Things I want to keep in mind.

Month: February, 2017

I wish you were a pinata

Hold on to your joy…I wish you were a pinata.  Yes, I was looking through Pinterest quotes for inspiration on what to write about today.  I always tell myself, I will only look for a minute – I’ll take the first quote I like.  THEN, I spend 20 minutes going from board to board — my eyes start to dart around the pages and I don’t write a thing.  It is like my ADD is on crack.  I thought it was amusing that my eyes went from the “joy” quote to the “pinata” quote – because sometimes that’s how my day goes.

Let me explain.  I often find myself looking beyond what I have — feeling as though I’m missing something; feeling as though I am not accomplishing anything; constantly searching for that ONE passion that will take me to the end of my days on the stream of peace and contentment.  I’m searching so hard and trying to hold on to my joy so tightly, that I’m choking the poor thing out!  I wish you were a pinata so I could pound you into submission and achieve my joy.

“The Five Love Languages”  list the languages as: 1. Words of Affirmation; 2. Acts of Service; 3. Quality Time; 4. Physical Touch; 5. Receiving Gifts.  I think there should be a sixth; Sarcasm.  That one is mine — if I like you, I will tease you and joke with you with quick whips of humor and sarcastic remarks.  I will find something amusing in everything I see and hear.  I am at my best when I can make you laugh with my quick wit – I feel refreshed and at peace once I know I can instigate a good belly laugh.  That is a wonderful thing.  However, there isn’t much call for humor/sarcasm/wit in common life.

I’m a little old to become a stand up comedian and I find that when I am TRYING to be funny it doesn’t work as well as when it flows organically/naturally.  Same goes with humorous writing – I have to have a topic that I feel sarcastically passionate about or it just doesn’t roll.  But humor and laughter are something I will always feel good about and I can access it anytime I want – I just need to watch daily life events.  There is always something humorous going on if you watch for it and I am always watching.

As a child, my favorite actor was Jerry Lewis.  I loved his silly physical humor and I would imitate him all the time.  As I aged, my hero was Robin Williams.  Who could keep up with that wit?  I find re-runs of “Friends”, “The Office” really entertaining.  If I’m feeling down, I will watch “Whose Line Is It Anyway” and just roll out of my funk.

Yes, humor and sarcasm are definitely my love language.  If I ever make fun of you (and only in a nice way), it means that I like you.  Kind of like in junior high.



Things feel out of sync.  There are crazy weather events.  The country is in the middle of a major (and frightening) leadership shift.  Fear and anxiety are around every corner.  What is going to happen to our money, our jobs, our schools, our children, our retirement?  Social media is becoming political media.  On one day it feels like we are living out  the George Orwell novel “1984” and another it feels like we’re starring in the movie “Idiocracy”. Run Forrest run!

Eventually, we must press pause.  If we don’t, we’ll drive ourselves crazy.  Think about it.  Isn’t that what is being thrust at us?  Frenzy causing fear?  If you scare us enough, sooner or later we’ll stampede and then you have total control???

Press pause.  We still have children to raise, jobs to perform, lives to live.  Yes, pay attention to what is happening around you and prepare for the day when you must stand – but let your heartbeat at a normal pace.  Be watchful.  Be quiet.  Live.

As I write this, that little voice is whispering, “But, what if?….”  I can’t (and shouldn’t) stifle the voice completely.  What if I press pause?  Hold that thought.  Think of something else more pressing, more real, more in the moment.  Go for a walk, check in with a friend, read a bit of fiction, sort through my old useless clothes, sort through photographs, listen to my favorite music, talk to my children/grandchildren.  As with most televisions or blue ray players – most “machines” will eventually begin playing again.  They won’t stay paused forever – and neither can we.  BUT we control the pause button, don’t we?


Ahhhhh, early morning.  It is dark outside and so bright and clear inside.

When I was a young girl, I can remember rare mornings when I would awaken early.  I would tiptoe into the kitchen to find my mother sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette and writing a letter.  Of course, she would send me back to bed and I thought it was for my benefit – so that I would get more rest but, no.  I was interrupting her reverie.

Mom was a quiet woman.  She did not speak loudly or with exuberance.  If she was angry she could certainly yell but, as a general rule, she was soft spoken.  I would guess that her letters were very loud at times.

She wrote to her parents and her sister, Dorothy, almost daily.  In return, she received letters as well.  Since mom has dementia, I can no longer ask about those bygone days, I have no way of knowing what she wrote about.  I suspect she told her sister everything – Dorothy was her one main outlet for expressing her frustration, her dreams, her disappointments.  But there is no way for me to know – their letters to each other were like a private garden meant only for the two of them.

As mom’s illness progressed, she tried to continue writing.  She would write all the things that she wanted to remember but knew that she couldn’t.  A journal was on her table, each page with scribbled notes: names of people she heard something about, places she heard about on television, some other note that lost importance hours later.  By the time we moved her into the memory care facility a year and a half ago, she could no longer sign her name.  Writing was a lost pursuit.

When visiting my mother, you will either find her lying in her bed or sitting in her chair, with her head in her hands – staring at the floor.  Her eyes are vacant and there is no recognition.  My sister and I have speculated that my mother probably does remember us but as children or at a younger age.  When we say our names, she tries to make the connection but we are strangers to her, far too old to be her children.   If one of her grandchildren come to see her, she expects to see them as little ones and to see them as adults just doesn’t make sense.  Of course, there is no way for us to ever know for sure.  She can’t tell us what she is thinking, feeling, hearing or seeing…she can’t write it either.