What I Accomplished

Ok, so I finally got up the nerve to take a few minutes and work.  One painting (the yellow) is a mixed-media that I am not sure is finished  yet.  The second is just an abstract of the overall gray of my feelings mixed with reds of frustration and blues of sadness and greens of inspiration.  At least I got something done.

The Struggle

This blog was originally supposed to be a journal of my struggle to regain my artistic side.  It has turned into a jumble of other kinds of posts, but today, I will speak on my struggle.   I have paints, canvasses, brushes, mixed-media supplies, beads, jewelry tools, oil pastels, sketch books, pencils, colored pencils, and watercolors.  I even have inspiration, which I jot down dutifully when it strikes in my iPhone notes section.  What I lack, is motivation.  I simply can't get myself to pick up a brush, a pencil, some wire for jewelry.  I have painted 3 paintings, but they were all done in March and April and since then, nothing.  I find myself staring blankly at the TV instead, or mindlessly looking out the window, or doing mundane housework.  I just feel....guilty about taking the time for myself to work on something I love.  It's the same with writing, my novel is 3/4 of the way done, which is great, but the only reason that gets done is that writing is one of my major forms of therapy.  I journal a lot and the writing is something that comes easily, naturally, where as the art---it's more of  a process.  I never know what the final outcome will be and I never know if I'll be happy with it.  I feel like it's so unworthy of people's attention, that it's insignificant and unimportant.  The thing is, when I actually do it, it feels good.  I feel alive and awake and inspired and connected.  I feel my emotions coming through the brush strokes and I feel that the image on the canvas can speak.  I just put my toddler down for a nap.  I have one painting, a mixed media, that needs finishing.  I'm nervous, I'm anxious, and I'm scared to go and pick it up.  But I'm going to try.

An Open Letter to the LGBT Community from a Carolina Girl...

An Open Letter to the LGBT Community from a Carolina Girl...

I am sorry.  I have to admit that when I first heard about the "Bathroom Bill" I got scared.  I was willing to accept it, but I had my reservations.  I have five kids, three of whom use public bathrooms on their own most of the time.  What if some maniac dressed up like a woman and went into the bathroom and accosted my daughter?  It wasn't the transgender population I was worried about, but those "millions of maniacs" that might take advantage.  I didn't think.  I got suckered into the scare tactics.  I didn't do my research and find out that in many other states and counties that have passed bills supporting the transgender community and their right to use the bathroom that aligns with their gender choice, there have been NO reported cases of any degenerates using the bathroom to accomplish evil deeds.  As for my children, it is my responsibility to parent them.  Maybe I shouldn't let them use the bathroom alone at all.  You never do know who will be in there and it's my job to put their safety first and accompany them.  I wasn't considering how dangerous it could be for YOU, the transexual or transgender individual, to use the bathroom.  To walk into a restroom looking like the opposite sex.  YOUR safety is an issue and I apologize for not seeing that initially.  I am ashamed of what North Carolina has done.  Most of the people I meet here are open minded, caring, compassionate people.  I think that this bill was a knee-jerk reaction that wasn't thought out.  I hope it gets repealed.  Please know that, now and in the future, I will stand with you.  I'll even save you a place in the bathroom line.  

Just another day...

In my quest for creative freedom, I thought it might be helpful to share just what I'm up against.  Let's start with Tuesday night.  Cue 1 a.m. wake up of the 3 year old, with full on tantrum screaming in a night terror that lasted 20 minutes.  During this time, I have to hold him in full restraint from behind so that he does not bite and scratch the crap out of me.  I finally get him to bed when the toddler wakes up.  He had his vaccinations on Wednesday morning, so of course, he is going to wake up screaming with slight fever and extreme crankiness.  Around 5 a.m. I get them both back to bed.  Climb into bed myself.  Cue 6 a.m. wake up of my daughter who is getting ready for school.  Off she goes by 6:30.  I head back to bed for 2 hours while my mother-in-law (who I am grateful to for sleeping over) gets up with the babies.
Our new sitter starts today so that I can attend my writing group.  At writing group I am literally slurring my speech and feel like I am going to fall asleep in my latte.  Fight my way through, share some writing, give some feedback, and then I'm heading back to the house to relieve the sitter.  Toddler refused to nap for her, so I put him down for a shortened nap because I have to leave an hour after I get home to pick up my teenager from school early so that he can babysit so that I can take my daughter to a doctor's appointment.  A three year old who insists on running through the office jumping on chairs and a toddler who screams the entire time are my joy as I try to dismiss my eldest from school.  I leave, spewing apologies to the office staff, when my three year old tantrums in the foyer because the door with the handicapped button has already been pushed and we have to wait for it to close so that he can push the button himself.
Home again to get my teen settled with the babies, pound down 2 mugs of coffee and a 5 hour energy because I can't keep my eyes open, then off to the doctor with my daughter.  Nothing major wrong, just a slight virus, but she should stay home for the next day.
Wednesday night, bedtime.  Toddler goes down without a problem, but my threenager is repeatedly getting out of bed.  Trying to stick to the recommended system of walking him back to his bed, but have done it so much, I've already walked 1/2 mile in my own house, so I lay down with him until he falls asleep.  Quick bath because I deserve one and I haven't showered in two days, then off to bed.
Cue 2 a.m.  and I hear banging.  Said threenager is up, has turned on all the lights, and is cleaning his room and losing his shit because he can't make his bed "just right".  Convince him to come to my room to sleep, he brings with him a blanket and his now stripped off pajamas.  They must remain in a ball in between he and I in the bed and I mustn't touch them in anyway.  Try to fall asleep on 1/4 of a mattress and no pillow.
Next morning, doctor's appointment for me.  Waiting for the sitter, I happen to glance at Facebook and see I have a message.  She isn't going to make it, her daughter is sick.  It is now 25 minutes before my appointment that takes 20 minutes to get to.  Throw a diaper bag together, put jackets over the toddler and threenager's jammies, and put them in the car.  Last minute, remember to put stroller in the car.  Forgot the diaper bag.
Get to the doctor's office and it is literally the size of a closet.  No room for a stroller, though I jam it through the door anyway.  Cue toddler screaming that he wants out of the stroller.  Try to distract him with YouTube videos of trains.  9:15 appointment.  Get seen at 9:45.
Nurses insist on taking the babies and my daughter out of the room "so the doctor can concentrate".  I can hear them screaming down the hall the whole time.  Finish with the doctor, nurses bring the babies back.  My toddler is literally climbing up one woman as she tries to hold him, like trying to hold a feral cat.  I apologize profusely.  They feign understanding, but I can see "get the fuck out" in their eyes.
Driving home, my head is pounding and I am holding the steering wheel so tight my right hand goes numb.  Trying to practice my yoga breathing, but all I can think of for a mantra is "fuck".  Try to go Seinfeld with it and "serenity now" my way through.
Toddler falls asleep on the way home.  He's down for a nap now, and though I have told them repeatedly to stay downstairs, my threenager and daughter are having belly races down the stairs.  It's only a matter of time before they wake him up.  I've accomplished nothing today, save this blog, which I am writing so that I don't go insane.  I daydream of time management skills and setting boundaries as I down another cup of coffee.

Lame Duck

O.K. folks, here we are, officially in "Lame Duck" season...the time between Christmas and New Year's Eve when resolutions are born and old habits prepare to die.  I've never been one to make and keep resolutions, but this year, I'm holding myself accountable.  I really need to change my mindset.  I'm constantly stuck in this vicious circle of "brilliant" ideas that never come to fruition, closets that never get organized, kid crafts that go horribly wrong, and general malaise for everyday life.  I'm a dreamer, I spend most of my day day-dreaming of what I could be doing, should be doing, but I just hang there like a dense fog, taking up space and doing nothing.  I started this blog (years ago now) after a recommendation from a therapist to journal to motivate self-change.  I have a notebook, a sacred notebook, that I keep with me always, but it's meant for ideas, not the mundane chaos of my daily life.  I was supposed to write on this blog, to put myself out there---his thinking was that if I made my ideas public I would hold myself accountable and actually produce the things I wrote about.  Not so, my friends.  My brain is far too tricky for that...first I would only write about things I had  finished already, then I put off writing altogether because I knew I'd never accomplish the things I was writing about.  That brings me back to New Years Resolutions.
I'm like an old car...one that you have to roll and then kick-start while shifting gears.  I need momentum to get going.  I can't just whip out a resolution on New Year's Eve and start it the next day.  So I'm taking this time to build up my momentum.  Putting this experiment out there is actually kind of scary.  The accountability.  I second guess myself so often that I talk myself right out of doing the things I want to do.  This time though, I have a plan.  I've joined some online FB groups that support creativity, I bought a physical day-planner so that I can mark off and see the time I have to work on a project, and I'm in the middle of hiring a reliable sitter.
I'm hoping that this project, this time I will spend "Wrestling My Muse", will be therapeutic as well.  I tend not to be too public about it, but I do have a mental illness.  It's getting worse, not better, with age and I think that some of my depressive episodes can be linked directly to not giving fruition to an idea that's nagging me on the inside.  That said, I know that in my manic moments the ideas flow forth from an unfettered faucet and I can scarcely keep up.
So that's it friends, I'm officially on the mat.  Wrestling my soul to the ground to eek out whatever nuggets of beauty may reside inside. Wish me luck.

Reviving "Five Ways"

"Sometimes you put walls up, not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down"
-Socrates

Social Media is supposed to bring people together, but how often do you really connect with somebody online?  Our communication has been broken down into "like" and "dislike" buttons, short acronyms, emoji's, and one line responses.  How often do we mindfully attend to those around us?  To our social circles online?  How often do we come away from reading our updates feeling full-filled?

We have witnessed many stories over this year of violence and unrest because people feel they are not being heard.  They feel alone, angry.  They turn to violence because it is the only outlet that receives attention.  Occasionally though, there is that one story.  The one person who stopped a chain of horrific events with one act of bravery.  The one person who prevented a suicide with a simple act of kindness.  Lives can be changed.  Because of one person.

That moment when you connect with another human being can alter your thinking and change the course of your life.  When it looks as though there is nothing left to live for, when the future looks bleak, a smile, a wave, a friendly glance can repair a soul and feed a starving heart.

Taking a moment to be present in your life can have a ripple effect.  Your kindness leads to another kindness and another until there are waves of kindness sweeping the nation.  We all want to be heard. We all want to be recognized.  We all want to know that we matter.  To someone.

Last year around this time I tried a little experiment called "Five Ways".  I asked friends on Facebook to choose 5 people to private message.  Five people that they hadn't spoken to in a while, or maybe had recently had a falling out with.  I asked that in that message, tell the person in a short letter five ways that that they have had an impact on your life.  Anything from them having shared the best recipe for sugar cookies to having cheered you up with a funny meme when they thought you were having a bad day.  I think that today is a great day to bring that back.  Let's focus on what's really important:  those people that touch our lives.  This year I would like to dedicate the "Five Ways" campaign to my dear friend and former student, Peter Benn.  Peter taught me to slow down and appreciate the simpler things in life:  holding hands, laughing, singing, snuggling, and how important it is to know that you can always "lean on those you love".  Please take a moment and join me in this endeavor.  Scroll through your email lists or your phone contacts or your FB friends and chose five people to reach out to.  Tell each person five ways that they have touched your life, helped shape who you are, or how they may have helped you without even knowing it.  It only takes a moment and it could mean the world to somebody.  Many people fight silent battles every day, battles that nobody around them knows they are fighting.  A kind word from a friend, even if you haven't spoken in years, can be just the thing that turns their lives around.  If you know about hashtags, you can re-post this with the hashtag #fiveways.

Flash Fiction Friday

Having just come off of a month of writing with NaNoWriMo, I'm trying to keep the momentum going with a "Flash Fiction Friday".  I've never tried to write a "crime" story before, so I thought I'd give it a try.  If you have the time, I'd love some feedback. 

The Job

He wakes up at five in the morning with a heavy heart.  Silently, as to not wake his wife, he slides out of bed and dresses; she murmurs “I love you” in her sleepy state anyway.  He goes to the kitchen, starts the coffee, and brings the steaming mug out onto the back porch.  The crisp morning air helps him to wake and he looks out over the trees at the rising sun.  He says a silent prayer, finishes the coffee, heads inside.  He grabs his keys, locks the doors, and starts the car.

At work he checks in and is given his assignment.  He fills a Styrofoam to-go mug with less-than-stellar coffee and nods to his coworker who’s heading out the door.  The place is bustling with activity, even at this early hour.  He keeps his head down to avoid the perky receptionist, who always has too much to say.

Today he’ll be working the rural areas, down by the schools, the back roads and the quiet homes.  He can’t help it, but he feels a certain relief in that.  Quiet is safe.  Quiet is good.  That said, he never shies away from Danger.

The Man gets in his car and starts to drive.  The sun is now fully in it’s rightful place in the sky and the world is live with October color.  It’s kind of relaxing, driving with the sun shining and the brilliant leaves blowing by.  He circles through the first neighborhood.  Children are out waiting for buses.  Mothers in big sweaters and pajama bottoms hold steaming mugs as they watch over their babies.  Most of the kids wave as he drives by and he waves back with a smile.  For the little boy in the blue house, he flashes the lights.  Just once.  

Out of the neighborhood he continues his route.  Down the winding back roads he comes behind a silver Honda, speeding, but not recklessly.  He falls in behind the car, pacing it.  The driver notices and slows to a near crawl.  At the the fork in the road, they go their separate ways.

Another road, another neighborhood.  He crawls through, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  Most folks are off to work at this point.  He guards their treasures while they are gone, one house at a time, until he’s sure all is well.

Back at the neighborhood entrance, he falls in line behind a white Oldsmobile.  He can see The Driver glancing once...twice...three times in the mirror to look back at him.  Instinct and protocol, those are the two things The Man has to go on, and this time instinct is telling him that something is not right.  The driver turns left.  So does The Man.

The Driver drives slowly, almost too slow, following the winding road farther and farther from the houses, then pulls suddenly into the school parking lot.  The Man stays behind him.  As he drives, he types The Driver’s license tag number into his computer.  Nothing comes up.  But still, that nagging feeling is there.  The Driver parks.  Sits for a minute.  He’s looking around a lot, glancing back at The Man who keeps his car running a few yards away.  The Man can see The Driver now, he’s young.  Maybe twenty.  Maybe younger.  The Driver cracks a window and starts to smoke, then suddenly puts his car in gear and pulls off.  The Man follows.

They drive further down the road, to a less populated area.  The Driver starts to pick up speed, he’s weaving slightly over the line at the curves in the road.  Still pacing the car, The Man makes note of the speed.  “That feeling” is washing over his body.  Something is not right.  The Driver is now looking back at The Man more than he’s looking forward.  The Driver misses a stop sign at an empty intersection.  Now is The Man’s chance.

He flicks on the lights and siren.  The car speeds up for a moment, then slows and pulls off onto the shoulder of the road.  The Man makes notes on the make and model and calls in to headquarters that he is making a traffic stop.  Still “that feeling” is eating at him.  He says one more silent prayer and opens the car door.

One hand on his weapon, the other in a non-threatening open gesture, he approaches the driver’s side door of the Oldsmobile car.  He can see The Driver, just looking down, head hung low.  The window is still up.  The Man reaches out and knocks on it three times.

No response from the driver.  Not even a flinch.

The Man knocks again, this time shouting a little to be heard, “License and registration please, Son”.

Nothing.

“That feeling” is welling up, but duty pushes him forward.  He can see now that The Driver is no more than a teenager, maybe eighteen.  His hands are on his lap.  The Man leans forward to get a better look inside the car.  He sees a blue duffle bag on the front seat.  A long black raincoat in the backseat.  He can faintly hear music playing.

This time The Man shouts quite loudly “Son, you need to step out of the car.  Now.”

The Driver turns to look at him, his eyes blank, his mouth in an eerie crooked smile.  He rolls down the window.

“Sorry, Officer.  My favorite song.  What did you say?”

The Man repeated his request, stepping back in the proper stance, hand still on his weapon.  The Driver smiles again and turns to reach across himself and unbuckle his seat belt.  He then unlocks the door and kicks it open.  The Man flinches for a second, only a second, but doesn’t react more than that.  The Driver steps out of the car, then leans against it, cocky.

“What’s the problem officer?” he asks, with a wry smile.

“You blew through that stop sign, son.  Didn’t you see it?”

The Driver just stares at him.

“Please turn around, son.  I’m going to detain you and search your car.”  Protocol.

The Driver laughs.  “The hell you are.  I haven’t done anything wrong.  Just write me a ticket.  I know my rights, Officer”.  He says the last word with a drawn-out snarky drawl.

“Kid, turn and face the car” the Man repeats, keeping his tone strong and even and reaching behind him for the cuffs.

The Driver hangs his head, as if in defeat.  Then everything changes.

The Driver lunges at The Man, knocking him back but not over.  They start to struggle.  The Man repeats his command for The Driver to put his hands behind his back.  To stop resisting.  The Driver headbutts The Man square in the chin and then suddenly The Man feels a sharp burning in his arm.  He ignores it and wrestles The Driver to the ground.  With his knee in The Driver’s back, he twists the kid’s arms behind him and applies the handcuffs.  The kid is swearing and spitting and calling The Man every foul name in the book.  The Man hits the button on his shoulder, calling for back up.  He hoists The Driver to his feet and pushes him front first into the back of the car.  He spread the kid’s legs and pats him down from head to toe.  He finds a wallet and a pack of mangled cigarettes.  With the kid spitting and still spewing obscenities, he carefully places him in the back of the cruiser and closes the door.  

The Man realizes that his arm is still burning.  He looks down and sees blood trickling down his hand from under his sleeve.  He reaches up to the top side of his bicep and feels warmth and wetness through the tear in his uniform.  He swears to himself and calls in for a Medic.

He approaches the Oldsmobile once again.  On the pavement where the scuffle occurred lies a black box cutter, blade protruding, covered in his blood.  He walks to the back of his cruiser and takes out an evidence bag.  Carefully, he uses the bag to pick up the knife and lets it fall inside.  He lays the bag on the trunk of the Oldsmobile car.

The second cruiser arrives and the officer notices that The Man is bleeding.  The Man shakes off his concern and starts to lean in to inspect the car.  The second officer approaches the car from the passenger side and removes the duffle bag and places it on the hood.  They continue to search through the car.  They find nothing else, save the black raincoat, which the Man brings out to the hood as well.

The second officer opens the duffle bag and lets out an audible “Fuck”.  Hidden under a couple of t-shirts is a small arsenal.  A Glock, A Sig, and a Hunting rifle.  There are plenty of bullets for each.

The Man puts his hands in the pockets of the rain jacket.  He pulls out a folded piece of paper.  He unfolds it and reads with widening eyes.

“Today is a day that will go down in history.  Evil shall overcome when good men do nothing.  Good men, they do nothing.”

The Man gingerly places the note in an evidence bag and hands it to the second officer to read.

“Shit, Man” he says “You saved the fucking day”.  

If only it were so simple.  

In the weeks to come, The Man is placed on administrative leave siting unlawful arrest and police brutality.  The Driver is claiming that he was using the box cutter to defend himself against The Man.  He is claiming that the items that The Man found in his car, that they were for shooting practice and hunting.  The town is divided; the kid comes from “a good home”.  Nobody seems to see that the guns were real, that the bullets were real.  The kid suffered a few bruises, but his parents are screaming for The Man’s badge.  The Man’s supervisor thinks everything will be fine once they get to Court.  The Man only hopes that is true.  

The Man sits on his back porch a lot now.  His cut is healing, but the damage to his muscle will need physical therapy.  He keeps to himself a lot, sitting silently, looking over his backyard at the trees and the birds.  He keeps wondering how different things would be if he had just written the ticket and walked away.  He wonders if the kid had pulled into the school for a reason, a reason other than getting the police car off his tail.  He wonders where the kid had really been headed.  He wonders if maybe, and this is a big maybe, if maybe he really had gotten the whole thing wrong.  He takes a sip of coffee, leans back, and doesn’t really think so.