When Things Don't Matter Which Things Still Do?

When things don't matter, and the only things that matter aren't things, you start looking around at the items you worked so hard to accumulate and realize that they could all be threatened by fire and flood, and you'd grab the people in your life snd gladly let the rest of it vanish in smoke and water.

Then your mind stumbles on that one, old ragged item that you would cry to lose, and if the people were safe, you would actually snatch up and carry away with you.  In my case, it would be a threadbare, faded, stuffed chimpanzee that went from my mom's college dorm room, to my childhood bedroom, and still sits on my shelf, still stained with my tears when first grade proved a scary unfriendly place, and with her ear still holding my whispered hopes the first night I kissed the man I've now been married to for 35 years.

That makes me think of the other thing that would matter.  They aren't the things that can be bought for money, of course not, those are insured and a trip to the market takes care of the issue. The things that matter are those that are one of a kind, hand made, shared with loved ones, passed down through generations. The stories we hear from Grandparent laps to grandchildren ears. each generation gently shaping and adding their own features to a whole that still remains recognizable.

following the youtube video my granddaughter and I drew Cinderella, and hers became a Cinderkitty so we laughed and created memories along with the paper pictures

We went to story time and our octopus shared the same beginning but quickly became our own, and maybe in the future, if climate change allows a future, her grandchild might make an octopus and just maybe they won't be extinct.  People matter, the humanities that allow us to choose kindness matter, the boredom we experience when we unplug allow us to de-tox from the political trash heap and find the spark of beauty we carry.  "We are humankind, and we can choose to be both."

Camping in Nano Land again

At Splash, Springfield

Garden Pirates

painting Desert Sunrise

Writing has been difficult for me.  Once upon a time it took me ten years to finish a novel, so the fact that I'm in another low energy slump isn't surprising.  I love telling stories to kids, and exploring them in my own mind, but the translating to a finished novel is WORK.

NaNoWriMo with its rigid timeline, helped me publish four novels but the last three Novembers have each been interrupted by the death of a parent or my spouse's parent, and writing ceased.

Recently I gave myself permission to doodle in paint.  Its something I never do, because I know I can paint well, not the best but far from the worst, but I chose other activities to make my life work and my dedicating 20 or more hours per painting was over.  Finally, I went to a painting party, a three hour limit, and a lot of that time spent visiting. I only went because my book club was all going, but I loved it.  Lately I've been dreaming of compositions for more complex paintings, but Ive also been doing half hour paintings with my five year old granddaughter.

I decided, after several failed attempts on the same novel, that perhaps my writing needed similar permission to just be, casual, wandering, short stints at the keyboard.  Camp Nano allows that flexibility and instead of a word count, I chose to aim for half an hour a day in July, writing mostly inspired by the objects I've carried with me through my life, in a jumble I've titled, "self-storage."

It's a simple, fun goal and still I've had to forgive myself some skip days. And it's working.

So I'm playing at writing, Playing at painting, and playing with Grandkids.

Tumbling class

I'm still dealing with my health, and no diagnosis, plus now high blood pressure, but Life is still good.

I hope you, too, are getting away from the news and making time for the activities that refresh you. If you have, I'd love to hear about it.

I love being her Grandma.

There is this girl I love intensely. She calls me Grandma, and lately she gave me, what is undoubtedly the most wonderful compliment I've ever received. She was standing in font of the mirror and I was a couple rooms away, when she called to me, "Grandma, you know what I like about me?"

"I like everything about you. What do you like?"

"When I see me - It reminds me of you."

I choked up, tears instantly springing to my eyes.  There is a lot of amazing beauty in my granddaughter, but there is also a lot of leftover doubt and self loathing in me from my early school days when I was the target of more bullying than I could easily recover from. 

"I remind you, of you?" I questioned

"Yes, we are both Strawberry blondes, and we have the same freckles and the same pink in our skin, and we smile a lot."

She came around the corner then, and clambered up on my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. I've never felt more blessed, or more loved as she nearly choked me with a hug and dropped a copy of "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom" into the chair next to us, "and we both love Daddy and Grandpa and BOOKS!" 

searching for leprechaun Tracks

St. Paddy's world of beauty

So Yeah, if the size of our smiles and what we love is her measuring stick, then being the same, is just perfect.

Writing ???

 Are you still a writer when you aren't writing?

I see that question often in the writing groups where I hang out online, and I have to tell you, I am.

I may not be able to answer for everyone, but for me, eve when I'm not writing, I am. I'm listening, seeing, thinking, and stories are simmering in the subconscious mind.  I'm a writer because everything translates itself into potential stories, everything connects until the universe is only one story and all those dots are only awaiting the lines to stretch between them and show everyone the big picture that was already there.

I'm a writer because I believe stories can generate what our world needs most, the empathy to know that under all the surface skin we see everyday, lies a strong skeleton we are all connected through, a river of red blood and hearts that beat separately yet in a tune so glorious we can't hear it and fail to love.