/8/16: Drunk

Oh mercy.... Do we have to go here?

Oh fine then..... 

I grew up in a completely teetotaling household, my mother's doing. I have no idea what led to her pure hatred of all things alcoholic, but it must have been a doozy. So naturally, one of the bucket list items for college was "get totally fubar."

The opportunity finally arose spring semester when one of my frat brothers threw a kegger. I have never been a beer fan, never got accustomed to the taste or the smell. But wine? Gimme. Mixed drinks? Nummers! So a bunch of us decided that rather than indulge in tapping a keg, we'd make a batch of screwdrivers and enjoy..... And we did. What I remember is (a) we couldn't leave for the party until the end of "Shane" ... Yes, one of my drinking pals learned that the old Alan Ladd western was going to be on that night and insisted that we watch it. To this day, I cannot stand that movie... and I mock it often by saying, "Come back, Shane! Come back!"; (b) about 2:00 AM, I ran into another frat buddy who inquired about my roommate -- my former one, only he didn't know she was a former. And being rather happy-giddy at that point, I gladly spilled the tale of why she was a former roommate; (c) I attempted to play quarters, at which I sucked badly. I spilled my drink. Someone named Melissa mopped it up. It wasn't my friend Melissa Fleck (now Aller) -- I've asked, hoping to thank her, but she says it wasn't her.  All told, it was a fun evening for my first blitzed experience.....

But every high has its low.... That came October 4, 1989. We were two days back from an unintended break thanks to Hurricane Hugo. I think a lot of us were overwhelmed, worn out, saddened, and just put out by everything. So my buddy Todd and I decided yep, we were gonna get good and wasted. He procured some Guinness and I landed a big honking bottle of Bacardi Silver and a 2-liter coke. I had a huge plastic cup (a milkshake tumbler) and proceeded to be my own mixologist.

Now, as you might imagine, having grown up in a teetotaling house, I had ZERO idea -- NONE -- of proper ratios of booze to chaser. Yeah -- you see where this is going, don't you. By my fourth tumblerful, it was far more rum to Coke and I was giggly stupid. Stacey was talking to a frat brother of ours from Clemson, and he'd always been really nice to me. So I chatted him up while she hit the restroom.... I remember him telling me that he'd interned at NCR that summer and I said (in a totally WT voice), "Hell, son, that's like five minutes from my house! Yeaaaaah! No shit!" Poor Stacey had to explain that I was completely drunk off my ass. 

And what goes up must come down.... I came crashing down about 15 minutes later or so (I think, anyway). I came running out of Todd and Ernie's room, crying my eyes out how I'd disappointed everyone. By that point, Stacey was on the phone with Chris (the future hubs) and saying, "I'd better go, she's really wasted. Well, women have different reactions to alcohol. Y'all get pissy, we cry..." The next thing I knew, I'd  changed into a satin spaghetti strapped nightgown and I was sobbing into my pillow. Todd came to the room, sat on the edge of my bed, and the exchange went like this:

T: "Nettie, you ok?"

A: "Oh God, I've disappointed you, I know it."

T: "No, no! It's been rough for all of us. Well, is there anything I can do for you?"

A: "uh huh" (nodding weakly)

T: "What's that?"

A: "MOVE!" 

I've never seen anyone hit the deck so fast in my life.

And every hour on the half-hour afterwards, I worshipped at the Porcelain Shrine, making regular offerings. And just as quickly word spread around the fraternity of my shenanigans. The next morning, my frat brother Nicole (with whom I had an International Studies class) turned around with a huge grin.... "Hey Nettie...."

I was a legend. I was Frank the Tank before there was a Frank the Tank. 

After that, I never got beyond a mild buzz again. I'd learned my lesson. And 26.5 years later, I still can't pass a display of Bacardi Silver without throwing up in my mouth just a little.....

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/7/16: Sister

I'll never forget the day I became a sister....

NO!!! Not that kind of sister, though if I were to be a religious sister I'd be like that group, not like a super-sweet sugary ray of sunshine. Hell no.

No, it was at 8:24 on a bright March morning in 1975. My great-aunt and great-uncle dropped me and my best friend off at our kindergarten class. I knew that by the time they picked me up, I would have a baby sister of my own.... All my other friends at church had gotten baby sisters, so I too was excited. 

Aunt Mary & Pop John (my names for them) came driving up at 11:30 at pickup time, radio antenna festooned with a blue ribbon. I was no fool; I knew what that meant.

We have an expression here in the South:  "pitching a hissy fit." Basically, it's the same as throwing a tantrum but it's more halfway between a tantrum and a meltdown. It can be almost amusing when done by a child and downright embarrassing when pitched by an adult.... Well, that morning, seeing the blue ribbon, I pitched one massive hissy fit. Even my teacher, the normally unflappable Mrs. Cooper, refused to intervene. I think Aunt Mary finally guilted me into the car by threatening me with a spanking in front of all my friends. And I promise, she would have delivered. The old bird was a tough one.

I didn't go to the hospital to see my baby brother and mom had to stay a few extra days due to her surgery (c-section) and a horrendous gallbladder attack the day after the surgery.

I admit, I wasn't much of a good sister in those early years. He was an interloper, an intruder who'd managed to steal the affections of everyone who'd previously lavished them upon me and me alone. But fear not, he managed to get in a few revenge hits now and again. And as adults, we have become rather close. 

41 years of sisterhood..... Can't beat it!!

Oh and one other note..... These Sisters  rock!!!

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/6/16: Villain

Have you ever been the villain of a story-- not just being accused of being the bad guy but actually starring in the role? Have you ever been truly, deliberately cruel to someone ... and how did you feel afterwards?

It is not a great feeling, let me assure you.

I own up to the fact that I'm not exactly the most friendly, outgoing person you'll meet. Even in my early years, I tended to be a bit standoffish and aloof. As life moved on and knocked me around a bit, I became even more guarded and selective about who I let behind the velvet ropes. I wanted only to be accepted and loved for the strange wee lass that I was. 

And then came someone who may have been willing to try just that... to accept me, as I was. Honestly, it scared the ever-loving crap out of me. I'd become so accustomed to being misunderstood and assuming that everyone had an angle or agenda that my red flags went up everywhere. I freaked out badly. 

To be fair, he wanted a serious relationship and I was in no place to commit to such a level. He was not a bad person, but he was not right for me and the time was not right. He would have none of that, none of my polite brush-offs, none of my requests to leave me alone. They all got laughed off. I felt great pity, but that was all. And pity is no basis for a relationship. The pity soon dissolved into thinly disguised contempt as his barrage continued.

Finally, I'd had enough.... He asked for what felt like the four hundredth time, and I flat snapped. I went all Julia Sugarbaker on him before I had ever seen an episode of "Designing Women." Things along the line of I wouldn't go out with him if we were the last people on earth and responsible for the start of the new line of the human race. We'd go extinct.

Well.... There I was, Snidely Whiplash's evil sister. Villainess extraordinaire. Cruella DeVille had nothing on me. To this day, he hasn't spoken to me. Not that I exactly shed a tear over it. 

But it should please him to know that karma is real and she's a bitch. I found myself in a similar situation years later, only the other person was more cruel than I ever was to this other young man. No, my beloved didn't have the heart to be cruel sooner rather than later, and so I spent four-plus years languishing in the misery of "does he or doesn't he?" before learning that it would never be.

We're all heroes at times, and we're all villains as well. As long as we are more heroic than villainous, then our world still has hope.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/5/16: Heart

My heart is a wild, strange thing. It has known tremendous heights and the very depths of hell. It has been stronger than I ever imagined it could be, and as fragile as thinnest glass.

I often consider my physical heart, the one that beats and has kept me alive. I worry a little more these days, having just lost my mom to the effects of heart disease one month ago today. She had parents who died instantly from massive coronary incidents, while hers was more insidious..... first, hypertension, then a small heart attack, followed by atrial fibrillation, and then the myocardial infarction that led to organ shutdown and her passing. My doctor -- already drawing blood every quarter for lab work due to another issue -- is now adding another test to look for additional cardiovascular markers and diseases. One more monster for the anxiety barn....

But my metaphysical heart .... my emotional center and the thing that most defines me .... oh, my heart, how you have suffered and ached all because you could not stop loving. No matter how large I once was physically, my heart was at least 3 times that size, even behind turreted walls and towers of steel. I could lock you away like Rapunzel and yet you grew wings and soared all the more.....

Then you were shot down, plummeting to earth and crash-landing in a pile of thorns. Yet you managed to get up, in some Sacred Heart-like fashion, bruised and battered and still beating. Still loving. Healing as you went, you remained guarded and to this day you are guarded still. I promised I wouldn't give you away so easily, and never again to someone so unworthy of such pure emotion. 

I lavish my affection on my godchildren (who stole my heart from their first day), my dog (delight of my heart), and to music which has been the blood pumping through that mystical heart of mine. Its beats are a life rhythm for me.

Brave and breaking. Victorious and vulnerable. Strong and soft. All my heart.

30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/4/16: Bones

First time I heard the music
I thought it was my own
I could feel it in my heartbeat
I could feel it in my bones

-- "Blame It On The Love of Rock & Roll," Bon Jovi

I used to laugh at my parents or grandparents when they said they could feel weather changes in their bones. When I was diagnosed with early-onset osteoarthritis at age 20, I stopped laughing. And now that I am of a certain age, I not only feel weather changes, I feel cold (primarily) that seeps into bones. I definitely do not laugh anymore!

I'd never had a broken bone until last year, when a toe had to be deliberately broken as part of a foot surgery to remove a bunion and realign some toes. I now not only have a surgically reconstructed foot but metal and Kevlar contained therein. 

But I feel much more than weather in my bones these days. I feel joy and delight, I feel deep pain and especially lately tremendous grief. I have felt sadness so overwhelming that to move brought physical discomfort. I have felt such happiness that my bones radiated warmth throughout my being. I have felt anxiety to such a degree that I felt my skin would break apart and my skeleton run away. 

In my bones -- in the very physical depths of me and beginning to meld with the nonphysical essence of who I am. Bones, not just literal ones, but the endoskeleton of my soul. For every physical entity within me, there is a metaphysical mirror in that core essence, and in that emotional center, I feel things deeply, in my bones. I was afraid I might crumble at times but I am stronger -- physically and otherwise -- than I am even willing to say. I have my limits, and only rarely have I plumbed those depths and touched those boundaries. They seem to stretch and contract as time flies on and rolls across the bones of my life.....

2016 30 Day Writing Challenge 2 - 4/3/16: Teeth

Okay, I admit it - I don't give much thought to teeth in general. I suppose in some ways I've always taken mine for granted. To me, they've always been a strong set of choppers, even with the multiple fillings as a child, redone as a teen and adult and now having to be redone again on occasion (or done as crowns) as I am in middle age.

But I think about what I have done to my teeth over the years besides the standard care ...... the times when I haven't been so kind to them. Breaking them down with sugars over the years. Erosion from all the times I've had to (um) relieve myself, mostly from migraines or during those horrible weeks of gallbladder issues. My gosh, how much acid must have gone across those strong teeth. The grinding that I never thought I did but which my dentist would ask about each visit -- maybe he was trying to get me to think more about my stress levels and my mental and emotional health than about my dental health.  All the plastic tag strings I have bitten through and still do; I have awesome incisors, thank God!

I think about teeth I wish I'd had -- not physical teeth, but emotional teeth. I was such a sensitive child and could cry at the drop of a hat. Still can, if I am in the right frame of mind, but I wish I'd developed a thicker skin and emotional teeth a little earlier in life. I think of the times when I didn't have the teeth to back up what I felt, and so I didn't say anything at all, just taking whatever was dished out....... I hate that it took me so many years to find those teeth and that backbone in life. I hate that I felt such an overwhelming need to be loved, liked, accepted, etc. to such a level that I couldn't bear to be "mean" to people. A toothless turtle. I could snap all day long at people and they'd so "oh how cute..... Look at how cute she is!"

I finally have teeth. And people don't always like when I smile now.