I sit and recalibrate. Remember who I was before. Who I have become Who I want to be. Who I remain.
I am not that big, Not that smart, Not entirely motivated all the time, But I’m fierce, I’ll rip your face off with my energy, I’ll pull your facade down with my tenacity, I’ll smash the preconceived notions That I have it better than the rest of them That I have more time to make it happen That I have more money or more support That I have it easier and that’s why I’m able to push through. But that’s all bullshit and they know it too.
I’m strong because I want to be, Not because of the circumstances, I am lucky as hell, though. But I use it. I work hard because I want to, Not because of who told me to Or who’s standing in front of me that I want to impress. I work hard to astound myself.
People say I have it better But I suffer at the bottom with the rest. The only difference is I’m in my corner chipping away at the wall of my cell block, While the others focus on every cell but theirs And how they can steal within the cell. And how they can get it easier without having to go through the trouble. Without having to pay the money. Without having to put in the time.
I’m busting out of the cell, That’s the difference, I’m not confined to the barriers put in front of me. I defy all odds and greet everyday with a “Hell yeah,” and a “Fuck you too” Sometimes both together.
The Fuck You Too days take my time up more than the Hell Yeahs. They are the ones that push me until I’m blue in the face, The ones trying to make me feel something Or make sense of what the hell just happened. But I don’t usually find out the reasoning until months, maybe years after. I trust I will see it eventually, and that is why I do it. I know it will pay me back. It is as relentless and batshit crazy as I am. A rubber band of kindness, reverberating in years to come from all the deeds done today.
The Hell Yeahs are worth every penny but come few and far between. They consume you while you are in them but last shorter than the rest. They sometimes stop you dead in your tracks during the Hell Yeah time, Bringing you back to the Fuck You Too Days, taking you down once again.
I will live for the Hell Yeahs but will normalize to the Fuck You Too.
Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou went for a walk not knowing where to, with one shoe brown, and the other blue, she strutted softly without a clue.
She was on a mission, for what, for who? She knew not of, but had her dog named Blue. She carried her pack, full of books, food, and toys, But realized she left the flares that made noise. Should she get lost, no one would know, But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou, was insistent to go.
As she moved through the woods, the town watched her back, Some cheered and rooted she’d stay on track, Others hoped she would stumble or fall in a hole, And be left in the dark, with no longer a soul.
But Vio-Lotta-Letta (sometimes dropping the Lou) Did not lose sight of what was true, Of what was important, of what was right, of what was real, of what was fright.
She foraged by day, picking morels and wild roses, Concocting potions with her fire and doses, She slept in a blanket, her dog by her side, Hoping the journey would be quick and subside.
But she knew from the womb, all good things take time, Work, intent, and action, a little bit of sublime. So she kept on her trail, her nose to the ground, Her lovers and friends the background of sound.
Day upon day, Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou Slunk through the forest, pushing through, For she was stubborn and stuck in her ways. But knew she wanted more for the rest of her days. More as in pow, whizz bang, smack, splash, The kid kept going, hoping she would not crash.
The path she was on was worn and ragged, From others who tried, some victorious, some jagged. But her head remained high, her eyes on the prize Her grandma once said, “Be ten times your size,” So she grew in her mind, to be bigger than the sky, And she continued on happily, as the cold nights passed by,
She had her pup, her dearest pal, her furry companion, her cuddly gal. Who would keep her warm, amidst the mess, She marched on forward, so eager, so obsessed With making a life of all she ever wanted, It would take heaps of guts, a normal life stunted.
At times she would fret when she was alone, Her parents behind her as stiff as a bone. For she left without warning but one day would show, That Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou really did have to go. To see the world, she had said, and the normals said pshhh, But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou looked forward and mushed.
She brushed off the forest as it clung like glue. Trying to keep her from doing the do. For Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou somehow never knew, She had it in her heart, where she was going to.
She thought back to home, where times were different, Where people were habitual, traditional, not flagrant. Many dissuaded her intentions, gobs insulted, Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou shielded and refused to be jolted By the piles of No’s, and Can’ts, and Won’ts, Of excuses for days, the Do’s that remained Don’ts.
For people were sad, and mad, and stuck, But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou refused to be muck, Even though it would mean to leave it all behind, She took up the challenge with her goals in mind.
Eventually she made it to the glorious place, And basked in the sunshine until it felt glazed, For she realized that nimbleness and perspective are key, And kindness reigns, but Love is Queen Bee, For nowhere is ever the end all be all, And happiness lurks in places so small.
Contentment is key, and you should too Be more like Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou.
We are six months into the new phase of life with me staying home with the gremlins and with Frank thriving, providing, and profiling in his career in cannabis (such a cool thing to say). The girls and I have tested several schedules that poke and prod at our time management skills, but we have mostly gone unscheduled and off the cuff with our adventures by randomly exploring as much of metro-Denver as possible, including the non-friendly kid areas where I had a sixth-sense to say “Don’t touch that!” every five seconds of the walking tour.
We succeeded most days in exploring, learning, and being stubborn, and if the weather was shaky (which it rarely was in this hunk of a state), we shelled up at home like little pistachios and spoke to no one; we also played the hermit crab game on brilliant sunny days if we were not feeling it – gasp! Emotions are hard, socialization is draining, and life is too short. Stay home and relax if you want, said my conscience. Continue to work on your new journey into the fine arts; the children will entertain themselves.
[Black] Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
What the Conscience forgot was that while life was sweet, screen time was a possessive demon. As I continued to hand the iPad to my toddler, I would knowingly think to myself, how can a child entertain themselves if they have not yet learned the meaning of entertainment? The answer is this: children cannot entertain themselves unless taught to entertain themselves, they can only absorb their environment as it is given to them. Amidst the many projects I was taking on for myself, the boat tipped over from the weight of the iPad; screen time was enveloping our lives and brought with it temper tantrums, refusal to listen, and inability to be creative and concoct simple moments of fun. No, I am not against screentime, but I am opposed to it replacing my role as a mother, which somehow I allowed it to do when I was not looking. Life is a balance, everything is moderation.
Several events led to our destruction at home – I became busy with my business, Souled Out, and decided to pursue craft fairs in November, meaning a month leading up to it I was kicking up new projects like a bucking bronco; a batch of soap here, a slew of tie-dye there; thrifting like a champ and building a website like the fake IT person I never knew myself to be. Many of these projects had to be done sans children and with extreme focus, so I gave the toddler the black mirror and let her figure it out herself. Thankfully, we shielded the baby from most of this as she took long naps and I conducted my work during that time. Whew, at least one of us was spared from the black hole of artificial learning.
I Was Just Guessing At Numbers and Figures, Pulling the Puzzles Apart
I operate my life like a scientist, constantly observing, analyzing, and concluding. I peered in at my children’s behavior during this time of (dare I say) neglect, and I noticed that they were rotting from the inside, not to mention I too was decomposing internally from not letting my parent flag fly. As I became more submerged in my personal goals, I realized I was off by a mile trying to hit the mark on my main goal – spending quality time teaching my children how to live.
My body and mind reached the depths of the dumps that you only get to when you need a wake-up call; my kids clung to me like bush-babies, begging me to play blocks with them or paint with them, and I kept saying, “I will after I do x, y, and z.” Totally wrong of me, but I was focusing on my task at hand, not theirs. For an A-type personality, disobeying your to-do list is a criminal offense. And allowing the pressures to pile up can mean a volcanic eruption for all parts of life; serenity now, insanity later.
Don’t Call It a Comeback
My family continued the struggle for balance, thus I generated the idea to revive ourselves (or myself) with a two-week writing walkabout at my parent’s place in Florida; the focuses being to dissect and to develop a process for untangling this mess of words I had jotted down over the months, to categorize my thoughts (an enormous undertaking), to slice and dice words (kill those darlings, people, kill them and never look back), and to inundate my brain with new ideas of the unknown (give me inspiration or give me death).
The most important key to this rejuvination was that my children would concurrently continue their education of life since my parents would be caring for and showing them the world. My husband, Frank, could also benefit from this since three of his four women would flee the house for two weeks, leaving him with his favorite female of all, our dog, Rigby. I am not naive and do not believe there is a fool in sight who would pass up that deal.
These Boots Are Made For Walkin’, and That’s Just What They’ll Do
I am on Day 12 of the walkabout, and I have absorbed and accomplished much more than I thought possible, all in different ways I knew possible. Contrary to what you want to hear, I did not make much headway with my book(s). I arrived in Florida with sixty pages of content, three storylines, and a gallon of ideas for Souled Out (I get thirsty just thinking about them). I had little to no organization for all three stories, but I had vigor, faith, and a few skeletons of summaries that told me to keep on swimming no matter what turbulent waves I encounter.
The best thing I packed in my suitcase was the pile of guts to keep on going.
You Grieve, You Learn, You Choke, You Learn, You Laugh, You Learn, You Choose, You Learn
What I expected to do while I was down here:
Shell up, write twenty or more pages of my stories, summarize and create outlines for my stories, and edit my stories.
Some of this happened, but mostly not.
What I actually did while I was down here:
(Re)discovered that writing is in my top five most difficult challenges of life. If you are an aspiring writer, do not let anyone tell you differently – being a writer is TOUGH. As I worked through editing 30+ pages of content, my brain became defeated. Hell, I even removed an earlier posted writing entry from my blog webpage out of sheer embarrassment for previous pieces of work I had written. What in the hell was I thinking when I wrote this? This part makes zero sense. I sound like an idiot here, there, and everywhere. What I failed to realize is that writing is not supposed to make sense the first, second, or even third time around. It takes practice, diligence, discipline, and the ability to be kind to yourself and your thoughts. I might repost it, but right now I am still coping and building back my confidence.
Realized that I am fit for writing. Name a job where you can make your own decisions, write your own rules, and still be challenged without interference from other social opinions. So far, I have found one role that fits that description, and that is writing. I am certain this perception I have of writing will change as time evolves, but for now, I am challenging myself in a way that I never thought possible – MY WAY. I do not have someone telling me to meet a metric that means nothing, I do not have an employee verbally thrashing at me for my wild yet strategic ideas that could make the world a better place if one gave it a chance, I do not have anyone dictating how to display and share my words. Writing is mine, and I am writing. It is the biggest challenge (aside from breastfeeding, raising a toddler, and strengthening my marriage) that I have known to date, and it is one of the best. I will get defeated, I will be torn down, I will most definitely try to quit at least three times, but I will continue knowing that I have found something that I can call my own.
Created a weekly schedule for 2023. I went from being a strictly scheduled corporate corpse for over ten years to being a free-range chicken; the transition was similar to putting a saltwater fish in a freshwater pond. I came near to exploding, imploding, and bursting into smithereens; I did too much of what I wanted, I drank too much alcohol, I indulged in other vices, and I tried to have my cake and eat it too. I became off-balance, and something had to be done. My structure-loving heart was doing whatever it wanted, and it was going berserk. I have since offset this imbalance by creating a weekly schedule, one that I will try out, morph, tweak, and mold until it becomes outdated and I have to start over again on a completely new schedule. Such is life. I am proud of my schedule as it has more family time budgeted than work time, which is essentially what we were looking for in the first place, eh?
Researched how to sell smoked cheese. Because Frank and I have been smoking cheese. And it tastes like whatever heaven would taste like if it existed. And I want to share it, but I cannot afford to give it out for free. So I need to figure out how to package it without the feds coming to get me.
2023 will be a grand adventure; a new picture taken from a different corner of the same room.
Well folks, here we are. It has been over thirty days since my last post, and I am not proud of it. In fact, I failed several goals I was aiming to accomplish, and yet, somehow, I am okay with all of that. Life happens when you are busy having fun.
The various flavors of the month include a full scoop of innovation, a smattering of family time, a shot of hell-raising, and a (lovin’) spoonful of relaxation. Yes people, we are in another state, doing research and building future goals.
On Being a Free Range Chicken
Unemployment has gifted our family with many ups and downs, the highs being more plentiful than lows. From my perspective I was given one of the most gracious gifts a person can receive: the gift of time and, even better, the gift of no agenda.
I was “free-range chickening” it, and I was receiving the blue ribbon award more often than not with my supreme ideas on where to go, what to do, and how to fill our time. The gremlins and I were, and still are, knocking it out of the park.
But then pesky work came along and ruined it all.
Smile-Hustle-Smile-Hustle. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
When we drove cross-country and stopped in Nashville, we of course had to check out the hottest chicken spot out there – Hattie B’s Hot Chicken. Now that free (or not free, I am not sure. I failed to research their food sourcing practices) range chicken was the true winner. Saucy, seasoned, crispy, tender….are you drooling yet?
The chicken was exquisite, but the apparel won the award for the day. Situated in my direct vision was a shirt hanging up that said “Smile, Hustle, Smile Hustle,” intertwined as a symbiotic relationship. I immediately gave up my money and bore the threads as the slogan described my Wild West Entreprenuerial lifestyle change to a T.
Get a Haircut and Get a Real Job
Since I decided to give up my leader responsibilities, a not-so-lavish salary, and the expectation to work fifty plus hours per week on items handed to me from unseen dictators, I decided to start working on my own terms and following my passions. My initial dream for quitting my job was to start up a shop, and I am slightly proud (in a semi-shy way) to say that I can check that box halfway, or all the way depending on how you look at it.
My store was opened in November, hitting my mark of having tangible results within a year of being unemployed.
You’re Fooling Yourself If You Don’t Believe It
A wise friend recently told me to be kinder to myself for missing deadlines. They told me to create an alter ego that could coach, coax, and listen to the person stressing, screaming, and never forgiving themselves for not completing a project in time.
I tried this tactic with my writing as I discovered that although writing is a true passion, stress-reliever, and motivator for me, it is the one thing I avoid like the plague as I somehow believe that time will magically be carved out by shiny little elves that follow me around and pick up my crumbs and fan me when I get sweaty. Fun fact – the elves never showed up. They ditched me back at that one lady that gives them free beef jerky and candy canes; she knows what is up.
So as I waited for these elfin creatures to arrive, I kept filling my time with other things I loved: tie-dye, soap-making, website-building, reconnecting with old friends who have never fully gone out of my life but remain part of the Genius Club (at least those who were willing to communicate back). Some people ditched me, perhaps it was for the better, I have a grand feeling that there are companions standing alongside the imaginary road of life with their thumbs sticking out, ready for me to pick them up on my Magic School Bus, equipped with snacks , cocktails, and herbal remedies that seem to make music sound just a tinge better. Those future friends will balance it out.
Alas, I became so good at the [insert new hobby here] game that I lost track of the primary game I was playing. I partied all night, hobbied/partially raised kids during the day (most times I failed on my motherly duties when business picked up), and then the weirdest thing started happening. I got moody.
The Day the Scary Happiness (Almost) Ended
For no reason, I got irritated. I was snippy, I was down in the dumps, I spent a week with my parents as a snooty sassafras rather than an energetic adventurer. But why? My life was damn near perfect being a free-range chicken roaming the mountainsides. Sure, numerous roadblocks and speedbumps had exposed themselves during this time, lessons had been learned, as John Cragie says, “bad people had to get elected…civilizations had to crumble”, so on and so forth, but all of that is to be expected. Life is tough no matter what the conditions may be. But amidst the adversities, what was I so turned up about?
So I began to acknowledge these feelings as they poked and pestered me as routine as my exercise regimen. Every time my blood pressure rose or my anxiety strangled my energy, I would reflect. Dissect. Diagnose. Correct.
The villian’s face never revealed itself after a few weeks of tremors and trepidations, but a Stress-Relieving Goblin hovered over me, steaming its hot breath right in my age-spot ridden face, laughing and getting its spittle in my eyes. The monster was Writing, and it haunts me like a feroucious, hangry toddler, not letting my leg go until I cough up the fruit snacks and Chex Mix. Threatening to scream or pee its pants if I hold out on the spicy pistachios. That damn goblin, I tell you.
Every time I wrote, the sadness seeped out of my brain like syrup from a freshly-tapped maple tree. I let the madness out, and damn it felt good.
There’s Got To Be Some Changes Made, Gotta Make A Change Someway
Because of my (what seemed like) everlasting depression, I decided something has to give.
Sadness is the body’s way of telling you it’s time to do something different.
So I set out to do something different, even though I had already been doing many various tricks and trades, I still needed a change, and I knew it. I knew I needed to write more, but my five year plan consisted of being a dinosaur supervisor – raising children and being an innovator only on the side. Having a full time writing gig feels unreal and impossible. The defeat of it all was an elixer effective enough to repel me from doing the act that I loved the most – writing stories and sharing my brain on paper.
Instead of pushing my demon aside and exorcising them from my body, I decided to rebuild a harmonious house, a way the goblin and I can co-create, high-five during lunch time, and do one of those half-jumps for a sweet photo that we would use on our combined Facebook profile page. Life would be sweet with the Writing Goblin and I.
And so here we are, two days from embarking on an epic writing walkabout, or roundabout, or sitabout, or whatever the %&*! you do when you are without children for more than two hours and have a bundle of time to spend on binging TV shows.
I choose to spend my time writing, and so I shall…for the next ten days at least.
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