My son said this about Enduro Trail Riding in the East Texas Piney Woods:
“Sometimes I get into flow, but sometimes the trees get too tight or the terrain is unpredictable, and if I keep riding at my normal pace I fuck up a lot because it gets trickier and ups the difficulty. But I can get impatient when my pace drops off, so I try to push it, but then I’m thinking, ‘Oh great, I’m gonna hit this tree and die.'” – Russell Yazbeck
What an all encompassing statement of life. It applies to writing and to anything where we dream our dreams and push to be better and the best we can be.
If I climb out the window, my mind will be free. I don’t have to drive my truck home. I just have to think myself home.
And that Negroni will be iced and waiting on the counter.
Susan is sitting in the living room. She never really died. They just told me she did ‘cause I was a really bad influence on her even though they always told me I was good for her.
But I showed them all and outlived most everyone. And then started over.
Well kinda, lots of things never change. Maybe they should change. I need to walk on the beach.
Horses would rally around me and lift me on their withers and charge through the waves breaking on the shore. We’d head for the sunset that would never set. We’d be forever heading for it… Until it abruptly becomes the sunrise.
I’ll have to go back to work tomorrow, won’t I? But now I don’t have my truck at home and I don’t know how to get there.
Can I call a shooting star? I’d get there really quickly. Ok, I feel better now. But I’ll have to go to work before the sun rises or the star won’t pick me up. Maybe I can call the horses back.
Starfish are beautiful. But they smell bad if we take them from their homes. We don’t even realize they are at home and they become sad and die when we love them and want them as our possessions.
Maybe the star would die too. I wouldn’t want that.
So maybe I have to go home through the great big door in the front of the building – not out the window. NO! I refuse. I’ll find another way.
Doors are confining. Windows are the answer.
The window to my soul wants to open. I’m not sure if it wants to let something out or let something in. So it kinda jumps off the tracks sometimes. Then I can’t get it back on the tracks and when it rains water leaks all over the floor. What a mess. And sometimes spiders come in and the cats play with them. But the cats never clean up after themselves.
If I could I’d have twenty cats. The litter box would have to be ten feet by ten feet. And they would all have to follow the number one rule: cover that shit UP! Whew.
When I come back in my next life I want to be a cat.
Earlier today I was chatting on AIM with my son, a 29-year-old successful deep-thinking man:
god i’m so glad you didn’t put us over yours and dad’s life… I tell people about that sometimes in conversations about kids and they are like uh wat? and i’m like yeah, wtf did you want my mom to do? give up her life for me? kids are supposed to grow up.
yah we did do that right. I learned it from Nana and Grandpa. Plus I was madly in love with Dad, and we made a decision together that he and I were the most important persons in our lives.
I got really busy with work for a couple hours. Curiosity got the best of me.
An epiphany hit me this morning on the way to work.
I was listening to Bob Edwards on my XM radio as he interviewed Dan Gediman the author of This I Believe: On Love. Mr. Gediman spoke of a short essay in his book written by Debra Bronow titled “Hand-Knit Socks”; a charming story of how she shows her love through her creative knitting… and it happened: a truth I’ve always known about myself slapped me across the face and told me to reveal in my introverted modus operandi (ie: writing trumps speaking every time) of how I tell my loved ones that I love them.
It’s hard for me to utter the words “I Love You”. The more I love you, the harder it is to say. Why are introverts like that? It can be a little (sometimes a lot) frustrating. If my loved ones say it to me first, then I can return the words much easier. But to be the first one to form those sounds… tears are more likely to escape me than words. Awkward, huh?
Since childhood, I’ve expressed my love in actions, like all good Introverts should. And since I’m an ISFP, those actions come in the form of creativity. As a girl, I sewed and sewed, knitted, crocheted, embroidered, etc… bestowing gifts to say “I Love You”. When my incredible and creative mom (I just told you of my love, Mom) taught me to cook, I had a new avenue for brandishing my love.
I have taken that talent and expanded it through the years. I create recipes, cook elaborate meals, make wine, brew beer, etc… lavishly serving all to family, friends and guests – every bit of it in the name of love whether the consumer realizes it or not.
Now (starting in the fall of ’09) I write – a new creative outlet for me, a cathartic and healing outlet; an unbelievably rewarding phase of my life. I’ve remained true to my Introverted nature: rather than speaking, I send published love notes when the inspirations hit me. I get overpowering urges causing bursts of energy to escape my fingertips: an evening with my beautiful daughter and old friends gave birth to Beauty; a need to thank my mom and dad for relationship knowledge produced Always, Never; the loving support of my boyfriend, even when I don’t deserve to be loved, led to You Make It Right.
I am endlessly thankful for this wonderful method of expression. I plan to nurture and care for it like I care for and nurture all my loves.
And for my loved ones that I haven’t devoted a piece to, I will as soon as the inspiration hits me.
We all help each other. It’s a great network; no one mandates it; no one collects dues. We do it because we care about each other, and we know and trust each other; know we can count on each other in times of need (and especially in fun times).
One morning, Loud Debbie (I’m Quiet Debi) mowed five yards ’cause she was pissed at someone or something – none of us remember why now. Oh yeah, and she had a cast on a broken foot – she’d fallen off a curb trying to rescue a crippled bird. (She didn’t mow my yard since I had mowed it the evening before – darnit). Continue reading →
I run across the parking lot, rain bouncing off my umbrella and dash under the porte-cochere, legs drenched from the knees down. A man exits the restaurant and holds the door; his wife and I exchange places and smiles. My umbrella merges with others in a growing flower arrangement of nylon and metal on the floor. Continue reading →
Have you ever had inspirational moments where something new and different just pops out? You can’t explain the process – it just happens!
“If play expires in itself without creating anything durable and vital, it is only play, but in the other case it is called creative work. Out of a playful movement of elements whose interrelations are not immediately apparent, patterns arise which an observant and critical intellect can only evaluate afterward. The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect, but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the object it loves.” — C.G. Jung Continue reading →