Digging Up Bones

For words of affirmation, validation and acknowledgment, I would prostrate prostitute myself willingly.

Disregard or no response makes me want to stop trying.

Ridicule or derision causes visceral nausea, tears, incontinence and the protective, instinctive roll of a potato bug, armadillo or hedgehog.

There was a time when you could easily manipulate me with words. Unhealthy; If you approve of me, I'm OK and will let you....

A good coach of any sort is able to pull the best out of me with words. Healthy; I'll die trying if you believe in me and appreciate the effort.

Almost fifty is nice. That need for approval went to nip at some younger person's heals. Giving encouragement away, giving what I want and need most, is something to spend the rest of my life refining. When I think of finishing well, this defines it because the ripples go so far.

These pictures are from around 1980 ~ I was twenty and younger. They are in a sense exhuming a grave, as they have been shuffled around through about 20 different household moves. I forget about them. They surface once in a while but there is a stink, or some pain surrounding them that I don't relish examining by opening. This is it ~ all there is.

Today was the day. As I scanned them, I looked deep inside. There has been a surprise inside, a present much more significant than merely the Cracker Jacks kind.

Without any classes, training or instruction of any kind, I created these. Some are copies of famous artists, some are copies of a card or picture I loved, and some are original. I had no idea how to use pen and ink, charcoal or pencil. Vulnerable to expose that faces, eyes, and perspective eluded me completely!

The smell and feel of toothed paper and a sharp, soft leaded pencil comes back even now with these words, and I feel such pleasure.

Bashful as I was, if I showed my drawings to anyone it was probably a close friend or family member. The response to me taking this huge risk was mostly kind and under whelmed. [yawn]

Never mean, just disinterested. I translated that lack of enthusiasm and apathy as; me and my drawings were dumb, not very good and embarrassing. I began to agree and stopped drawing altogether. Being creative is a must, not an option for me, but I deliberately killed the urge and desire to draw.

Compared with my aunt, uncle and grandmother, it seemed natural. Art like this was normal in our family, so what? They were each incredible self taught artists who splashed in their personal puddle, but never exposed/sold their art much. My uncle tried to for a short time, to make a living at his genius, but took his life too soon for anyone to see it. I'm sure he, like Van Gogh, never knew what he had was so valuable.

I'm coming full circle here. I could cry and whimper that nobody took an interest in helping me develop this gift. Or, I can ask myself why isn't there a pile of pages, years and years worth...... anyways?

Being intrinsically motivated is easier now - I don't need the external encouragement so much; the thing, whatever that is, is it's own reward.

If you know of a person who has unique gifts and talents, please encourage them; listen and look at their offerings. Anyone who risks the adventure of being artistic is worth admiring. There is nothing more fun than noticing and seeing the work of artists and letting them know you appreciate it. It's how we kindle each other, blow the coals into flame.

When we create, we give pleasure to our Creator. This I know.

Allergic to Assumptions

Thousands of people with gluten/wheat allergies are off wheat for life. As a simple farm girl, I wonder if wheat isn't the culprit. The wheat kernel is separated from the life giving germ and fibrous bran. Maybe our bodies can't process the bleached impostor called flour?

More and more people are diagnosed with milk/lactose intolerance every day. Milk in it's raw state is real food. For thousands of years it has been considered so. It is killed dead by the heat of pasteurization, then all the molecules are forced into sameness so the cream won't separate. Our bodies simply can't tolerate this white strange liquid called milk.

Many of us equate exercise with going to the gym or horrific memories of P.E., and think we despise it. We love the real thing; walks, hikes, gardening, building projects, swimming in the river, playing.

Women can believe they don't like sex, without having experienced the pleasures of being given the gift of a generous man's love making.

Birthing women trade the endorphin high after a natural birth for the epidural to kill the pain during birth.

Spinach from the food service sized can is nasty. Fresh spinach raw or lightly steamed is delightful.

What assumptions and beliefs do you need to trade in for the truth?  Is it fear or laziness that keeps us from examining them?

I'm going in for a deep cleaning and will ruthlessly toss the useless, discard the meaningless, then sigh contentedly at how light I feel when I hit the 'empty trash' button.

Bree's Heart

In the Clutches of the White Witch

Last winter we wondered if we were trapped in a snow globe fantasy. Rain is common and normal here in the Pacific Northwest, not snow. It caused untold trouble, but, aahh, the enchantment. These are from an old digital point and shoot, plain, unedited, un-photoshop'd. Remembering the magic:

My Line His Dot

Our 21st anniversary is coming up next week. I was four months pregnant when we were married by a justice of the peace at the home of friends. The bump under my dress was hinting at it during our wedding. We needed to marry sooner than we did, but it would have been terrible to 'jump' Craig's brother's wedding.

They had been engaged properly with a lovely wedding planned. Their wedding was beautiful and warm. Big family affair on both sides. The bride in white was pale pink, while I was green; not with jealously, but morning sickness.

About five years before, I had chosen an abortion to end an unplanned pregnancy. This time around, I really loved and cared for the father and knew he would take good care of us. The first time I didn't have a conscience or a constitution. This time, I would not have considered it, although telling our parents and friends was hard. I never wanted Craig to feel trapped or manipulated, didn't want to lose my best friend.

A marriage has stages. The first years were hard. We had one set back after another for years and years. I don't really know how he had the fortitude and wherewithal to keep loving me. High maintenance is putting it mild. If you ask him, he just says, "I decided to, that's all". He has always told the girls and me that we are his dreams come true. He is so convincing, we believe him.

As our anniversary comes around, I looked back through this last year of blogging. He is high on the list of things I write about. I describe him, give him tribute, explain, laugh, ruminate, ponder and share him with words.

He hasn't always been top on my list. One of my worst fears is that I would be unfaithful to him - I can be fickle when I'm not being bipolar. I have admired other men more than him more than once. I have found other things more important and more interesting by default once in a while.

Honesty has kept the intimacy of our deep friendship. He has never been offended when I've come to him with my fears, shame, troubles or secrets. We have never had secrets from each other. Ever. He is safe for me to be real, so I never have to be anything else. That's a comfort. Trust keeps growing as respect gets heaped on the pile of love.

Yesterday, Hugh Mcleod tweeted "The Dot and the Line" a romance about lower mathematics.

If you clicked the link, you heard our life story better than I could tell it. I consider myself a fortunate woman. Twenty one years fortunate. Hot- tears- melting- my- face- thankful. It could have all turned out so different at every crossroad on the journey. 


Thank you line.
Love, 
dot

Top Secret Isn't

When I was young, my mother's friends would pass recipes to each other as if they were gold. It was the greatest of all compliments if someone asked for a recipe after they tasted the dish you brought to the potluck.

At one time, owning recipes for Waldorf Salad or Red Velvet Cake were the key to being highly esteemed. Rumors abounded, but the REAL recipes were hard to find. Not only was it before google led you straight to your heart's desire, but they were top secret recipes. The chefs who created them didn't want to share their knowledge. They tightly clinched their famous recipes to their fearful hearts. Or so legend has it. It might be the case of the urban legend inside the urban legend?

Currently, Starbucks has a Christmas offering and favorite of the masses ~ The Cranberry Bliss Bar. They won't give the recipe out. They have a corner on the market. Hoarding the secret makes it as desirable as a hotel on Park Place. (If you're playing Monopoly)

Except, umm, these days, I can google a brilliant chef, or several, who have by trial and error created a clone. Is it pirating? Stealing? Naughty? I don't happen to have a conscience about it ~ my desperation causes me to cauterize it.

In our world, the people who blog and share great content are a brand of hero. (Pun intended) They are chefs, artists, art enthusiasts, writers, CEO's, publishers, agents, musicians, techno wienies, and info junkies. Each one has a special passion that they share ~ for free! What they have in common and why they have such loyal followers is this; when you open your google reader to peruse their latest post, it is like opening the lid, then sticking your hands into an overflowing treasure chest. An interesting feast that anyone is invited to.

And everyone wins because they want us to pass it on. Sharing is caring here in our bandwidth world. 


If you're jaded, you could argue that books get birthed by the authors of great blogs or that the ads make it lucrative. Amazon alone could do that.  It doesn't matter.  It's still free brain food.

Receiving and giving, two ways streets that turn into rivers as wide as the Amazon or Nile.

Merci

Perry Noble posted this as a tweet status, "When we automatically assume the worst about people ~ we cannot effectively lead them!" 


This hit me between the eyes. I have had to remove myself from following leaders who automatically assumed the worst of me. It destroyed their influence and my trust. 


They believe they are right and I deserved their bad opinions. I can't talk them out of their assumptions or opinions, nor should I try. Respect was not mutual.  


Last night we ate out. I made a split second judgement of our blonde little waitress. In my instant opinion, she could have been wearing only pink rabbit ears and a puffy tale. Within minutes, I felt this sick remorse and sorrow, that I had so quickly assumed what she was like. I was so wrong!  Completely wrong. 


As the night wore on, she noticed my handcrafted silver bracelet, recognized it was from the middle east, told us she had been to India twice for months at a time. It was obvious, after I let go of my opinion that she was a kind, generous, sweet girl who really cared about others.


As we left, she gave me the name, address, phone number and e-mail of her jeweler. The bracelet that became the catalyst for changing my mind, needs a small repair. 


That little scrap of paper represents mercy - in french, merci means thank you.  

Sled Dogs & Bull Riders

• Sled dogs teams at the start of the Iditarod do it. 
• Race horses, grey hounds and race car drivers do it. 
• Mules and work horses at horse pull competitions do it. 
• Athletes do it.
• Performing musicians do it. 
• Actors do it before they come on stage. 
• Speakers do it before presenting. 
• Surgeons probably do it before surgery. 
• Attorneys do it before an important trial.
• Bucking broncos at rodeos do it.
• Bull riders do it.

Before the gavel pounds, the gun goes off, the curtain goes up or the gate opens, there is a person or creature quivering with excitement. Pent up energy is released, to start what they were created and trained to do. Beginning.......... to finish well.

Sad isn't Bad

We learned the old songs from mom, who learned them from her mom, who learned them from her mom. Old scottish/irish melodies handed down from the appalachian tradition. They were mostly heartbreaking, tear inducing tragedies of love lost, loss, and tragic accidents. Heart breaking lyrics. Smarmy sentimentality. Throat chokers. Here are my favorites. If you want the complete lyrics, ask.

Every night after being tucked in, I asked mom to sing 'Old Shep'. She didn't want to because it made me cry. I persuaded her each time, knowing I would cry. The song is about a young boy who has a dog. As he grows up, the dog grows old and blind. He takes him to the vet, who kindly suggests that he puts the dog out of his misery. As he aims the gun at Shep's head, Shep looks at him with such love, he couldn't do it. Cliche? Oh well, it still constricts my throat, even now.

Another one was called "The Baggage Coach Ahead".  It is about young father unable to quiet his new baby, who is disturbing all the passengers in the car.  Several people start becoming grouchy at the inconvenience of not being able to sleep. A kind woman goes to the young helpless father and asks why he doesn't take the baby to its mother. He puts his head down in agony as he replies, "I wish I could, but she's dead in the baggage coach ahead."

"Miner's Child" was about a young motherless girl who begged her daddy not to go to the mines one morning, because she had dreamed of a disaster. She describes mothers, wives and children crying at the mouth of the shaft. Her pleading and tears don't keep him safe. Her premonition comes true. She is left an orphan.

"Purple Heart" told the story of a little boy tugging on a soldier's sleeve to ask if he'd seen his daddy... over there?  The soldier's eyes grew misty as he realized it was his best buddy - lost in action. A brave lad who had saved his life.

My favorite was "Old Limpy". It was about a bachelor rancher who went out in a blizzard to save a calf from dying, only to catch pneumonia and die from exposure himself. The calf surely lived?

I wonder if these songs gave us permission to feel sad indirectly?

Growing up, we sat around most weekend evenings singing and playing music. Piano, guitars, and harmonica. I would find a corner to curl up in, going to sleep with the thrumming hum of stories set to music.

Maybe this is why feeling sad doesn't feel bad.

Endorsements

Having someone endorse you is nice. They are saying, "This person is worthwhile. I know them and so should you. They have integrity, are trustworthy and will add value to your life. Because you know and trust my judgement, you can transfer it to this person."

Endorsements are gifts, not to be taken lightly. Never to be taken for granted. Two reputations can be smeared. Someone else lending credibility to us for free because they believe in us.

A good thing to receive. A good thing to give forward.