The Journey Continues: A Commitment.

So, I've realized my Mom has been wrong about me, when it comes to the word "commitment", and in response to my moving about the country as often as I do. But to be fair, I haven't exactly tried to counter. Partially because I thought she was right all this time, but also because I couldn't find the right words to defend my choices in life. Until now, that is. 

As I was getting ready to move again, I asked myself the same series of questions I always ask before I move to a new city. Things like "What in bloody hell am I doing?" And "Why am I doing it this time?" And a new one, "How can I leave the beach?" as so many people have been asking me. And once again the question as to whether or not my Mom is right about me, came up. My Mother calls me noncommittal. "The Noncommittal Queen" to be exact, with the cities I've lived in, in relationships I've had, and jobs I've held… you name it. Unfortunately, that term of endearment has set me up for failure at times. And a few years ago, made me stay in a situation longer than I should have, just to try and prove it wrong. I certainly don't fault her for it. I can understand why she or anyone else would see it that way. But I'm now realizing "noncommittal" isn't the correct term to use. It has always been more about finding my way. My journey. And it's about attachment. "Uh oh", you're thinking. But keep reading… perhaps it will make sense without sounding like a total couch-needing, defense mechanism. *wink*

Let's take the beach as an example. How can I leave the beach. Well, I mean, it is true; the beach did bring me peace. I do love it so. It helped me heal a few wounds that were inflicted by my last 7 years. I sat and enjoyed the sun, the sand and the ocean both during the height of the summer and the quiet of the winter. And I met some really good people there (like my little brother, Marc… Hi little brother!). It was an important leg of my journey that has set me up for the next, and I will cherish it always. But as I stood on the deck, holding a glass of wine, looking out at it's beauty taking as much in as I could before I left, I didn't feel anything towards it in regard to leaving it. Not because I am heartless or unfeeling, but because my time there had run it's course. And, because I am not attached to it. It will stand on it's own just as beautiful with, or without me, and so will I without it. 

See, some of my attachments have been extremely strong. And beautiful. And painful. They were feelings for certain people. Jobs I've put my whole heart into. Animals I have loved and lost. Even a few paintings I've done, believe it or not. But I've learned when we attach ourselves too tightly to the connection with someone or some thing, it can suffocate the purity of it's original foundation. Think Lenny and his mouse. And the more often we form attachments, and the tighter we grab hold of them, the more unhealthy it can become. And that can either damage the connection, or make it more difficult to let go of when the time comes. And it will. I mean, people move, things change, and people pass on from this life. Life happens. It's important that you know I'm not saying that in a negative way. I'm genuinely not. It's not me being "guarded" or defensive. It's simply reality. And why lovely moments are so very precious when they happen. Because I have learned not to hold on too tightly, I can remain open to new experiences as they come. For better or for worse.

You should also know that just because I don't form certain attachments doesn't mean I don't know how to love deeply or care wholeheartedly about someone or something. Or commit. In fact, it proves all of the opposite. It's about allowing things to live and exist freely as they are, separate from, but along side of me, having the grace to let go, and understanding that all will be ok if I do. It's about doing the right thing. And about enjoying the person/place/thing while it's in my life without a choke-hold on it. It leaves a door open for people to come through, and for me to return to them.  

The bottom line is that I just don't attach myself very tightly to what I am committed to. I live very simply and honestly, and I try daily, to always do the right thing for the right reasons. All of this leaves me open for change. It allows for mutual room to breathe. To move around. And to mutually learn and grow. And if the time comes where the path splits, or there's a plot twist, like now for example, I can move forward with integrity, appreciating the experience as it were, without hard feelings. And without regret.

I will miss the beach, for sure. I will miss my Raleigh families, who I will always be committed to, to no end. It's just time for the next leg of my journey which is to recharge and rebuild with my own family. They are my commitment and my focus now, and I am very excited about it. And just so you know, The Beach Chronicles will continue. Lake Ontario is quite lovely. And there are a number of beaches I will be frequenting. Might even end up living on the lake for it to become Lac du Jardin de Wendy. Who knows. Baby steps. That's the thrill of the journey anyway, isn't it? The unknown. And I will most surely have a LOT to say about all of it. 

Love en masse to you all. ; )

Baby steps...

The Chip. A prelude to a change.

I've been slacking in writing, I know. I've been slacking with a LOT of things. I mean, I still have to do my taxes. My last entry was an interlude. The following, a prelude. Eventually it will all come together.

So, I've totally had a ginormous chip on my shoulder this week. Like, so big that I must look like Fred Flintstone's car when the waitress delivers the dinosaur ribs to them from the drive-through. Or, as I suggested yesterday, the very Hunchback himself… Quasimodo. I have no idea why it's there. Well, that's not entirely true. I kinda do. But it's so very unflattering to say the least, and I would have to admit to feeling emotions that are less than favorable. Emotions I make the conscious effort not to succumb to in every day life. Emotions, which when combined, boiled down and translated turn out to be just one big, wailing "Waaaaaaaaaaahhh"…  SO unflattering.

The thing is, I'm making more changes. Big scary ones. And I've had to really stop and evaluate my life and how I've gotten to where I am. I have a birthday coming up that I'm dreading, which is totally amplifying it all. This past year has been brutal as I have mentioned in previous blog entries, but I had no idea how it was affecting me internally until the time kept passing. And as it passed, it would peck away at what I thought was a fairly sturdy outer shell I had created for myself. More like papier-mâché than a shell, come to find out. (It was *reeeaaally* tough papier-mâché though) And realizing this, along with time, is what most likely birthed this chip. I mean, by definition "having a chip on your shoulder" means holding a grudge or a grievance which can create a feeling of inferiority, ultimately leaving a person quite defensive. Basically, when you carry The Chip you're pretty much still pissed off over something you have experienced. In my case, I'm pretty pissed off for a number of things I've experienced. But I'm realizing I'm also pretty pissed off for things I haven't experienced. And I don't have anyone else to blame but myself. It's just that consciously making big scary changes forces you to further reflect on your current status, which brings up your past experiences, which challenges and questions your future. Inevitably. And man, at the end of the day, it makes an unpalatable recipe for The Chip.

You're probably wondering what's changing THIS time. I know. I have done/said this all before, and again I'm sorry that I'm being so cryptic. If you know me, you know how private I am with my personal stuff. The deeper stuff, that is. A handful of people already know and support me unconditionally like colorful and lovely arm floats, should I start to waver. I just don't feel like discussing it today. Actually, I don't know how to discuss it. Words are playing menacing tricks on me lately, in that I can't find them when I need them. They end up falling out of my eyes in liquid form. Which is really so bizarre. How do they DO that? It's fairly creepy if you ask me. Rude even. *wink*

Anyway, in brief, there's a lot of letting go involved and a lot of temporary compartmentalizing. There's a lot of resolution and a lot of soul-searching. All of which needs to be roasted separately and gently, then layered back together like an honest ratatouille. So, if you don't mind waiting just a little longer, I will pull enough together to provide a bit to chew on. It's overwhelming. But needs to happen soon, because this chip is getting way too heavy to keep carrying around.

To be continued. Love, in giant masses, to you all.

W.

And now for a non-musical interlude...

I research a lot of different blogs. And it's so I can see what other people write about topic-wise, if they list favorite blogs, what kind of a following they have, etc... and then follow when I find something that interests me. I usually tend to skip over bloggers who haven't posted an entry in over 6 months, because I'm like, why haven't they? Why bother if you're not going to keep posting stuff? And then I realize a month has gone by since I posted my last entry. Sigh. Life. That's why. So I'm going to be better at it. I will. I just tend to shut down sometimes when life hands me a handful of shit. It usually takes me a while to figure out what to do with that shit. Bury it? Or recycle it. Flush it? Or throw it against the wall like a monkey might. You see, it takes time to weigh my options on how to handle life's shit bundles. Therefore I can't write about them.

So, I decided when that happens, I will just post some smaller stuff like recent creative work. Or the latest recipe I'm proud of, or have enjoyed if it wasn't mine. Like the blondie bars I just made recently. Goodness they were delicious. I found the recipe on the Smitten Kitchen blog in case you're interested (click here if you want to try it, and I suggest you do!) Chewy and sweet little golden beauties that I balanced with dark chocolate morsels of delight. So good. After making them, I read further down her list of "add-ins" to discover her suggestion of adding bourbon or whiskey. I see Maker's Mark, or Jameson blondies in my future for sure. Perhaps Jameson's as a little treat for my cousin, Matt. Oooo, I could even add some little pieces of candied ginger in there, since he does love a Jamo and Ginger… oh the possibilities are endless. See? Inspired already.

Thanks for hanging in there with me. I shall learn how to better deal with life's "little handfuls", so that I can continue to share my personal and beach experiences with you. Stay tuned.  : )

For now, I leave you with a vision of loveliness …

My blondie with a Jameson nightcap. SO good!

Phew… That Was a Doozy, All Right.

It's January 17th already, and another round of holidays have come, and thankfully have gone. I don't want to sound ungrateful, or like I didn't appreciate being with my family and seeing some old friends. Because I did. Parts of it were lovely. It's just that 2013 was exhausting. And the holidays aways amplify what ever you felt throughout the year. Have a great year? Celebration abound. Have a shit year? You're on your third martini singing "I'll Have a Blue Christmas" while watching the most horrible of Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel. Of course there were some good moments in 2013, for sure. Some small and important victories. But it seems the bad times were really bad. Like almost 2008/2009 bad. Or could have been. And if anyone in my family can remember, that time frame was devastating. 

And so, I made an interesting observation while driving back to the beach for the first time in 2014, that I felt notable enough to share. Now, let me back track and tell you that I refer to I-40 and US-1 as "death row" and "death alley" because there are so many animals that simply get pummeled daily. Most likely because there aren't any damn street lights on the roadways here. Shit, I even collided with a deer on a very dark, and rainy trip back to the beach. It's bizarre. Especially US-1. I mean, it was so bad at one point that I swore the zombie apocalypse was going to begin right there in the middle of rural North Carolina, and all of the deer, raccoons, squirrels, dogs and "unidentifiables" would just one day rise up and wreak havoc on the human population. It's fairly unnerving to see. And highly possible if you ask me. Add in the "walkers", the nuclear site and the ominous river ways along US-1 and you have yourself an excellent creepy zombie series for the Animal Channel. What's a "walker"? It's exactly what it might sound like. Humans walking. It is nuts how many people walk along the highways here. Some stepping right out of the woods, some hitch-hiking with huge backpacks, some just wandering in an obvious, chemically-induced stupor. I'm not even kidding. Walkers are a "thing" here. One morning during rush hour, a guy was walking in and out of traffic at the friggin' I-40/US-1interchange. He was shirtless and very angry. Best you can do is avoid eye contact, sip your coffee and hope the cops come before he hurts himself. But I digress. Getting back to my observation… 

On my way to the beach for the first time in 2014 I saw life. I saw a few deer pop out from the woods, run a little ways, then turn to head back in. I saw two dogs running and laughing in the grass along the highway like they had just made the grandest of escapes ever, and I prayed they made it to their getaway car without being hit by it. I saw birds and tiny things that were not dead. Surely this must be a good sign of things to come. I'm not big on "signs" like I was when I was a girl. Sometimes I think looking for them suggests we're not confident in our decisions. Or we're looking for false hope out of the need for comfort. But perhaps I'm wrong. I just have to believe this year will be a better one than last. And that life will have more, well, life in it. And good life in it at that. Good energy. Progress. Forgiveness. New opportunities. Love. Yeah, definitely love. And growth. 

Some things need to change. And perhaps this will be the year they will for the better. My only resolution this year is to let go of 2013 completely. You can't move forward if you're holding on to something behind you. Try holding on to a doorknob and walking through the doorway. You won't make it out if you don't let it go. 

Happy new year, everyone. Cheers to a healthy, prosperous, safe, loving and down right AMAZING 2014. 

And then The Existentialist tried to speak poetically.

I just watched some raw video of a friend's son and his buddy playing an impromptu song in the front seat of a jeep. One on the guitar and singing, the other using the dash as drums. It's quite brilliant in its simplicity. Your heart swells because you can feel their struggle. Not to play music. That's the easy part. They are young. And everything is so difficult. Discovery of the self, talents, acceptance. And direction. New bodies to learn what to do with. To know what we can get through with… This life-thing is rough.

Being alive is tough. Our instincts and needs and fears all stored chaotically in a package of nerves and skin and bones…. all fighting to feel and breathe and survive. I see young people in their awkwardness, then look in the mirror at my own. It's cyclical, the growing pains. We're all the same, you see. Just in different packages. Just in different stages. Stages of growth. Stages of damage. And we really are all damaged in some way…or another. Because being alive is tough. I used to get mad at it. "It" referring to the living, the fight, the struggle. I mean, I never asked to be born. I didn't volunteer for it. We didn't draw straws. No one stood in line for it. We were just plucked from our wherevers, thrown bare-assed into the world by our whoevers and expected to figure it out however. Yeah. Whatever. I'm trying to believe we're the lucky ones, perhaps even chosen ones. But then I see how much more damage has been done... to others, just struggling like you and me, when all they really want is to just feel good, like you and me. How is that even ok, the extra damaged cells, nerves, limbs, and heads… It is not ok with me. This life is tough enough. It's rough. 

I have a scar on the side of my forehead above my temple, #2 of 4. I was about 6 and we were playing on a tractor. I fell off the seat and cracked my head open on the tow-hitch. A lot of blood, 5 stitches and a giant ice cream cone later and I was right back out there playing. Some will struggle harder, I know. But some of us never stop.

I like to ask people if they have scars on their skin, their bones...Their shell. I like to hear their stories. It really is just a giant battlefield out there, and we? Courageous warriors. 

Because Like Oxygen, Music is Necessary for Breathing.

A couple of months ago I went to see a band called Enter the Haggis with my best friend. It's an Irish band. Well, a Canadian band playing Irish music. I did this reluctantly mind you, because I had listened to their new music online and I was like, oy… so too tired for this one. But she was all, "You're going to have 13 cats and die alone if you don't go.." or something like that. And I was all, "Yikes, I don't even want 13 cats". I get it. She was trying to get me out of the house and away from The Monkey's for a night. So I went. And was glad I did. I have to say, the band was friggin' great. So much better live than recorded. I mean, their chemistry was amazing. They engage with the crowd, are funny, and just ridiculously talented. I realize this sounds like a band review for The Westword or The Independent, but there was so much layering to it musically, that one can't help but try to grasp it all as it's happening. The oldest dude played the harmonica, a clarinet, the bagpipes, and the flute. (um, hi. The. Bagpipes.) And then one of the lead singers played the electric guitar, fiddle and keyboards… the other lead singer played two different acoustic guitars and an electric guitar… The bass player was friggin' killer, and the drummer could shake the rattle-sounding thing and still keep drumming with his left hand while doing so. Lord almighty. There are reasons women love band members so much, I tell you what. And we all have our favorites too. I have a friend who loves bass players. Even blurted out she plays bass too, just for the opportunity to talk to one once. She doesn't actually play the bass… I have a friend who loves drummers so much the lead character in one of her books is one. My sister and I love lead singers. We always want the lead singer to be singing directly to us, and only us. I have had lead singers sing to me before. It is no joke. To be singled out in front of a crowd like that? Heaven. Nothing beats that shit. Actually, I'm partial to drummers too. The skill and coordination and rhythm alone can drive a girl crazy to watch. Especially because they usually take their shirt off at some point during the night. All of which creates quite a visual of what the drummer might be like in other, um, circumstances. But that's for a totally different kind of blog. *wink*

But the coolest thing about this band is that all their songs tell a story. And when I listen to music, it's the lyrics I pay most attention to first, then how the melody supports it. i guess it's because I can't articulate how I feel about stuff like life and the world around us. I mean, I can, you're reading it, but it's not as brief-but-powerful as a song is. I've written tons of poetry and prose, and when I'm into the groove of writing I can be descriptive, and sometimes even move a reader. But my words are nothing like the lyrics I have heard. I actually think people should have their own soundtracks on a daily basis. Like, for different points of the day, there's a song representing it in the background. And at some point, perhaps even some back up singers (she said… back-up singers, doo-whop doo-whop-she-bop) … And I think everyone has a song. Perhaps more than one, that kinda fits who they are. I always thought if I could have a song played at my funeral it would be "Guaranteed" by Eddie Vedder. I mean, Eddie Vedder is a poet to me. His lyrics are always thought-provoking, story-telling, and lately, just simply poetic. The lyrics to Guaranteed are more self-describing for him I think. Fairly simple. I identify with them. And of course it has a beautiful melody with an acoustic guitar to just make it a perfect little song. It's hard for me to tell people why I move around so much. Aside from the searching thing, it's just the "free" in me I guess, and this song is about just that.

Through the years I've asked the musicians I know, which comes first, the music or the lyrics. And the answer is usually both. Meaning, sometimes it's a guitar riff in the head that turns into the music/melody and the lyrics come after. Sometimes it's lyrics which can create their own melody for them. Sometimes it's both relatively at the same time. Makes sense to me. I have no idea what it takes to write music. That is SUCH an amazing gift and talent. I can't get my head around it to be honest. But I have written a lot of words. I've realized one of the reasons I identify with the Counting Crows so much is because my writing style is so very similar to the way Adam Duritz writes his lyrics. They're almost conversational at times. Or at least the older stuff was. 

So, tell me… What's your song? and why? What song would you want played at your funeral? I'm so totally interested in hearing. Music is so personal. I don't know a single person who doesn't love music. Or who doesn't use or need music. I listen to it when I work, paint, run and especially when I drive. I have to drive fairly far to work a few days a week, and then back to the beach every weekend, so I use that time to listen. I mean really listen. Sometimes I'll even hit replay to one song that I am particularly connecting with at that moment. One song for an hour or more, straight. This week's power-replay song was "Civilian" by Wye Oak. And today in particular it was "Disparate Youth" by Santigold. Sometimes you have to listen to a song like 80 times to get it out of your system. Until the next time you hear it, of course.

What was the first song you learned to sing? Mine was "Bobby McGee" written by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, but most notoriously sung by Janis Joplin. I was probably four years old when my Mom taught me that song. It's been our song since. She paved the road for most of my musical tastes growing up and I'm so thankful for that. I remember one time when I was a teenager, my Mom and I were out shopping and we picked up a copy of Janis's greatest hits and played it when we got home in the living room. A bit loudly. And two minutes into it "Turn that shit off!" comes wafting from the other room from my Father. We turned it down and kept right on singing. 

Lastly, if there was ever anything I wished I could do well, it would be to sing. I can carry a limited tune, but I mean, I wish I could really sing… I sing in the car all the time, and even tried singing Bobby McGee at karaoke once. It was an utter nightmare. Main reason being that I have a hard time with crowds and talking to people I don't know, so getting in front of them pushed me too far out of my comfort zone. Once I got up there, I wanted to die. So, I just did what every other self-respecting introvert would do in that situation. I turned my back to the crowd, shut my eyes and sang my heart out.

Home, By Definition, is Many a Thing

Noun.

1. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

2. an institution for people needing care or supervision.

Verb.

1. (of an animal) return by instinct to its territory after leaving it.

All valid. All true. I've mentioned the word "home" a few times since I've started my blog. It's a word that keeps resurfacing, usually in conjunction with mini-epiphanies that occur in my everyday. So the definition is slowly revealing itself to me. Or definitions, I should say. What is "home". Home is Where The Heart Is is cross-stitched and hung on people's walls. Motley Crue sang Home Sweet Home. "There's no place like home", Dorothy repeated, clicking her heels three times to get back there…click click click... Lots of cliches out there using the word "home", created by people who obviously know something that I don't, or haven't… until now. I'm not saying I know what it is, because I'm totally not there yet. But I'm getting closer.

When I finished graduate school, I needed to leave. I mean, actually leave the state of New York. I hated where I grew up. High School sucked. Bunch of horrible people with bad intention, who picked on whatever made them uncomfortable. I think I've mentioned in a previous entry how I was affected by it all. Yeah, it sucked all right. So when I had opportunities to leave for college, then leave the state after college, I totally took them. And I haven't been back since. Well, not so much to live anyway. Just for holidays, and an 8-month stretch when my Mom had major surgery. I had been living in Denver under the most awkward of arrangements at the time, so coming back for a bit while she healed made sense. But even then, my aversion for the place reappeared, and after 8 months I was off again. And searching. In hindsight, I shouldn't have left. But that's another entry, for another day.

What is it that we search for, anyway? Surely we can't know what we want when we're in our 20's. Can we? Or are we influenced by our surroundings? Our family members? When I was growing up, I remember my Dad would sit at the kitchen table and stare out the window for long periods of time, thinking about God knows what. I feel like that happened a lot in the winter time, and I now imagine the thought in his head was something like "fucking snow… more fucking snow". The look on his face so melancholic at times. Eventually, I would find myself thinking the same thing. Staring out the same window. But I never really understood that because I don't really hate snow. It's actually quite lovely. Most of the time.

So, I have been searching for a feeling, I guess. The feeling I'm convinced I would get if I happened upon my definition of home. And I think my definition of home is the feeling of belonging. Belonging somewhere. Belonging with, and to someone. And familiarity. Surrounding yourself with things that are familiar. Familiar, familia, famille…family. It's something that I have yet to find since I set out searching in 1993. I just haven't felt I belonged in any of the cities I've lived in… Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Denver, Raleigh, Carolina Beach… All beautiful. And I love my friends who are dispersed throughout all of them. I've witnessed home and family and belonging… while with so many of them. Like my best friend's family who I've been lucky enough to spend time with every week for the past 6 months. I love this family as if it was my own. But it's not. I guess i just simply want my own.

You all know from my ramblings and blah blah blah-ging that I've started reevaluating my life. It is, after all, kinda the very definition of a mid-life crisis, which I am now fully floundering around in, by the way. And in the middle of all the reevaluating, I went to visit my family twice in the last four months. And both times, saw something new. Something I've never seen before, and that I can't exactly put my finger on, but it was beautiful. So, it has been slowly occurring to me that I actually might have a place that feels like "home". Where I kinda belong. Where things are familiar. And perhaps it's really been there all along, just waiting me me to figure it out. Isn't that funny? The very place I couldn't wait to leave. Who knew. Did I mention that I don't hate snow? It is rather lovely.

I wonder if it's because I have been gone for so long that I see it with new eyes. I mean, not just figuratively, but literally. So much has changed there. Or maybe it's because I'm on the verge of a friggin' break down and just want to shut down for awhile. Hide in my sister's room for a month. Just like that scene in St. Elmo's Fire where Jules locks herself in her room because she thinks she's a fuck-up and is having a meltdown. Then Billy comes in to talk her into coming out of the room. He tells her the story of St. Elmo's fire as he holds a lighter to a can of hairspray… Poof! …i don't know. For whatever the reason, I feel it deserves further consideration and exploration. And I shall give it just that. I'm tired. Tired of searching. I need a break. And a nap.

So, what do I do now? You know, I ask myself that daily. I have no idea. I just want to find where I belong. My home. The beach is so very beautiful. It's healing. And I am in love with it. But much like being in a love that isn't reciprocated, it can be a pretty lonely place. At any rate, I'm just waiting for some clarity. Or maybe a sign that will tell me which direction I should head in that will get me even closer.

Or, at the very least, a pair of very shiny, ruby slippers … click, click, click.

To be continued.





*Disclaimer: Image is not mine… and is not being used with ill intent or money…. it's just the only kind of ruby slippers I would ever wear.

It's Like Puberty... Only not.

It's interesting the way we all interpret what we see, what we read, what we hear so differently. There was a person at work who I swear to God, was hearing a completely different language when ever I spoke to her. I could tell her on a sunny day that the sky was blue and I liked her skirt, and she would hear that I was panicking yelling, "It's RAINING! It's RAINING!". And that her skirt was the most hideous in all the land. For the life of me, I couldn't understand. Still can't. Thank God she doesn't work there anymore. It's draining. Why is it that we see, read and hear so differently? It can't always be about tone and delivery, can it? I mean, people are quick to blame the person delivering, but isn't it possible that someone is simply hearing/reading/seeing something out of context depending on their own current mood and experience?

Since I've started writing this blog I'm gaining more readers. Which is so, so cool. But with that comes more analysis/interpretation. Now, I understand that a lot of my entries are obviously not written by Pollyanna Sunshine. I mean, it is about the beach and all, and the beach is a happy place. But it's written by a 44-year-old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis for crying out loud. I'm figuring my shit out. It's not going to be a ray of sunshine all the time. I'm like Grumpy Cat. Only not as furry. And I'm human.

The other day I had an old high school friend tell me how much he enjoys reading my entries (thank you for that, by the way) but that he wondered if I was ok. I was a little surprised by that. My first reaction was "Um, of course I'm ok". But I realized it's because he really doesn't know me as an adult. And reading some of these entries without knowing me, might come off as depressed or "not ok". I am ok. Really. 

When I think of all this stuff in the middle of the night, like now for example (it's 4:16 am) I'm not exactly listening to show tunes and smiling to myself. Because that would just be weird. Not the show tunes part, because who doesn't like a show tune, but the smiling part. I don't usually sit around smiling to myself in the middle of the night. I cannot stress enough, daily, as in every DAY, that just because I'm not smiling, doesn't mean I'm not happy. It means I'm thoughtful. Or reflective. Or just. Not. Smiling. Same goes for my writing. I'm thinking and reflecting and my fingers are delivering the news, and if they could smile while pounding away at the keys perhaps they would. What would that look like anyway? HI! how are you? I am doing GREAT! SUCH a lovely night out there! The problem with that is if you do know me, and I started using exclamation points and large letters and even saying smiley things, it might come across as sarcastic and insincere. It's just not who I am. Am I capable of lovely, loving, soft, caring and heart-felt, happy writing? Absolutely. Of course. And I do when I'm writing TO someone or when I feel like gushing. But I don't do it often publicly anymore and I'll tell you why. It's private to me. And showing that kind of deeper emotion is personal. It's really intimate in my opinion. More intimate than talking about a creative block or my introversion. When I was younger I was teased for showing too much emotion. Dramatic, I was called even. Ridiculed by my peers for displaying such happiness and sadness and everything in-between. Kinda sucked. I do show those things amidst people I'm close to or am comfortable with. But I also find myself settling into a kind of stoicism as I continue to age, and when I write. And that might be what's coming through. I dunno.  I'm a friggin' 44-year old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis. I can't be held accountable for some of the things I do. haha

Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to assure the masses that I'm just fine. We'll all go through it eventually, if we haven't already, the mid-life thing. Perhaps you won't even recognize it (or didn't) perhaps it won't be as painful (or it was). Or perhaps reading my crap will change the way you'll go through yours when it happens, (or make you remember and embrace yours when it did)? I want you to know it is totally ok to laugh at my awkward and clumsy moments. I mean, this whole stage I'm going through is the adult version of puberty. It's a growth spurt. One. Big. Long. Tantrum. I don't fit in my own skin and am clumsy in this new shell I'm in. And I still think like a 16-, 22- and 35-year-old respectively, depending on the situation I'm in. Some of what I say should be respected and taken seriously. But, most of it should really be taken lightly as it's just the musings of a 44-year-old kid at the beach, metamorphosing into God knows what.

It's all good. I promise.