Don’t ya just love Facebook.
Today, as I logged on, there was an amazing memory of me from 9 years ago just waiting to be reposted. To share all over again that glorious moment.
I’m guessing that Facebook uses some code to pull up random memories for you. Because if people actually are “stalking your memories” to post, they seriously need to be retrained or they have a sick sense of humor.
Here is my amazing picture memory…
Nine years ago today I got out of surgery. I was at home ready to endure a minimum of 6 weeks of bedrest after rupturing my Achilles tendon right off the bone. I guess I am not really ready to talk or write about that incident (and for those of you who have not had the pleasure of this injury, I suggest you pass on it. Yeah, just cross it right off your bucket list.). It is one of those unintended-kind-of-consequences incidents when you are never the same. Besides bearing the physical scar, I also have an emotional one. Although the one on my skin has faded, the one inside is still raw. Maybe if you have ever been a competitive athlete and received a career-ending injury, you would understand the pain and loss- the change.
So, here I am 9 years later. Hoping that in 9 years from now, I won’t be posting the other leg. Reflecting about my life and the events that have “defined” me.
Thank you, Facebook.
Well, it is Day #18, and yesterday I hit the ceiling on my writing. My writing muscles are very weak, and I have reached the day in my writing routine when they are just plain spent. I cannot lift a hand to write (or a finger or two to type). Words are not forming in my mind. There is just nothing… blank space baby.
Because of this discomfort, I am regressing to my proverbial “safety blanket” — reading. I am reading up a storm. I don’t want to put a book down. I went to the library took out 6 books about gardening, went to Goodwill and grabbed two more books, and went to the MSL 5-for-5 program and grabbed 9 YA books. I am rationalizing my inability to write today by saying, “Hey, you are a great reader! It is ok. You just have writer’s block. Everyone gets it. You are just reading so much to get inspiration.”
Actually, I am just procrastinating because I don’t think I can be a writer today. Actually, it’s because I don’t think I am a writer. I am just trying to be one. And right now, I am not succeeding. To take an idea from the book I am reading (Switch by C. Heath & D. Heath): my elephant is stuck in the mud, my rider is exhausted, and I lost the path.
I am hoping that tomorrow will be a different day. That I will find my muse again. That the rest I get tonight will rejuvenate my tired muscles… so I can last (and be productive) the 13 more days of SOL Challenge.
watching college softball, college basketball, Lucifer, & Grey’s Anatomy
listening to PHOX, Shakey Graves, Lake Street Dive, & Sam Hunt
appreciating the wood stove, warm tea, books, sleep, & snow days
loving my four cuddly cats, two beautiful daughters, & myself
eating organic foods, gluten-free, & paleo diet
drinking tea with honey & water with lemon slices
wishing for nothing… I am trying to “be” what I want
planning plants, shrubs, and trees for a new landscape design
reading professional books, YA books, lots of Twitter posts & SOLs
Sunday is my favorite day of the week.
It is time for me to sleep in and sometimes stay in my pjs- all day.
It is time for me to catch up on laundry and cleaning, paying the bills, and other responsibilities that I haven’t been able to get to.
It is time for me to try something new in the kitchen.
It is time for me to spend time with family.
It is time for me to curl up on the couch and read a great book.
Sundays are the days that I like to reflect on my life.
I like to think about the week that just past and the week that I will start on Monday.
Am I still heading in the same direction? What do I need to focus on? What important things or people do I need to devote more of my time and energy to?
It is time for me to take time.
This morning, as I got ready for work, I had an added stressor- an interview- to consider. As I looked in the mirror, I started the same old routine of picking myself apart, like a crow does it carrion. This piece is the first of two parts- one part where the woman is judging herself in the mirror, and the second part where the mirror (her soul) is celebrating her.
This first part is still unfinished. I am still playing around with word choice. This is a piece that I will need to go back to and revise and edit. So here is the rough draft of part one (part two will be a later slice)…
She stands before me,
With eyes clouded by torment.
Her head tipped to the side uncertainly.
Tousled hair attempting to hide her imperfections.
Judgment lines her brows,
While loathing pulls down the corner of her lips.
Threadbare shoulders slump,
With the weight of self-condemnation.
As her arms constrict her sides,
Fingers clench her skin,
Leaving marks of bitterness,
Pale in comparison to her scars of pain and responsibility,
Tailing down her hips curved with regret.
Restless legs extend with frustration,
While disgruntled toes clench,
The discarded towel on the floor.