Wintery Mix

No doubt.
This is a season that mixes whether snow and rain or sleet and hail or sun and shadow, it is a mix.
We are in the darkest part of the year, yet expecting light.
We expect cold, and we experience Spring like weather.
All the stores are open for extended hours after Thanksgiving, and then shut - even slammed shut for a quick nap before reducing the prices of merchandise that was of such value before.
We eat all we can stand, only to make a promise for the new year that we won't do that again.
Are we confused?
Probably not - well, not entirely.
A mix is essential for a good recipe.
A mix requires some balancing and it may take some time to get it right.
Maybe our mixes do just that - keep us balanced.
Here's to a balanced new year - trusting all we mix will come out quite well.

We do what we do because...

So, I've been away from the Bloggerhood for a while.
For one thing, I couldn't find it!
As fellow writers know, sometimes, writing is dependent on mood or a muse. 
Well, hope you'll read while I get the kinks out and work to get my thoughts back up and running.
By the way, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you. 

Conventions: Not the frenzied meetings with welcome packets and sign in sheets and name badges, but all the behaviors that surround such as well a multitude of others. Would love to hear of some of your chosen conventions - feel free to be liberal with any of your own invention.

At the university where I teach, my students were to write a paper on the origin and development of a social convention: hand shaking, table manners, greetings, keeping personal or public space, gift giving and such. We do what we have always done for different occasions. Maybe Mom told us it was "the right thing to do." 

Why, it's just how it's done in our family - always has been - I'd miss it. That's how Momma put a meal together, bless her. She mighta' complained 'bout her back, but she was proud to do it. Give her a Goody powder and a beer and she was fine.

IT may refer to pickles or no pickles in the potato salad, always served with cold ham, a relish tray and deviled eggs. 

Not to mention a coconut cake, 'nanner puddin', and sweet tea. Oh, and a congealed salad. 

What? You forgot the ham? You brought what? A chicken - rotissi...who? 

I don't give a damn who cooked it, you shoulda'. Oops, sorry 'bout the cuss word. Lord, forgive me. Have mercy, a chicken and store bought all pent up in a plastic box like such as that is a gonna' feed this brood. 

Who knows who's had they hands on it! It's just not right - why, the whole meal's just a mess now. Might as well just pitch it. Can't eat anyway. Might as well just drive down to the Shoney's on 21 and eat whatever they got (food's probably been sitting there for hours on end - somebody comes by and stirs it now and again, like that freshens it all up.  

Okay, so a little dramatic.  

IT may refer to a phrase, "Hug my neck!" Why should I hug your neck? Has anyone ever just hugged a neck? Seems difficult to hug a neck with any gusto without a strangle hold. But, I know the connotation, so I hug a neck. In like manner, we know when to do the "side hug," "full bodied hug - sincerity that," and even the timing. Guys will give each other the "time's up" with a slap on the back or a squeeze of the neck. One or two seconds past the guy hug time limit is an unspoken convention that guys just know. 

I suggest it worth thinking about, and researching some of our conventions. Do they work? What might we change? This Christmas - well, today is the official day - I paid more attention to our conventions than usual and I guess...NO, I'm sure it's because I just lost my sister to cancer's grip. Such made me really think about my purpose here, and why I do things the way I do things or speak words, or greet others, or schedule my time. 

Her disease dismissed the conventions of the season in her fading world. I made sure she had a Christmas tree weeks before, just so she wouldn't miss that; she may have missed it. I don't know how lucid she was, but probably I had to have that convention during her last days, so I had something I knew well and could count on for stability. Nothing wrong with that. Her last days and death have me thinking. Thanks, sister.  

So, if I or you give up a convention or create a new one, what would that be like? Always maintaining the status quo, while at times a necessity, I admit, may keep us locked in patterns that keep us from being fully who we are. It is exciting to think that there are possibilities, hundreds or thousands, of ways to be or do or speak or think or act that expand our own worlds to embrace life differently. 

Sure, others will respond and possibly with their own discomfort. Remember, that is their choice or convention. Let me hear from you.

Signing in a most conventional style (?)

Most cordially,

Tim

Worthy to live?

     On my Facebook page, I have posted numerous links regarding animal cruelty which is rampant and to find such cruelty within a block of my home only makes the awareness of decisions local officials have made to destroy innocent creatures more horrific. (The intent, unless I'm already too late, is to exterminate beautiful geese so they are not in the flight pattern of the local airport.) It brings to mind an image of the Holocaust of WWII when people were exterminated because they didn't fit in and even that statement is a severe simplification of the dreadful dynamics in play at the time. Relocate them. Make them live in squalor. Don't give them what they need. Humiliate their very dignity. Create a raging hell for them. Keep them off guard. They're targets, but they don't need to know it.

What made such okay? 

Who says it's okay? 

Well, it's NOT okay. 

     Such takes me to Ted, my pup of whom many of you are aware. He is still paralyzed from the waist down and I still have to express his bladder so he can urinate. Yes, he has his struggles and so will I as I care for him, but I don't count him part of our throw away society. He isn't a creature of convenience or a toy that can be found on a recall list; he is a dignified, incredible little guy, a creature who brings light, laughter, joy and unconditional love to my life and the lives of others. People tell me he is spoiled. You better believe he is, and that is exactly how he will stay! Spoiled rotten. His quality of life is my priority.

     "This doesn't work, so pitch it, and get another." "This is not in fashion, so pitch it and buy the latest." We used to have things repaired, or mended; socks were darned; shoes were half soled and polished; cars were okay as long as they got us where we were going; leftovers weren't a choice - they were the next meal and usually tasted better the next day anyway.

     Momma wore the same "winter coat" for forty years; it was her best and it kept the chill off, even it was out of style with it's big oatmeal cookie sized buttons, three-quarter sleeves, beige cashmere fabric with a copper colored, shiny inner lining, all topped off with a white fur collar - smack dab out of 1955. It was the coat that meant things were good in our family's world; it's the coat I snuggled up to as a kid so I could be close to her, smelling her perfume and feeling the luxury of cashmere. Lucille Ball would have been proud to wear it.  

     If we're going to be fully human, it does take sacrifice and putting other people and creatures first. "ME" has become the supreme idol I fear; convenience and wealth are primary goals, and by the way, I want "IT" now, damn it. No waiting please; I'll stand in line for hours and when the next version of whatever it is comes out, I want that too because if I have it, then I ........well, I don't know what that makes a person have or be. And whatever it makes us, how long will that last? A day? Week? Month? Year? Minutes?

     A lady used to sing in my choir. Entering her kitchen one day, there was an old, well worn and somewhat beaten up white kettle on the stove. It was white enamel with bits of paint missing. "This is where I make tea," she said. How many years did she make tea in that kettle? What kind of tea? Did the kettle have an aroma of Earl Gray or Jasmine or the local store's generic black tea? How many memories were attached, reminding her of friends who had shared tea with her from a mug or a china cup along with her incredible home made shortbread? That kettle was a constant. It looked old and loved and used and worse for wear. It was endearing like an old friend, one that couldn't speak in words, but in memory. Sweet. It wasn't perfect, gleaming stainless or oddly shaped to be trendy. It was real - used, tough, substantial, appreciated and had worth, regardless how it looked or how old it was.

     As I said only yesterday to a dear friend in regard to smart phones and the like - sure, they're cool and technology has its place. But, when I bought my first phone in 1982, I bought a desk phone, black with rotary dial. I insisted on it to the lady at South Central Bell, before phones were purchased just anywhere. I can still recall the sales lady really pushing a slim line, push button phone -  how sleek; it's the latest, blah, blah, blah. The black desk phone to me was a classic; it was enough for $25.00 at the time, added dollar by dollar to my $20 monthly bill. It did the job and certainly kept boundaries in place for me, so people could not find me anywhere at anytime like they can today on my Go Phone (no contract please).

     What makes a person, an animal, an object have worth? When and who decides and by what permission does that someone decide such worth is now worth-less? Worth has been deleted, denied, diminished or destroyed. Being fully human and in relation with the earth and its amazing creatures, deeming worth, being worthy. Worth thinking about.

     Thanks for reading.
     Timothy

There's toilet paper on your shoe.

We all know the image.

     Someone comes out of a public restroom, a length of toilet paper in tow, stuck to his or her shoe. Just recently relieved, this dear soul isn't aware of the unexpected accessory following in step like some devoted white, fluffy puppy. Bring this companion to his or her attention, what is the response? :)

"Do you know you have a trail of toilet paper on your shoe?"  OR

"Do you know you have a small seedling of spinach between your teeth?" OR

"Do you know your zipper is down? Love the boxers with the little yellow ducks."

     If you are familiar with the Johari window, then you are aware of the idea that we are not fully aware of who we are entirely, whether it is a behavior, a gesture, a preference or a characteristic or...

     Years ago, my students informed me that every time I made a point in class, I adjusted my tie. Surely not. I paid attention, and I did indeed punctuate my points with a tie adjustment! So, does awareness demand change? I could continue to happily adjust my tie, stop the behavior (if I remembered to), stop wearing a tie, stop making points in class altogether or punctuate points with some other behavior, like clearing my throat or snapping my fingers.  

     To become more fully aware, a catharsis, an epiphany, a wake up call or a jump start are helpful. Such moments of seeing beyond, behind or through the veil of unawareness, ignorance or blessed innocence may be yet other catharses.

     (Yes, "catharses" is the plural of "catharsis"; I looked it up so I would be aware. Now I am. I wasn't aware of its plural form a few minutes ago, so writing this blog became a catharsis, making me aware that I did not know the plural of catharsis, so I chose to become aware because I also realized that if someone reads this, and I misspell the plural form, I might lose credibility, and that would be uncomfortable, so now I'm aware of my insecurity about losing credibility which makes me wonder why that is important in the first place. Will this never end? Probably not. So there.)

     So, can I create a catharsis? I suspect I can if I choose to try something new, read, write down my words as they flow in my stream of concscientiousness. What might new awareness bring about?

     "I had no idea I liked anchovies right out of the can!"

"Imagine that, all of this time I thought I was an extrovert. No wonder being around people actually wears me out."

     My roommate in college was from another country, a country in which wearing deodorant was considered quite unmanly. Without question, with the resulting, almost solidified funk, a person could find our room easily, even blindfolded, in the dark, and walking through the haze of a pizza delivery. We guys in the dorm, suffering his notable "fragrance" felt it best to inform (make him aware) that in this culture, it is okay to not stink, especially if he wanted to actually get some dates, which he did desperately. Yep, awareness brought some real relief: we could breathe and he could date.

     Some would suggest  awareness brings wisdom, positivity and safety; others suggest awareness brings dissappointment, negativity and insecurity. I have experienced both paths, yet I am confident many other paths exist in the light of awareness.

     Finally, I suggest that awareness also finds its way to us in subtle ways. We may never know or know fully why a feeling, belief, habit or any of life's intricacies are made manifest, not that we need to know, but I am intrigued with the idea that the unknown can be unknown, and then present itself, and quite possibly as a gift when least expected. 

Honesty

Honesty - lately, I've been slammed with it. I know it is supposed to be a "good" thing, yet honesty seems like a paper cut, one that slices in an instant right across breath and soul and time; it comes out of nowhere and from people who spout such (honesty I mean) with absolute, pure and innocent abandon. How dare they? How unbecoming. Why, it just isn't done.

 

Coming from deep roots of Southern culture - roots thick and ripe like ropes -protocol and expectation, honesty is indeed admired for its surface appeal, shiny like a pool of water on a lazy afternoon, sun reflecting on it, gentle goldfish submerged, blowing kiss bubbles to the surface, just as they're savaged by razored shark teeth, so quickly devoured as to go unnoticed. Why, not even enough to break a sweat - "fiddle dee dee". Such is the shadow behind much honesty.

 

search for tenderness
it isn't hard to find.
You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

I can always find someone
to say they sympathize.
If I wear my heart out on my sleeve.
But I don't want some pretty face
to tell me pretty lies.
All I want is someone to believe.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

honesty early 14c., "splendor, honor; elegance," later "honorable position; propriety of behavior, good manners; virginity, chastity" (late 14c.), from O.Fr. honesté (Mod.Fr. honnêteté), from L. honestatem (nom. honestas) "honor received from others; reputation, character;" figuratively "uprightness, probity, integrity, virtue," from honestus (see honest). Meaning "moral purity, uprightness, virtue, justness" is from c.1400; in English, the word originally had more to do with honor than honest.

probity early 15c., from M.Fr. probité, from L. probitatem (nom. probitas) "uprightness, honesty," from probus "worthy, good"...

 

http://www.lyrics007.com/Billy%20Joel%20Lyrics/Honesty%20Lyrics.html

 

http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?allowed_in_frame=0&search=honesty&searchmode=none

How much wait is enough?

Waiting...for the water to boil, dinner to be cooked, the mail to arrive, money to show up in my account, someone to read this blog, the nurse to call my name so I can wait for the doctor to come in the room; wait for the day to be over or start.

Days keep coming though and life seems to get in the way of living.

When will I know I have waited long enough and for what or for whom? If I wait too long, I'll miss something, or if I don't wait long enough, I may miss something. 

If I wait long enough, someone will show up, right? Picture a little boy in a play pen, leaning over the wooden side, a red plastic railing supported by wooden posts, the little guy's cow-licked head resting on his open palms. If he waits long enough, someone is bound to stop and notice, right? Someone has got to stop, smile, kiss his head, hug him and be unable to resist his little arms outstretched to be lifted from his confined, soft floored, open-air hut.

Just waiting. Hear it: tap, tap, tap of a pencil or a shoe or the smack-clack of gum, a deep sigh and a breath.

How much longer?

Are we there yet? Such angst from kids - excitement filled with the need, no - the want to be there now - why?

You just wait 'til.......'til what? "your father gets home" - why is that? Mom could switch the back of my legs quite well herself even if I did have to go out and get the switch myself, thinking the skinny switches were the better; they didn't hurt as much, don't you know, kind of like a little kid can't throw much of a punch like a big kid can.

Would you believe that "switch" bush is still alive! It has been over forty years since I harvested my last leg-striping, tiny knobbed switch from it, yet I have driven past the house where I grew up and the thick wad of brown and green thrives, unyielding its clutch of the earth next to the chain link fence, right next to the screen door of the kitchen, an easy harvest for Mom's switches.

At least I didn't have to wait when Mom just went on ahead, not waiting for Daddy, and gave me my lashes, the lashes that made me hold my hands across my bottom, fingers interlaced, my butt cheeks clenched with all the power of a vice grip, knowing with childlike belief that such a gluteal contraction would make any switch just bounce off my behind, wielding no power, having no impact, no pain, no sting. 

Not so. Oh, not so. Not so. Ohhhh, not so.

I'll wait as long as it takes. What are you waiting for?

The wait is worth it... worth what? And is it really worth it? What is it?

Just you wait. I'll show you. Show me what?    

Hurry up and wait........Can you do that?

Your wait time until the next representative is available is - how many minutes? You've got to be kidding.

I think I've put on a little wait.

Pax

I have a "Manual of Prayers" from which I read almost daily. One of the prayers has to do with becoming aware of the very simple messages and clues that come our way daily, clues that are so simple and obvious that I miss them: my stomach in knots, general malaise for no apparent reason, indifference, apathy, validation from others or the withdrawal of validation, or a sense of determined and resolute intention to make things different. 

What would those events be if articulated as words" "Get off your can and do something else. What is it with you? Is your heart blind? Is your soul asleep? Notice what is around you; just what do you think the messages are?"

Of late, I have been dealing with job issues. Lo and behold, my friend Jane's blog today was a reflection on peace, and that maybe creating peace or being peace could be our job. Then, I proceeded to the idea of a peaceful job; I do believe that such is out there, as I have experienced it. Usually I phrase such as "I'm in my element" or "This is where I belong". No, it may not fit another person's idea of a job, occupation nor have the same goals. How could this be my job? It's too easy! Well, could someone else do my job with such ease? 

It appears from the fatted parking lots I see as I drive past stores where many of us shop not only to sustain ourselves and acquire basic needs (food, toilet paper?), but to gather all possible. I often say under my breath as I pass these consumption centers, "When will we have enough?" I'm no different. For years, I have collected stuff; I had to have "it" and now all of the "its" sit on shelves, rarely noticed. As I've gotten older, the stuff has begun to be suffocating. 

I knew a gentleman years ago who had an Estate Sale. An Estate Sale in my book of connotations means that someone died, and now that person's family is ridding themselves of all the stuff they don't want. But, this gentleman was fully alive, just ridding himself of years and years of collected things. Ironically and humorously, he sat in the backyard of his home, sipping tea or wine (don't remember) and had someone else run the sale. There he sat, knowing that many people, all unknown to him, were rummaging through his things, but how refreshing that others found new value in those things, just as he found new value in being rid of them. Who knew he was the owner? Who knew he wasn't dead? 

How liberating to dismiss things so that just maybe peace can become my goal, redefining myself not by things, but by myself alone. (It's time for a yard sale - I've been saying that for over a year. I should pretend I'm dead maybe.) I'll end this missive on a more reflective note. 

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair; hope; 

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, let me sow joy.

St. Francis

Brewing the words............shhh.............

So, brewing words were the last words I wrote and, and I suppose like yesterday's hard perked coffee, you can drink over brewed words, but they might be too bitter to swallow, too hot - tongue scalding. Words are like that - hard to swallow at times. Words heard. Words spoken or words thought. I have taught an effective speaking class many times and caution students all too often to be cautious about what they share. Keep your boundaries where you want them. Are you sure you can comfortably share "that" information?

"Oh sure. No problem. I'm over that." That often refers to some trauma experienced, and certainly forgotten. Sorry, trauma tends to lock itself in memory whether we are aware or not. Speaking has a way of tapping into those memories, wherever they are stored, so that we re-member - put back on our screen, in view, and feel it all again. We put the member back. A trauma, an experience, is a part of us, a member of us.

There's something about speaking the words though. Writing words on paper is one thing, but to speak engages our being, and the spoken word has a power all its own. Inevitably, when some students begin to speak their thoughts, these type-written or hand crafted shared marks of code become a powerful catalyst, a catharsis and a student finds him or herself in tears, unable to speak, lips and chin trembling.

"I don't know why I'm crying! I was sure I could do this."

Such cathartic moments caution me to remember that what I speak can't be retrieved. What I say may expose me - the real me - the true me.

So much discourse is expressed with little thought, but by way of habit and defense and parroting, and if I keep speaking, then maybe "they" won't notice who I am. One of my favorite lyrics is from a song by David Sereda, "It's hard to hit a moving target." Always talking, filling space with sound, is like that, a moving target or a smoke screen. Let me keep you so occupied and stimulated or bored with a simmering verbal broth, one that reeks of such vapid, life sucking vanity that you are more focused on escape than engaging in worthwhile conversation or just being present with me.

We have our scripts, scripts learned as we grew up because these scripts provided needs and wants, however inappropriate or toxic such scripts may have been or still are - a constant cacophony of sound to the point that silence is often deemed of little merit and certainly not productive. Silence seems to be the territory of cloistered nuns or men in a hermitage or eccentric people or the socially unschooled. Quiet makes many of us so uncomfortable and we have unspoken (interesting turn of words) rules for how long quiet should last: a silent prayer, conversation in a group, wait time of any sort. There are places where quiet is acceptable: waiting rooms, elevators, lines in fast food restaurants, public bathrooms and we even have rules to maintain the quiet such as looking in the same direction or avoiding eye contact. Once the security of escape is at hand, we may speak. 

Lately, I have wondered about my own conversations - usually while I'm having them. Are they actually conversations or is this just a monologue? Does the other person have any interest in what I'm saying or is this person's attention feigned so as to avoid conflict and follow social protocol. What would happen if I didn't say this or that or tell a story or recall an event or complain about the price of farm raised, cage free, no use of hormones or antibiotics, free range, organic chicken?  

I'll let you know..............if I decide to say anything about it.

Peace,

Timothy

Square peg - round hole

Square peg - round hole. You can see the little tool bench that kids have played with for years. There is a hammer and different peg things to fit into different shapes in the bench. The point is to find and learn what fits or possibly learn to mercilessly beat the poor peg until it fits. By then, the peg is of little use, the tool bench is possibly broken, the hammer is useless, the child is exhausted or upset or possibly exhilarated. Something just doesn't fit in this picture, aside from the peg flattened beyond recognition.

Thank goodness I never tried to be a mechanic. Well, once, while under direct supervision, I did change the spark plugs in my cobalt blue 1987, stick shift, Nissan Sentra. Note the word "once". I have and need only one tool for any and all repairs whether for my car, home, appliance or mortal flesh: a debit card. It's small and convenient, and I can carry it around without the need for a tool belt. It works for me. It's a fit. 

The 5/8" wrench socket adjustable flat-headed with extra grip capacity thingy is probably dandy, but I don't get it. Spreadsheets, while providing valuable information - so I'm told - would better serve as coloring book pages in my world. I don't even have to color the page; let's smell the crayons and remember grade school years and the day Mrs. Glass told me my coloring was so grand because I stayed in the lines. She held up my paper, and revealed the perfectly red colored circle to the whole class. I could not have been more proud. Had she asked me to measure the circumference or radius of the circle (I can't believe I actually remember those words.), I would have certainly shut down, head on desk, given up. 

Puh-lease just let me color the circle.

Such is life. We tend to do what we think we should do even if it does not match what we can do. How many times have I attempted such? It has taken a life time, but just maybe I am finally getting comfortable with the idea that what I can do is what I should do. For whatever reason: perfectionism, a little OCD, expectations from others, Depression era parents' work ethic, harsh self judgment; regardless, my long held belief is that "it" isn't worth it unless it is difficult or hard or unpleasant just like medicine simply does not work unless it tastes like reptile waste-laden swamp water.  

Why shun that which comes easily? Think of the ease with which a freely given gift comes. There is little effort on my part. It is grace-full-y given for me to enjoy. 

So, what fits for you? What gift do you have that you can embrace fully, one that you put off far too often, one that lightens your step or affords you breath when you have time for it? 

Appraising English silver.

Cleaning floors until they are like mirrors.

Learning a new Chopin "Nocturne"

Listening to a hurt soul.

Selling tools, hardware, and spark plugs. :)

Watching children color.

Making cakes (coconut please)

Mailing out debit cards.

You decide...

I know that when I write, I can relax and sense peace and be fully present. Should my keyboard or mouse or PC have a moment of rebellion, I have a debit card, a pad of paper and a pen.  

Pax tecum - Peace be with you.

Timothy

Change

I work in academics, and have for the past thirty plus years - hard to believe. My students range in age from 19 to mid 60's. Chatting with my younger students, those in their twenties, I tend to think I'm right there with them, in the same generation, sharing many of the same memories from the last five decades: world events, music, "slang of the day", using just books, periodicals, and newspapers for research. We communicate well. But, those moments help remind me that things have changed. My, haven't they changed. Yet, I take joy in describing events, things and how things were done years ago - just to see the reactions.

Yes, we had to type our research papers on typewriters, some manual and some electric, and there was no White Out, only erasers or these odd powdery slips of paper to type on, hoping to cover up a mistake by retyping the mistake over the mistake to cover it up in order to correct it. 


Yes, there were eight track players, and I was so proud to have one installed in my 1970 Buick, especially since this fine LeSabre had only AM radio.


A '45? Well, that's a record. A record? Well, that's a vinyl, round...it's a CD.


Yes, televisions looked like furniture. We had three channels. The picture was black and white - all the time.


Yes, a telephone was attached by a cord, and the phone was attached to a wire that ran through the house and out to a telephone pole and if you weren't home when the phone rang, you missed the call - just missed it. 


Yes, someone actually pumped the gasoline for you, washed your windshield, checked your oil, was courteous and wore a uniform - all that and it didn't cost extra.

The list could go on and on....and it may later on...just have to remember it all first.

My students laugh; they find much of it hard to believe. I find it hard to believe that I'm old enough to say, "thirty years ago..." since in my mind (sometimes), I still have a 33" waist, jet black hair, and cash a check at the grocery store for $5.00 for the week's pocket money. Then, I stop long enough in front of a mirror to look and wonder just who in the hell that guy is looking back at me! He has some lines on his face, grey hair and a white goatee. He's wearing conservative clothes, has no tattoos or piercings and still polishes his shoes.

He's the guy to whom I would say "Yes, sir" and see at the front of the classroom, lecturing about composition and literature. Well, that guy IS me - thank goodness I've made it this far! Yep, I have changed, typed plenty of ibid's, driven a land yacht on $2.00 worth of gasoline and all but strangled myself on the telephone cord.

Becoming comfortable with who I am today, settling into the grey while using a cell phone and taking out a loan for gasoline is okay. I think owning the fullness of who we are, with piercing honesty, feeling fully, being awe-fully human is a great gift to ourselves and a great gift to others.

What will change next? Hmmmm...............................